Post by kadenkeene on Nov 23, 2006 6:59:08 GMT -5
***I know it's late in the day (Roughly 12 hours after this RP was posted) to be updating, but I thought I'd throw in a little non-gradable addition. What I'd like to do here is to fill in those of you who might be reading this who might NOT have read the first installments of this story from the last week. It would make me happy to know that people are reading, and I'd hate to see people turned off by an involved story that they're joining midway through...So here it goes...
Four knights (Mathew de Gray, Joseph de Montfort, William Montgomery, and John Mortimer) rode into a small peasant town in lower England during the reign of King Edward III. Already decimated by the Bubonic Plague, the intent of these knights is to investigate reports of humanoid beasts that have began to populate in areas hardest-hit by the Plague.
Upon entering town, the knights killed a handful of the beasts, but the fates were not favoring them. John saved a crying little girl, but as it turns out, she was a beast as well. She has wounded him badly, and this is where we left the story***
"Jesus!"
Mathew flipped the visor of his helm and stared at John's limp body hanging across William's horse. Joseph halted and gasped the same holy name. William was nervous, anxious, he wished to be rid of this horrible place all of a sudden. His lust for the beast's blood was gone.
"We must do something," William shouted at his captain. His face was grave. "We cannot just let him die here!"
Mathew dropped his visor and scanned the road. As they spoke, more of the unholy creatures had spilled into the main street, their faces twisted caricatures of humanity.
"Mathew," William pleaded again. "This cannot wait!"
Mathew drew his blade, still wet and stained with the blood of his enemies. He placed it across his lap and addressed his mates. "We ride out of town, find a place where we can make a fire and close the wound."
He hoped overmuch, as more of the hideous things made their slow-footed way into their path. What was five had become a dozen right before their eyes, and some of them called into houses and shouted across the road for more. They called names: Jeffery, Alfred, Simon, Anne...names of men and women. Mathew thought the beasts toying with them, as there was no hope that these creatures held an ounce of mortal being in them. Devils in the flesh, they were. That is what the priests had said, and they spoke the Word of God.
More still, coming in packs of twos, threes, and fours. Some held shovels, others sticks, and Mathew would swear later that he saw a dagger in the hands of one wearing a dress. All around them, the beasts grew in number, and it became obvious that the knights under the charge of King Edward himself had no means of escape.
It was fight or die among the peasants they served to relieve.
"William, take John into this house and wait. Hold your hand against his wound. Remove cloth from yourself if need be, to slow the bleeding," Mathew turned to his second, Joseph, the best in battle of the group. His voice echoed panic, but none of his mates noticed, or cared. "We dismount, and we charge them."
"Are you certain? The horse gives us the advan--"
"Follow my order, knight! If they pull us from atop our steeds, our backs hit the ground first, and we are dead."
Joseph nodded immediately, offering no further dissent. They swung their armored legs off their steeds and drew their swords to their shoulders. William jumped from his own, and threw his mate upon his shoulder. He darted into the closest home he could, dagger in hand.
The beasts slowly closed their disorganized ranks around the two knights and their steeds. Mathew gave a slap and a "Yah!" to the noble horses, and sent them running. Heavy enough with armor, Mathew's horse cut easily through the wanting hands of the beasts and set off into the clearing beyond the town. Joseph's horse was not as fast, or as strong, and a pack of them clung to it until it fell. Like a true battle steed, Ivalice fell nobly, kicking and thrashing as it fell, even snapping the neck of one of its enemies.
"We stand now, before God and our King!" Mathew shouted to his mate, but more to the oncoming beasts. They seemed disinterested in his proclamation.
"You make it sound so final, mate," Joseph said with a nervous laugh. "Surely they would rather share a swig of ale with us than bite our necks!"
"I doubt that, Joseph."
"You always were the dramatic one, Mathew. But fine, have it as you will. We fight to the last, here and now! Bring your worst!"
The were close enough to smell now, and they smelled like rot and blood. Their teeth were long and yellow and sharp and ugly, and they bore them with what seemed like pride. As they slowly enclosed their circle around the two knights, the beasts seemed anxious for battle, and neither of them saw fear in any of their eyes. Even the women-beasts were flush with the battle fever.
Mathew and Joseph stood back-to-back, swords held at the ready.
The first one reached in, a poke with its shovel's head, and Joseph promptly removed it with a generous swipe of his blade. That one backed off a bit, surprised by the ease at which his weapon had been halved. There were others that were no meek, however, and two of them ran in with fists clenched. Joseph had them both, and cut a leg off one below the knee. Mathew spun and hacked the other's head off quickly, then returned to Joseph's back.
The circle was still closing, but the beasts still attacked small; one here, two there, four on the occasion. The knights held their ground firm, and dispatched them with ease and swiftness. Then, a stone came flying from the pack, and hit Joseph in the helm. He stumbled, nearly falling into their waiting arms, but propped himself with his blade.
The beast's formation caved, and they came atop Joseph. He hacked wildly, cutting down a dozen before the first could remove his helm. He screamed, and slapped at the creature that had bitten into the back of his thigh. A large stick--it looked like a tree branch--came down across Joseph's arm, and he dropped his sword. It was not long before they had them in their grasp; even with the pain, he struggled with all of the considerable strength within his big frame, but they were too strong. Their arms felt like stones weighing him down, and he screamed as he felt his chances slipping away. Joseph snatched the dagger from his boot and stabbed measured strikes at them, but they were too many. He was pulled to his back, and the teeth...oh the teeth...he felt them first upon his neck, and his hot blood poured from it. Then his face, as a pair of them bit at his eyes and his cheeks. Before the darkness took Joseph de Montfort felt the top of his skull pop and snap as another ravaged him.
The worst of it was the sound. The slurping, the lapping, the gasping as the beasts drank of his blood.
Mathew felt their breath as the remaining beasts swarmed him. They smacked his helm, bit his ankles, clubbed his back and his chest with sticks and shovels and stones. He fought bravely, keeping them at a distance the best he could, spinning on his heels the moment he felt another's fingers touch him. All the while, he could hear a sick sound, the smacking and groaning of a feast. The tearing of skin, the rattle and clanking of armor being ripped apart and discarded. Then, he knew Joseph de Montfort had fallen.
Mathew fought with a new intensity, lobbing heads off with almost every mighty swing of his sword. The beasts kept coming, and Mathew kept killing them. For his Lord. For his King. He killed the beasts that had felled his friend, who's life surely was ending in a peasant's home. He killed the beasts that now fed on the flesh and blood of his second knight.
One of them charged from behind, throwing itself into Mathew's legs. The captain fell, his sword flying from his hands and his helm tumbling from his head. The beast was snapping its teeth and gnawing at the mail protecting his legs, and Mathew pounded it with his armored fists. Nothing seemed to work, as the monster hung on with the ferocity of a million men. It did not stop until the blade belonging to William Montgomery slid into its back and stopped its heart.
Mathew looked up at his mate, who's face was pale and sullen, but who's eyes were red with anger. William reached down and lifted his captain back to his feet, and handed him a sword.
"John's?" He asked, facing the remaining pack.
"Aye. He died well, he did."
"For him, then."
"And Joseph."
"Aye."
Many beasts had fallen, and the numbers now did not seem so overwhelming. Mathew wiped the blood and drool from his face and lifted John's sword to his shoulder. He looked to William. They nodded, and charged into the last of them.
Hacking and slashing, Mathew de Gray and William Montgomery killed beast after beast. They kicked and tossed the ones that fed on Joseph to the ground before cutting them dead. It seemed like forever and no time at all, but when it was done, the last to stand were the knights. They smelled the air, and watched the twitching, dying bodies of the beasts on the dirt. For the first time, they felt not pleasure or pride from their victory, but nothing instead. Nothing but a new weight upon them that neither could describe, and neither would try.
For this was a time that neither would speak of between each other again. Only in the way they would whisper the names of John Mortimer and Joseph de Montfort when at mass, or before battle.
On the eve, they would burn the bodies of their friends, and bring their bones back to England. They would tell Edward (or, more likely, Edward's consul) of the encounter here, and plead for the King to send an army into lower England to finish the fight. That was the plan.
But that plan would change. Mathew watched with bated breath, and William crossed himself, as John Mortimer walked out of the house.
******
Kaden hadn't seen his family in years. When he left Schenectady, he did so with a heavy heart, but a headfull of wonder. There would be opportunity on the West Coast, more than he could ever find in a small city snuggly tucked into the breast pocket of the Northeast. His mother and father didn't exactly agree with his decision...
Carol Keene was sad, more than anything. She had raised her special son to be a wholesome, God-fearing boy. She decorated his room with masculine colors, but made sure he knew that the angels which hung on the drapes in the kitchen, and stood as porcelain figurines in the hutch, were watching him. God's first creation, she would say of the angels, and hope that her son would understand.
And he may have. If asked today, he'd say he did. But this boy was different, and Carol knew it. A doctor, a lawyer? Not for Kaden. James Keene, the big man with dark Mediterranean skin, had stayed silent through most of the discussions of Kaden's departure; Carol would lay the guilt trip, hope to convince their son that running away to Hollywood would never solve his problems.
Where will you go on Thanksgiving? she'd say. Christmas? she'd plead with wet eyes. What if you don't make any friends? Those Hollywood shysters will try to take you for all your worth!
He'd listen, and nod politely. He'd let her have her say, then he would respond softly, well, it's a good thing I'll be broke already, isn't it?
On the eve of Kaden's departure on the most grand adventure of his young life, he wandered into his parent's bedroom (it had become his father's den, as Mom would sleep on the couch more often than not) to say a last goodbye. He hoped for his first father-son moment to be between two men, and not a man and his boy.
You're making a mistake, he said, clicking and clacking away at his computer's keyboard. Always on the bulletin boards. Kaden pleaded his case, but with little passion; he knew his father would not be swayed. You're breaking your mother's heart, Kaden. If you leave...I don't think you'll be welcome back.
And there it was, Kaden had his moment. His father had spoken to his son as if he were a man, and it tasted bitter. No "Go West, Young Man" speeches, or happy regards for a boy who was to take a chance at his dreams. There was no celebration, no family and friends around to see him off. His grand exit came in a quiet conversation, a quiet damnation, of a son from his father.
And Kaden missed them both. They were both in their late 60s now, if either were still alive. Kaden couldn't know for sure.
He studied himself in the mirror. Years ago, on the eve of his move to Los Angeles, Kaden Keene the boy had looked upon himself in the mirror for the last time in his home, and had seen a man. Now, as he did in the studio apartment which had seen the death of a police officer, the near death of his former best friend, and the many transformation of himself, he did not see a man. Kaden Keene didn't know what he saw anymore...a beast? A monster? A creature of evil that took part in the greatest masquerade of all time?
His lips were pouting, as they naturally did, over slightly-yellowed, but otherwise perfect teeth. His nose, slightly wider than average but still a fine feature of a fine face, sat in perfect harmony with the rest. His weak chin was there, too, the clef saving it from being ugly. He was all there. But when the thirst came, or when he was angered beyond all reason, they would disappear; his lips would twist and part, ripped the flesh around his mouth as they did. They would wrap themselves around his nose and chin in the most sickening of smiles. His teeth would crack, pop, and fall from their places, to be usurped by long, dark yellow fangs that were wet with poisoned spit.
The monster would be back...but did it ever really leave?
The evidence spoke to "no," as Nina Arcania, a rough competitor who had taken him to a draw in their first bout, who had just fallen short in the rematch, was dispatched with ease in the third. Non Compos Mentis, who had also wrestled him to a non-finish in their first encounter could not beat him.
Even Lantlas was prime to fall to the monster, but Kaden had been caught off-guard, and won thanks to Kaden's ego, not superior ability.
Next was Justin Michaels. Stormm, as they called him. He was as formidable an opponent as Kaden would face in this place, but Kaden suspected that the greatness Michaels had displayed in days past would fall away, crumble before their eyes when he stepped into the ring this Tuesday.
Still, Francis made sure he was to prepare, and prepare he did. But at this moment, on the eve of Thanksgiving...the very holiday that his mother had said he would spend alone...Kaden reflected on a life that had come changed so many times, and never for the better.
He thanked Mom and Dad for their wisdom, for their warning. He thanked them until the dark blanket of sleep took him.
Four knights (Mathew de Gray, Joseph de Montfort, William Montgomery, and John Mortimer) rode into a small peasant town in lower England during the reign of King Edward III. Already decimated by the Bubonic Plague, the intent of these knights is to investigate reports of humanoid beasts that have began to populate in areas hardest-hit by the Plague.
Upon entering town, the knights killed a handful of the beasts, but the fates were not favoring them. John saved a crying little girl, but as it turns out, she was a beast as well. She has wounded him badly, and this is where we left the story***
"Jesus!"
Mathew flipped the visor of his helm and stared at John's limp body hanging across William's horse. Joseph halted and gasped the same holy name. William was nervous, anxious, he wished to be rid of this horrible place all of a sudden. His lust for the beast's blood was gone.
"We must do something," William shouted at his captain. His face was grave. "We cannot just let him die here!"
Mathew dropped his visor and scanned the road. As they spoke, more of the unholy creatures had spilled into the main street, their faces twisted caricatures of humanity.
"Mathew," William pleaded again. "This cannot wait!"
Mathew drew his blade, still wet and stained with the blood of his enemies. He placed it across his lap and addressed his mates. "We ride out of town, find a place where we can make a fire and close the wound."
He hoped overmuch, as more of the hideous things made their slow-footed way into their path. What was five had become a dozen right before their eyes, and some of them called into houses and shouted across the road for more. They called names: Jeffery, Alfred, Simon, Anne...names of men and women. Mathew thought the beasts toying with them, as there was no hope that these creatures held an ounce of mortal being in them. Devils in the flesh, they were. That is what the priests had said, and they spoke the Word of God.
More still, coming in packs of twos, threes, and fours. Some held shovels, others sticks, and Mathew would swear later that he saw a dagger in the hands of one wearing a dress. All around them, the beasts grew in number, and it became obvious that the knights under the charge of King Edward himself had no means of escape.
It was fight or die among the peasants they served to relieve.
"William, take John into this house and wait. Hold your hand against his wound. Remove cloth from yourself if need be, to slow the bleeding," Mathew turned to his second, Joseph, the best in battle of the group. His voice echoed panic, but none of his mates noticed, or cared. "We dismount, and we charge them."
"Are you certain? The horse gives us the advan--"
"Follow my order, knight! If they pull us from atop our steeds, our backs hit the ground first, and we are dead."
Joseph nodded immediately, offering no further dissent. They swung their armored legs off their steeds and drew their swords to their shoulders. William jumped from his own, and threw his mate upon his shoulder. He darted into the closest home he could, dagger in hand.
The beasts slowly closed their disorganized ranks around the two knights and their steeds. Mathew gave a slap and a "Yah!" to the noble horses, and sent them running. Heavy enough with armor, Mathew's horse cut easily through the wanting hands of the beasts and set off into the clearing beyond the town. Joseph's horse was not as fast, or as strong, and a pack of them clung to it until it fell. Like a true battle steed, Ivalice fell nobly, kicking and thrashing as it fell, even snapping the neck of one of its enemies.
"We stand now, before God and our King!" Mathew shouted to his mate, but more to the oncoming beasts. They seemed disinterested in his proclamation.
"You make it sound so final, mate," Joseph said with a nervous laugh. "Surely they would rather share a swig of ale with us than bite our necks!"
"I doubt that, Joseph."
"You always were the dramatic one, Mathew. But fine, have it as you will. We fight to the last, here and now! Bring your worst!"
The were close enough to smell now, and they smelled like rot and blood. Their teeth were long and yellow and sharp and ugly, and they bore them with what seemed like pride. As they slowly enclosed their circle around the two knights, the beasts seemed anxious for battle, and neither of them saw fear in any of their eyes. Even the women-beasts were flush with the battle fever.
Mathew and Joseph stood back-to-back, swords held at the ready.
The first one reached in, a poke with its shovel's head, and Joseph promptly removed it with a generous swipe of his blade. That one backed off a bit, surprised by the ease at which his weapon had been halved. There were others that were no meek, however, and two of them ran in with fists clenched. Joseph had them both, and cut a leg off one below the knee. Mathew spun and hacked the other's head off quickly, then returned to Joseph's back.
The circle was still closing, but the beasts still attacked small; one here, two there, four on the occasion. The knights held their ground firm, and dispatched them with ease and swiftness. Then, a stone came flying from the pack, and hit Joseph in the helm. He stumbled, nearly falling into their waiting arms, but propped himself with his blade.
The beast's formation caved, and they came atop Joseph. He hacked wildly, cutting down a dozen before the first could remove his helm. He screamed, and slapped at the creature that had bitten into the back of his thigh. A large stick--it looked like a tree branch--came down across Joseph's arm, and he dropped his sword. It was not long before they had them in their grasp; even with the pain, he struggled with all of the considerable strength within his big frame, but they were too strong. Their arms felt like stones weighing him down, and he screamed as he felt his chances slipping away. Joseph snatched the dagger from his boot and stabbed measured strikes at them, but they were too many. He was pulled to his back, and the teeth...oh the teeth...he felt them first upon his neck, and his hot blood poured from it. Then his face, as a pair of them bit at his eyes and his cheeks. Before the darkness took Joseph de Montfort felt the top of his skull pop and snap as another ravaged him.
The worst of it was the sound. The slurping, the lapping, the gasping as the beasts drank of his blood.
Mathew felt their breath as the remaining beasts swarmed him. They smacked his helm, bit his ankles, clubbed his back and his chest with sticks and shovels and stones. He fought bravely, keeping them at a distance the best he could, spinning on his heels the moment he felt another's fingers touch him. All the while, he could hear a sick sound, the smacking and groaning of a feast. The tearing of skin, the rattle and clanking of armor being ripped apart and discarded. Then, he knew Joseph de Montfort had fallen.
Mathew fought with a new intensity, lobbing heads off with almost every mighty swing of his sword. The beasts kept coming, and Mathew kept killing them. For his Lord. For his King. He killed the beasts that had felled his friend, who's life surely was ending in a peasant's home. He killed the beasts that now fed on the flesh and blood of his second knight.
One of them charged from behind, throwing itself into Mathew's legs. The captain fell, his sword flying from his hands and his helm tumbling from his head. The beast was snapping its teeth and gnawing at the mail protecting his legs, and Mathew pounded it with his armored fists. Nothing seemed to work, as the monster hung on with the ferocity of a million men. It did not stop until the blade belonging to William Montgomery slid into its back and stopped its heart.
Mathew looked up at his mate, who's face was pale and sullen, but who's eyes were red with anger. William reached down and lifted his captain back to his feet, and handed him a sword.
"John's?" He asked, facing the remaining pack.
"Aye. He died well, he did."
"For him, then."
"And Joseph."
"Aye."
Many beasts had fallen, and the numbers now did not seem so overwhelming. Mathew wiped the blood and drool from his face and lifted John's sword to his shoulder. He looked to William. They nodded, and charged into the last of them.
Hacking and slashing, Mathew de Gray and William Montgomery killed beast after beast. They kicked and tossed the ones that fed on Joseph to the ground before cutting them dead. It seemed like forever and no time at all, but when it was done, the last to stand were the knights. They smelled the air, and watched the twitching, dying bodies of the beasts on the dirt. For the first time, they felt not pleasure or pride from their victory, but nothing instead. Nothing but a new weight upon them that neither could describe, and neither would try.
For this was a time that neither would speak of between each other again. Only in the way they would whisper the names of John Mortimer and Joseph de Montfort when at mass, or before battle.
On the eve, they would burn the bodies of their friends, and bring their bones back to England. They would tell Edward (or, more likely, Edward's consul) of the encounter here, and plead for the King to send an army into lower England to finish the fight. That was the plan.
But that plan would change. Mathew watched with bated breath, and William crossed himself, as John Mortimer walked out of the house.
******
Kaden hadn't seen his family in years. When he left Schenectady, he did so with a heavy heart, but a headfull of wonder. There would be opportunity on the West Coast, more than he could ever find in a small city snuggly tucked into the breast pocket of the Northeast. His mother and father didn't exactly agree with his decision...
Carol Keene was sad, more than anything. She had raised her special son to be a wholesome, God-fearing boy. She decorated his room with masculine colors, but made sure he knew that the angels which hung on the drapes in the kitchen, and stood as porcelain figurines in the hutch, were watching him. God's first creation, she would say of the angels, and hope that her son would understand.
And he may have. If asked today, he'd say he did. But this boy was different, and Carol knew it. A doctor, a lawyer? Not for Kaden. James Keene, the big man with dark Mediterranean skin, had stayed silent through most of the discussions of Kaden's departure; Carol would lay the guilt trip, hope to convince their son that running away to Hollywood would never solve his problems.
Where will you go on Thanksgiving? she'd say. Christmas? she'd plead with wet eyes. What if you don't make any friends? Those Hollywood shysters will try to take you for all your worth!
He'd listen, and nod politely. He'd let her have her say, then he would respond softly, well, it's a good thing I'll be broke already, isn't it?
On the eve of Kaden's departure on the most grand adventure of his young life, he wandered into his parent's bedroom (it had become his father's den, as Mom would sleep on the couch more often than not) to say a last goodbye. He hoped for his first father-son moment to be between two men, and not a man and his boy.
You're making a mistake, he said, clicking and clacking away at his computer's keyboard. Always on the bulletin boards. Kaden pleaded his case, but with little passion; he knew his father would not be swayed. You're breaking your mother's heart, Kaden. If you leave...I don't think you'll be welcome back.
And there it was, Kaden had his moment. His father had spoken to his son as if he were a man, and it tasted bitter. No "Go West, Young Man" speeches, or happy regards for a boy who was to take a chance at his dreams. There was no celebration, no family and friends around to see him off. His grand exit came in a quiet conversation, a quiet damnation, of a son from his father.
And Kaden missed them both. They were both in their late 60s now, if either were still alive. Kaden couldn't know for sure.
He studied himself in the mirror. Years ago, on the eve of his move to Los Angeles, Kaden Keene the boy had looked upon himself in the mirror for the last time in his home, and had seen a man. Now, as he did in the studio apartment which had seen the death of a police officer, the near death of his former best friend, and the many transformation of himself, he did not see a man. Kaden Keene didn't know what he saw anymore...a beast? A monster? A creature of evil that took part in the greatest masquerade of all time?
His lips were pouting, as they naturally did, over slightly-yellowed, but otherwise perfect teeth. His nose, slightly wider than average but still a fine feature of a fine face, sat in perfect harmony with the rest. His weak chin was there, too, the clef saving it from being ugly. He was all there. But when the thirst came, or when he was angered beyond all reason, they would disappear; his lips would twist and part, ripped the flesh around his mouth as they did. They would wrap themselves around his nose and chin in the most sickening of smiles. His teeth would crack, pop, and fall from their places, to be usurped by long, dark yellow fangs that were wet with poisoned spit.
The monster would be back...but did it ever really leave?
The evidence spoke to "no," as Nina Arcania, a rough competitor who had taken him to a draw in their first bout, who had just fallen short in the rematch, was dispatched with ease in the third. Non Compos Mentis, who had also wrestled him to a non-finish in their first encounter could not beat him.
Even Lantlas was prime to fall to the monster, but Kaden had been caught off-guard, and won thanks to Kaden's ego, not superior ability.
Next was Justin Michaels. Stormm, as they called him. He was as formidable an opponent as Kaden would face in this place, but Kaden suspected that the greatness Michaels had displayed in days past would fall away, crumble before their eyes when he stepped into the ring this Tuesday.
Still, Francis made sure he was to prepare, and prepare he did. But at this moment, on the eve of Thanksgiving...the very holiday that his mother had said he would spend alone...Kaden reflected on a life that had come changed so many times, and never for the better.
He thanked Mom and Dad for their wisdom, for their warning. He thanked them until the dark blanket of sleep took him.