A Midsummer's Day Dream for Marcialine . . .

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A Midsummer's Day Dream for Marcialine . . . Empty A Midsummer's Day Dream for Marcialine . . .

Post by Jordan Kael on Mon Jun 09, 2014 1:50 am

Safe in your haven, the punishing force of the Sun, still so strong from far above and through so much material, weighs heavily upon you, you submit to the slumber as easily as any day. You find yourself surrounded by darkness, but the darkness has never been a stranger to you and its familiarity is comforting. You play with it, exerting your will over it, as is your custom.

Then, the darkness struggles. Your hold on it weakens. It’s hurt. You hear a vague cacophonous noise on the outside of your perception. The darkness is scared. You are scared. The noise grows louder, with an alarming alacrity. All around you see a storm coming in, grey and jagged, sharp and roaring. Left, right, up, down it approaches, pouring in from all angles like the anger of a dead Heaven.

Then you see it, riding on the front of the storm, arms stretched wide like the Saviour, wearing a uniform of mercy, a body. A body with no head. The storm crashes in so suddenly from the edge of nowhere, in mere moments you fear you will be overwhelmed and swept away. Then, in less than breath if you still breathed, less than heart beat if yours ever did, she holds up one hand, and storm halts. It does not dissipate. It rages on around you with an unspeakable fury, you and the body in a tight sphere of darkness. It feels as strong and secure as an air bubble at the bottom of the ocean.

The body holds up a head bearing a face only your hand could remember. Instinctively, you lash out to quash the offensive sight, only to strike nothing. At a moment you could not see, the mirror became reversed. The head that was in one hand is now to be found in the other. After three more attempts, each as sad and futile as the one before it, the head looks you in the eye, and a devilish smirk finds its way onto her face.

Panicking, you call for the aid of the darkness. It does not answer. Fearfully you check, side to side, for some sort of thing to defend yourself with. Anything. Nothing. You look back. The head is gone, only the body remains, arms outstretched like the Saviour, with large feathery wingspan you had not noticed before. In a blink it is upon you, standing before you with an imposing intimacy. You step back, taken by surprise, and in your ear, you hear a voice:
"Hello, Marcy."

You turn to see the origin of this voice and are faced, once again, with only the body, arms stretched wide, wings unfurled, savage neck wound open and weeping for your fate. In your other ear, the voice continues:
“It was nice of you to stop by the service. You even gave a donation.”

You look again. Once more to be confronted by the gruesome visage, confining you with an oppressive closeness, and once more a voice in your ear.
“One hundred dollars.”

The body and voice move with a step beyond your perception, ubiquitous, as you struggle to escape them.
“My goodness. That certainly makes up for my death, and that of my daughter. How many people did you have to kill to get that? No, don’t answer.”

Giving up on escape in the face of futility, you stand your ground to answer to your accuser. The moment you try to rebuke, a heavy slap falls across your face, delivered by the winged form, and you find you can no longer open your mouth, which seems to be absent. With a stern and dire furor, the voice continues.
“No! It is my time to talk. You came to my service. Why? What were you hoping to find? Forgiveness? Redemption? Or did you just come to gloat? If I had been the only one you killed, maybe I could forgive you, but you cost my daughter her life.”

The voice begins to break. There is a pause, and the anger is palpable. Hot and heavy, and clinging to your skin, it sticks to the hairs on your body and burns without flame. Suddenly a chill washes over you, and voice carries on.
“So, I am serving notice. You are not safe. None of you. Your actions are not without consequence. We have seen what you have done. We will bring judgment down upon you. We will bring the world down upon you. Your little kingdoms will crumble. You will cry out for mercy.”

The storm builds outside your bubble ready to burst.
“We will answer: . . .”

As the void snaps around you and the storm comes crashing down, her last words fall on your ears.

And it is on you. The storm takes a hold of you, its howling winds saturated with sharp and biting debris. The voice calls out to you over the storm.
“You shouldn’t have left so early, there was one more passage!”

As you are effortlessly buffeted about by the ferocious currents of the storm, the clergyman’s voice echoes throughout.
“And moreover I saw under the sun the place of judgment, that wickedness was there; and the place of righteousness, that iniquity was there!”

Immersed in the violence of the storm, the caustic and jagged detritus rends your clothes asunder, your outer extremities clenched to try to protect them are covered in a myriad slices. Once more sounds the voice of the man of God.
“I said in mine heart, God shall judge the righteous and the wicked: for there is a time there for every purpose and for every work.”

Vicious winds flay the skin from your flesh and burn it to ash. For a moment, you think you see more forms in the storm.
“I said in mine heart that concerning the estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts.”

Maybe five, with as many fold again, dark forms walking with calm certainty, eyes burning with unfathomable hatred. They draw closer, unhindered and at home in this cyclopean calamity. Their ravenous intention is palpable. You lift and arm in protest, and watch it disintegrate in the wind, in mere moments before your eyes. First flesh, then bone. Blood washes into the wind out of what was once called an arm.
“For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity”

The five fall upon you, claws and fangs you did not see before gnashing and tearing flesh from bone. It is agony you have not known. You are desperate to scream but have no mouth.
“All go unto one place; all are of dust, and all turn to dust again.”

The rest descend, more on the edge of perception. They fight and claw to gnaw your bones before the winds erode them to nothing. You struggle to maintain your sense of self as the great storm and all within it threatens to take everything from you, your form, your soul. The only thing you achieve is a few more moments of an absolute of pain.

You wake with a slight jolt. It takes a second to get your bearings. You’re standing. Your arm is outstretched before you. Your hand isn’t just reaching out, it’s almost about to open the exit to your haven. Your body screams for slumber. You smell something, and the hunger hits you. You pull your hand back and you notice: it’s covered in blood. Your whole body is drenched. As is the world around you. The hunger drags you down, you’re uncharacteristically helpless against it. How much blood did you lose?

After an embarrassing showing of licking all the blood from your body and the floor, you gain no nourishment from the spent blood, already drained of its sustaining essence, but the hunger subsides in the absence of anything to fuel it. Spent and worn from all that has happened already, not to mention the weight of the Sun, you stumble back to your favored resting place and let slumber claim you once more with a wish on your lips.
Jordan Kael
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Age : 37
Location : Zelienople, PA

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A Midsummer's Day Dream for Marcialine . . . Empty Re: A Midsummer's Day Dream for Marcialine . . .

Post by AC-Lacy on Mon Jun 09, 2014 2:25 pm


"Monday, Monday, so good to me
Monday morning, it was all I hoped it would be
Oh, Monday morning, Monday morning couldn't guarantee
That Monday evening, you would still be here with me"

Blares out of the clock radio.

Eye slits widen and a groan creaks out of Lacy's throat "Fuckin' Monday's, what time is it?" he wonders out loud.  Flailing around for the device that is playing music which must stop, he see's the red light blinking *8:50*8:50*8:50*.  "Augh, I slept in, last time I drink at a kegger before midnight" he grumbles rising from his hammock.  

The normal day-to-day happens, you know: Sip, Shower, Shave - the last light of some poor fratboy's eye's quietly leaves.  Walking to the shower, he notices the streaky-bloody mess near the haven's primary entrance and shakes his head.  Clad only in his towel he checks the various rooms, in order of age.

Murphy - Neat, spartan, and the small bookshelf hasn't been touched in a month "Well those two are still out, no gunny sack"

Alexi - Surgically clean, no moans from "The Box" "I still wonder if I should install a coffin just for shiggles".

Kat and Davias - The layer of dust and animal hair lies thick in this portion of the haven, more of a cave than anything.  Lacy fingers a few books "Huh, they will always have a place, 'grels who knows"

Guestrooms A and B - A similar amount of dust lies here "I hope that Virgile found his pack again, I haven't seen such a fierce monomancy, since between him and Hunter. "

Alfred - This room still has much use, but a small library has accumulated.  By library, piles of books and runes lie scattered about in semi-logical piles.  "Oh Abe... I can't pass this up"  Lacy arranges a pile of rune on and around him ala the American Beauty roses scene.  *Click Click* "This is going around the pack, hi-larious"

Rapha - The room is well kept, but still smells dank.  A mix of good bud and a failed attempt to hydrate the room.  "Sleep well brother, for this esbat like interesting times"

Marcialine - The room in a bit of shambles, and bloody hand prints on the walls and various objects.  Lacy takes some time to clean off the blood with his still wet towel and some good ole fashioned elbow grease.  Taking an extra few moments to clean the blood off of the slumbering Cainite he sits at the foot of her bed considering what could have happened to cause such a ruckas at the haven.  Here he waits.

Staring at her resting face, the moment her eyes open Lacy bellows in her face.


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A Midsummer's Day Dream for Marcialine . . . Empty Re: A Midsummer's Day Dream for Marcialine . . .

Post by Alexendra Dubrov on Mon Jun 09, 2014 9:50 pm

Open her eyes to laci's bellowing she grows flashs of the frightful dream make her quiver and she shoots up. Starving but terrified "FUCKKKKKK..." she looks to her pact mate terror and hunger in her eyes. "I fucked up laci i fucked up and now shes coming ... they're coming." she was frantic launching herself out of bed gather clothing "your all in danger i have to leave ..." she rambled as she collected her belongings. "Please dont stop me laci i have to go i cant let you all die for my failures" she saw blood fall this time from her eyes. Covered in blood exhausted she crumpled to her knees sobbing "Laci I  think I really fucked up this time" she continued to sob on the floor confused and starving and feeling close to madness.
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