Yarva Demonicus Etrigan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
personaldemon) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
taxonomites2013-02-26 10:54 am
personaldemon) wrote in taxonomites2013-02-26 10:54 am
Entry tags:
[Location: Adventure Zone] [open to any] / [text - locked - Selina and Horst ]
[Locked to Selina/Horst] (two different texts, but identical wording in both save for the name)
Miss Kyle, (Mister Brauer,)
I apologize for my actions of the other day. I was under some duress, but this does not excuse my exorcising my difficulties upon your person.
In the future I shall be sure to leave instead.
-Jason Blood
********
He felt better.
This likely had something to do with what he'd been up to in the last several days in the pseudo-medieval landscape. He had found a sword, and an open hole in the earth in the side of a hill, with steps leading down into the dark.
Rather than being a mere pit, this had soon revealed itself as some sort of... underground complex, a lair as it were, infested with goblins, although these goblins were short, green-skinned, large-headed, and reminded him of toddlers given caffeine, as opposed to bearing much resemblance to the things he would have called 'goblins' back home.
But they had screamed, and stabbed at him with short spears and they had died, which was the relevant bit, they had died when he cut them, they had bled and they had screamed doing that too, like stuck swine, shrill manifestations of pain and blood and there were enough of them that they had begun to be one big blur and he had not had to think, he had not had to weigh consequences, all he had had to do was let the sword rise and fall, rise and fall, downward thrust, guard position, parry, downward thrust, downward thrust, and Etrigan had counted time for him, set the cadence in iambic for every sweep of the blade.
He had found humans, too-- the empty husks that populated the city itself, seeming even emptier in their roles as prisoners. Villagers, he supposed, chained here to complete the tableaux of the den of obliging, shallow monsters raiding the innocent; plowmen and milkmaids and merchants whose garments couldn't settle on what era they were supposed to be aping. Their chains had been cheap, rusted-- had been designed, clearly, for rescuing heroes to break with ease.
With Etrigan's drumming setting the count he had severed the chains, and while the first 'villager' was still in the middle of an enthusiastic Thank you, my lord, tha-- he had put the now-blunted sword into the man's gut.
Some of them had fled; he had not bothered to chase them. There had been enough left to occupy his arms and his sword.
And afterwards, Etrigan had stretched like a cat, spine arched, and settled down in the back of his skull with a purr that rumbled through his bones. Appeased, for the moment. Not satisfied. Never satisfied, no, never ever that, but he could be-- placated.
Just like old times, isn't it, dear?
When you tried less to quench my fire...
Yes, brings back the good old years--
Jerusalem, Antioch, Tyre.
He had stood in the midst of the bodies, the sword's hilt in his hand slippery with all the blood. He'd taken a breath for the first time in days that didn't feel as if his lungs were being singed in the process. Etrigan had urged his eyes down to the bodies.
"That's different," he'd said dully. "None of these people are real. None of this is."
The reality of the slaughtered dead
Has always been a subject favored
By those who would the high ground tread
And yet hold their murders savored.
'They're not REAL people!' they all cry--
Have cried in every genocide;
So pile the pointless corpses high
It's not as if anyone real has died!
That's what you're telling yourself, after all:
That better the puppeted dolls should fall
Then that you should let me free
To run rampant on the cit'zenry.
He had scowled; tossed the damaged blade against a wall in frustration and stalked for a door from the room. Like the hilt of the sword, the floor was redly slick, treacherous. "It's true. It is better. I am uninterested in your games of semantics, Etrigan."
My words, unheeded? What novelty.
You'll drown me out with blood, to shut me up!
And true; this might all illusion be...
But you've used the real thing oft enough.
And it felt real to you-- I tasted it!
Every plunge of steel through butchered foe!
Every slashed throat, and every wasting hit
Is justified, in our game of quid pro quo.
So say what words you like, to mitigate your blame--
I hope the candle's worth your own semantic game.
He had said nothing. There was nothing to say, there was never any winning of arguments with Etrigan.
He had merely looked for a stream or a fountain to wash off the blood.
And after that-- feeling, despite Etrigan's smug words, much better than he had in weeks-- he had sent the texts off to Kyle and Brauer. And now?
He pondered his person. His clothes were something of a lost cause, it had to be admitted. Some of the blood, he noticed now, too late, far too late, was his own-- nicks and cuts inflicted by the goblins, felt now that the blazing heat of Etrigan's presence had subdued again. Very well then; his first business was to see to those. Then worry about new clothes.
Miss Kyle, (Mister Brauer,)
I apologize for my actions of the other day. I was under some duress, but this does not excuse my exorcising my difficulties upon your person.
In the future I shall be sure to leave instead.
-Jason Blood
********
He felt better.
This likely had something to do with what he'd been up to in the last several days in the pseudo-medieval landscape. He had found a sword, and an open hole in the earth in the side of a hill, with steps leading down into the dark.
Rather than being a mere pit, this had soon revealed itself as some sort of... underground complex, a lair as it were, infested with goblins, although these goblins were short, green-skinned, large-headed, and reminded him of toddlers given caffeine, as opposed to bearing much resemblance to the things he would have called 'goblins' back home.
But they had screamed, and stabbed at him with short spears and they had died, which was the relevant bit, they had died when he cut them, they had bled and they had screamed doing that too, like stuck swine, shrill manifestations of pain and blood and there were enough of them that they had begun to be one big blur and he had not had to think, he had not had to weigh consequences, all he had had to do was let the sword rise and fall, rise and fall, downward thrust, guard position, parry, downward thrust, downward thrust, and Etrigan had counted time for him, set the cadence in iambic for every sweep of the blade.
He had found humans, too-- the empty husks that populated the city itself, seeming even emptier in their roles as prisoners. Villagers, he supposed, chained here to complete the tableaux of the den of obliging, shallow monsters raiding the innocent; plowmen and milkmaids and merchants whose garments couldn't settle on what era they were supposed to be aping. Their chains had been cheap, rusted-- had been designed, clearly, for rescuing heroes to break with ease.
With Etrigan's drumming setting the count he had severed the chains, and while the first 'villager' was still in the middle of an enthusiastic Thank you, my lord, tha-- he had put the now-blunted sword into the man's gut.
Some of them had fled; he had not bothered to chase them. There had been enough left to occupy his arms and his sword.
And afterwards, Etrigan had stretched like a cat, spine arched, and settled down in the back of his skull with a purr that rumbled through his bones. Appeased, for the moment. Not satisfied. Never satisfied, no, never ever that, but he could be-- placated.
Just like old times, isn't it, dear?
When you tried less to quench my fire...
Yes, brings back the good old years--
Jerusalem, Antioch, Tyre.
He had stood in the midst of the bodies, the sword's hilt in his hand slippery with all the blood. He'd taken a breath for the first time in days that didn't feel as if his lungs were being singed in the process. Etrigan had urged his eyes down to the bodies.
"That's different," he'd said dully. "None of these people are real. None of this is."
The reality of the slaughtered dead
Has always been a subject favored
By those who would the high ground tread
And yet hold their murders savored.
'They're not REAL people!' they all cry--
Have cried in every genocide;
So pile the pointless corpses high
It's not as if anyone real has died!
That's what you're telling yourself, after all:
That better the puppeted dolls should fall
Then that you should let me free
To run rampant on the cit'zenry.
He had scowled; tossed the damaged blade against a wall in frustration and stalked for a door from the room. Like the hilt of the sword, the floor was redly slick, treacherous. "It's true. It is better. I am uninterested in your games of semantics, Etrigan."
My words, unheeded? What novelty.
You'll drown me out with blood, to shut me up!
And true; this might all illusion be...
But you've used the real thing oft enough.
And it felt real to you-- I tasted it!
Every plunge of steel through butchered foe!
Every slashed throat, and every wasting hit
Is justified, in our game of quid pro quo.
So say what words you like, to mitigate your blame--
I hope the candle's worth your own semantic game.
He had said nothing. There was nothing to say, there was never any winning of arguments with Etrigan.
He had merely looked for a stream or a fountain to wash off the blood.
And after that-- feeling, despite Etrigan's smug words, much better than he had in weeks-- he had sent the texts off to Kyle and Brauer. And now?
He pondered his person. His clothes were something of a lost cause, it had to be admitted. Some of the blood, he noticed now, too late, far too late, was his own-- nicks and cuts inflicted by the goblins, felt now that the blazing heat of Etrigan's presence had subdued again. Very well then; his first business was to see to those. Then worry about new clothes.
[text]
You are seriously fucked up, Jason Blood.
[text]
[text]
Not that he likely cares but for whatever reason Selina's feeling like being honest.
[text]
[text]
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