Author Topic: I Will Face God And Walk Backwards Into Hell [PRP]  (Read 1557 times)

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Offline Setebos

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Re: I Will Face God And Walk Backwards Into Hell [PRP]
« Reply #15 on: December 05, 2016, 11:04:05 PM »
Setebos was on the battlefield for the same reasons as Anglachel: they were both medics. Setebos was a healer, therefore, he healed.

Inaria could bleed itself dry, for all he cared. His commitment was to its wounded. Never to a nation, or its rulers. Haven, Ghost, Sol Katti, their petty agendas and missing loves, secondary to the people that perished for them.

He drifted between the bodies scattered over the battlefield, checking on those still breathing, helping those he could, and woefully separating himself from the few that he knew would bleed out at the infirmary.

"Why're you going? Come... come back," he thought he heard one say, in a voice that grew quieter and quieter. Perhaps he had only imagined it, because the man had gone into shock while his back was turned, just as he had expected.

They bled into the meadows and watered the flowers with their blood, and the longer Setebos stared at the color, forcing himself to perceive it, the less there it seemed. It was a higher-functioning sort of dissociation, where he could still shamble from place to place, could still rummage through his satchel of herbs without fumbling, but everything behind it was numb enough to block out the pain. Inaria's lush, open groves had collapsed into a single dark tunnel, like the twilit sky had caved in on top of Setebos's reeling head. Pressing down, suffocating. Inaria's beautiful flowers - the stage on which this battle raged, the only aspect of the legendary kingdom he felt any connection to - had been washed away, and all that was left was red, and bodies.

Setebos stood over one woman who had most certainly passed, her chest a gaping wound. She might have been Saboran, or she was one of their own. Without the tattoos, it was hard to tell, and Setebos wasn't familiar with everyone in Inaria's ranks. She didn't smell of anything but death. He stared until he realized he wasn't blinking, and when he blinked, he had to remind himself that it was time to go, he couldn't waste more time here at the side of a dead woman.

(Ann. Ann, please. Please.)

He could feel the breath of a thousand ghosts on his back. The fields beyond that point were eerily vacant, awash in Inaria's perpetual haze of lavender. He pointed himself in the direction of distant conflict and marched.

The time between the moment he continued moving, and when he arrived on the battlefield, was mercifully long, although Setebos was not exactly aware of time. He moved until he could hear something through the deafening static, and when he did, he gripped his satchel in preparation, steeling himself.

He observed the scene through a doctor's clinical lens, same as before: two combatants, clearly Inarian. Wounded, but still fighting. They would require treatment. He knew those wolves. It was hard not to know them. Queen Haven and the Marquis, Kashmir - Inarian bigwigs. One Saboran, significant injuries. Haven and Kashmir were taking him apart piece by piece, and Setebos had no intention of interrupting. One on the ground; the smell of blood was strongest there. He knew that wolf, he realized with rising panic. He knew that wolf. He--

"SAGE!" he shouted, his composure momentarily coming apart at the seams -- but in an instant, in a flash, the doctor had returned, and he was stooping at Sage's side, picking her off the ground and feverishly studying her injuries. "C'mon, Sage, hang in there, you're gonna be alright--"

The flesh around her mouth had been shredded to ribbons, and her shoulder and chest, those were mincemeat. Part of him should have been ashamed that years of training had come apart at the mere sight of blood. Juvenile mistake. He tried to keep his brain on a singular diagnostic track as his thoughts scrambled in every direction, breath coming fast and frantic as he felt for a pulse, heart hammering as he quested desperately, crescendoing as his efforts were at last rewarded with a healthy thrum under his touch. She wasn't hemorrhaging. She was bleeding, and she had passed out, but she would be stable, as long as he worked quickly.

All his remorse, all his panic -- it became the fuel which powered him, allowing him to quickly unravel the yarrow leaf bandages and lather them with blood-stifling aloe vera. He cleaned Sage's wounds, wiping them once with a cayenne powder solution to temper the bleeding and once to clean away any bacteria, before wrapping them in a makeshift tourniquet fashioned from yarrow leaves. He cleaned her best as he could, and checked her breathing again, just to satisfy himself that she would be alive to annoy him another day.

Haven and Kashmir throttled Thresher as a single war machine in the background, falling upon him like twin war dogs in synchronicity. Setebos blocked out the noise of their teeth rending his tenderest tissue like he blocked out the bodies, dissolving the syllables, angrily and gutturally bellowed from Thresher's puerile jaws, into white noise. Save Sage in exchange for another man's life. It wasn't supposed to be a clean, or an easy trade. Thresher was the one that did this. He wouldn't waste tears, or time, or resources, or grief (although he would ponder his negligence on cold, sleepless nights) on the male that had savagely mauled one of his colleagues. Haven and Kashmir would kill Thresher, and he would not lift a finger to save him.

Thresher may have had friends and loved ones, but did he really deserve to live? Did Thresher, the unrepentant murderer, the man who crushed Poltergeist's innocence in his fist and laughed, the wardog of Knife, deserve to live?

Even if he did, that was a moot point. His arteries were gushing everywhere. Not even Setebos could save him now.

Others believed differently. Setebos wasn't sure why Anglachel's pleading asserted itself among the nondescript racket, when he had been trying so hard to muffle himself to everything. He wasn't sure why the spectacle of a lone doctor staggering into the field was the lone catalyst to rouse him from his focus. Setebos glanced up from Sage's body just in time to watch Anglachel interpose himself between his fallen friend and the two Inarians. He was not so numb with disbelief that he didn't hear what he was requesting of them.

Kashmir wasn't wrong. It was audacious, and it was insulting. Haven shrieked something back, fueled with indignation and fury, and barreled past the Anglachel for the half-dead piece of carrion. Setebos watched her fly past out the corner of his eye. Anglachel wove around her, trying to stop her, trying so desperately to save a man that was already dead, that was already being mangled past the point of death. It was two separate exercises in futility; Haven wrapping her fists around a throat already snapped in two, while Anglachel insisted there was something worth saving. Kashmir blocked him.

Don't move- no.

or I'll kill you next. NO.

Kashmir lashed out with teeth, and claw, and Setebos lost all sight of Anglachel's face behind the billowing plume of silver hair as the two fell together. He heard the snapping of bone. He heard screaming. He heard wet, sloppy ripping noises. Setebos had stumbled through the day in a haze, tuning out everything, and now it returned with an overwhelming force that lifted him off his feet and sent him reeling. He rose from Sage's body after giving her another examination, to ensure that she wouldn't take a turn for the worse in his inattention. He almost felt like he had left his body again, in how automatically he moved, but for this moment, he was cognizant, he was himself again.

"That's ENOUGH!" bellowed the doctor, piercing the cacophony of teeth tearing flesh. It was not like the voice he used when he was bickering with Nero. The purpose then had been to shame him, to humiliate him, to turn his posturing against him. This was different. It was naked, raw, ragged. It was rage hateful enough to shame the Inarian queen's finest.

But he knew words weren't going to stop the onslaught of violence -- which was why he lunged bodily between Kashmir and Anglachel, jaws snapping for Kashmir's scruff. His intention wasn't to draw blood, even if in that moment, he was indistinguishable from any mad beast. He found purchase on the back of Kashmir's neck and lifted the jackal off his feet, wrenching him away as far as he could manage, resisting his kicking and squirming, before finally releasing him. Kashmir may have been the Queen's right hand, and he may have been savage enough to fell Thresher like he was any Za Kodan wildebeest, but to Setebos, he was nothing more than a mangy animal with a taste for red meat. As Setebos reared back to blast an ugly, guttural roar in Kashmir's face, he was met with that pointed muzzle stained red with fresh, dripping blood. Anglachel was sprawled off to the side, his precious red tattoos hidden by crimson rivulets, his leg mangled. Looking at him only renewed Setebos's rage, making his stomach quiver with sickness.

This was what Inaria had chosen to stoop to. A nation that prided itself on its righteousness was led by a Queen who shouted down a frightened young man pleading for mercy for his friend. It was injustice so nauseating that Setebos had to fight the urge to vomit. But in the end, Haven's wrath paled in comparison to the disproportionate violence that Kashmir inflicted on the Saboran medic, and it was for this reason that he was the one to face Setebos's ire.

He glowered at Kashmir through a contemptuous snarl, lips creased and teeth bared, venomous enough to paralyze, vicious enough to flay the flesh from Kashmir's bones. Setebos scowled, often, but he did not bare his teeth. He was not a violent, or a physical man, although he was coarse.

"He gets the point," he snarled. His gaze was drilling through Kashmir, nailing him to the ground. "Now let him go." The way he said it -- it wasn't a request from subordinate to beta. It was a demand, and he would tolerate no arguments. eff the consequences. eff these self-righteous, fat aristocrats, who believed themselves to be good. Their authority didn't mean anything to him. It was dirt.

Then, indignity on top of indignity, the final challenge from mere Healer to Marquis -- Setebos turned his back on Kashmir, as if he respected that the jackal would be cowed enough to limp away, licking his wounds, and not to interfere with his business. Perhaps he had not expected for Kashmir to retaliate. Maybe he had other, more important matters on his mind, like tending to Anglachel's wellbeing. And what would happen if these Inarian elites treated his outburst as the act of rebellion that it was? What if, after the war, he was put on trial like Blackmoore was?

He would repeat every word he said, this time even louder, to make sure they really understood it. He would ask Haven what it was she wanted Inaria to stand for. He would never, ever be the puppet of a corrupt kingdom.

Setebos took a deep breath. He suddenly felt very tired, so he hoped that Anglachel wouldn't do anything foolish, such as ignoring this second chance. "Get the eff out of here," he said. It was cold, unsympathetic; not the warm sentiment that poor, grief-blinded Anglachel so desperately needed in that moment. If someone had told him that there was nothing he could have done for Anrende as he was sobbing beside her cold body, he would have torn out their eyes. This was a message from doctor to doctor; wolf to wolf; Inarian to Saboran. "Your friend is dead. There's nothing you can do for him. Get out of here, doctor, and help someone that you can."

Should his warning not motivate the boy, he'd lunge at him -- stopping inches away from his snout, enough distance for Anglachel to watch his teeth close around thin air. Setebos withdrew into a crouch, gnashing his teeth in warning.

The day after, Saboro would repay his mercy in the sickest way imaginable. Tomorrow, Setebos's bleeding heart would struggle and strain to keep his battered body alive, as two of Saboro's savages feasted on his dripping wounds, scooping out bits and pieces of his body like gibbering children reaching into the innards of a pinata. Kashmir, the man that for in this moment he detested, would be among the party that whisked him from the verge of death.

But that was tomorrow.
« Last Edit: December 07, 2016, 09:48:13 PM by Sunblink [is Sunback] »
   




This old warship has wounds
And it won't sail for nothin'
The old sailor said to me
And I was foolish not to listen
And paid such close conscription
All the lies I believed

"But if you lend me some more labor
And put your name on paper
We just might catch a breeze"
I know now he was not a captain
Now because of all my actions
I grow alone with the sea

[ #E42217 ] | played by Sunblink
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Offline Anglachel

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Re: I Will Face God And Walk Backwards Into Hell [PRP]
« Reply #16 on: March 28, 2017, 04:27:11 AM »
Somehow, his legs did not shake, even as the warrior queen loomed over with the pure rage of her expression burning into his memory. She roared her denial in a volcanic boom—and somewhere, in the distant, numb parts of his heart, the boy saw a foxlike figure with golden dapples. Queens, he would later realize, were gold. Kissed by the sun, they set in shades of scarlet, painting gold red with the blood of his loved ones.

For a blinding moment, Anglachel hated her; Haven, Sol Katti, the Golden Queen.

She was right, he knew she was right but something in the prince boiled with desperate fury and denial. "No—" But the gavel had been struck, the judgement had been passed. Her golden frame moved to shove past him and there was nothing he could do because his queen did this—but— "YOU ARE DOING THIS!" Instead of placing the barrel of a gun against Thresher's temple they would slash with ruthless knives. This was not a demand for death, it was a demand for blood. Lithe frame quaked, unused to the volume forced through strained vocal chords as the prince moved to intercept her once more. To beg, to plead, to throw his own body over his dying friend and deal a killing blow himself if that meant sparing him from another torturous bite.

Anglachel would not make it another step. The smaller one—First lesson-Always be on guard—how could he have forgotten there was another one?

Don't move or I'll kill you next.

He had no time to think or even react, and in the next heartbeat the world spun, his left foreleg being tugged out from under him with a sick pop accompanied by piercing howl. The jackal granted no time for recovery—before Anglachel could even register anything, all the prince could see was a flash of teeth and yellow-green eyes that would haunt him for many months to come. And pain, pain, PAIN. It blossomed across his face, tore vicious lacerations across his features, staining wisps of silver locks scarlet. "NO PLEASE, PLEASE! GET OFF OF ME, NO!!" The chemist shrieked and screamed, everything Thresher had taught him about combat rendered useless as his mind merely panicked. Legs kicked out futilely, attempting with all his might to scrabble away from the ruthless Inarian and the agony he inflicted. I'm sorry. Scattered pieces of mind cried, trying with all that he could to pull away from those snapping teeth that injected fear into his bloodstream with every ruthless bite.

The jackal tore away Saboro's scarlet insignia strip by bloody strip, and he would leave his own brand in its place.

(And one day, many nights later as the anxiety of Kashmir's venom burned through his veins, Anglachel's marred reflection would stare with burning accusation. Wondering why his jaws never attempted draw blood. Wondering why he never fought back.)

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when the onslaught was cut short, with his vision blurred by blood and tears, and his ears ringing with the last remnants of his piercing screams. The silver haired prince lay in his pain as the world slowly fell into place along with the realization of his failures. Thresher still lay dying beneath the golden woman's jaws.

Get the eff out of here, Your friend is dead. There's nothing you can do for him. Get out of here, doctor, and help someone that you can.

Dimmed wine eyes focused upon his savior, and a twisted part of the injured chemist wished every ill upon the man for saving him, for showing him mercy while only a few yards away his friend lay awaiting slow, torturous death. But Anglachel was not his mother, and that coil of wretched hate dispelled with a tired, guilty whisper. "I'm... sorry." That you had to save me. That I can't listen. That your friend is injured. That we can't save everyone. As though Setebos could read his thoughts. As though he could feel the guilt and grief threatening to overflow.

Or perhaps the other doctor could.

"No... I can't..." Jaws snapped mere centimeters from his face, sending sparks of terror down the prince's spine. Yet he didn't flinch away. He made no move to retreat. "I can't..." The boy repeated, voice hitched in a quiet sob. His face tilted up for wine eyes to meet auburn. Tangled, blood stained silver locks stuck to soft tattered features that were pinched with pain and grief, yet there was a steeled conviction in the desperate boy's expression. A strength that would leave him come morning. I'm sorry, it said. There would be no changing his mind. Slowly, Anglachel made a move to stand on quivering paws, lithe frame limping forward to crash harmlessly into the Inarian medic, his torn face wet with blood and tears pressing into white and brown fur. "I need to... ease his passing." Murmured in a quiet, tight whisper. A plea doctor to doctor.

(Surely Thresher would be insulted by the foolish prince's sentiment had his words been anything above a whisper. But Anglachel was a gentle boy. He loved and loved and loved, and Saboro would take and take and take.)

The injured prince would brush past Setebos—even if he were to be thrown to the ground or attacked once more, his exhausted limp toward Thresher would not be deterred. He would not leave the flame kissed male to die alone.

He would watch Thresher die, and a piece of himself go with him.

We think too big, we think our self is one whole thing
And we claim that this collection has a name and is a being
But deep inside, when every cell divides
It sets upon the rule that states self-interest is divine

Cancer, too, lives by this golden rule
That you must do unto the others as the others unto you
All for the best, cause that’s all the life accepts
And so we kill it like a buffalo, with awe and with respect

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
#5d637f
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Offline Thresher.

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Re: I Will Face God And Walk Backwards Into Hell [PRP]
« Reply #17 on: April 10, 2017, 03:34:56 AM »

Every story has an ending..




Darkness flooded his senses, all of them.  All he could see was black, all he could hear was static, all he could smell was iron and all he could taste was rust.  There were no voices, no yelling between doctors, or screaming of the golden queen, it was quieter type of peace he had never experienced before.

He wasn't sure if he liked it. The quiet white noise disturbed him, it wasn't right, it wasn't natural. He was sure he wasn't dead yet, because surely if he had been, he'd be burning in the very darkest pits of hell for all he'd done in his life, and yet here he was in the middle of some sort of peaceful tranquility between life and death.  No thoughts came to his mind of those he had previously cared for, or those that cared for him.  (Even that stupid, stupid boy who was pleading for him not three feet away.)  He was drifting away into the vastness of nothing, the empty chasm of the void, only to be brought back by a searing pain, burning likes the pits of hell themselves, perhaps this was it, he was finally dead and was being cast into the very pits of hell..

The white noise, realized suddenly was the sound of himself internally screaming as the golden queen launched her last, finalizing assault on his midsection, tearing away flesh and skin, to have bits and blood pour out of the newfound chasm in Threshers body.  Crimson lifeblood spilled onto the ground, followed by the wormlike appearance of intestine, and stomach.  Eye rolled back into his head as the creeping cold worked its way through his body, he would be dead in minutes. 

A gurgling sound escaped him as a sound resembling a laugh escaped him, body trembling, innards (now out-ards) shook as the wet, gurgling laugh buzzed through the stale air. 

"s...tupid....b...oy." The words were broken into segments, blood covering the ground at every syllable. He wasn't about to die here, lying like some broken, mangled piece of meat.  He was going to make a spectacle as best he could.  One last hurrah before he'd be buzzard feed.  eff death.  eff dying in peace.  eff them getting the best of him. 

What good was peace when death loomed around every corner?

"g...o...."  He'd gurgle to Ang.  The first rule was always be on guard.

After all, a wolf can still bite after cutting off its head, or more literally after gutting it.  With a tuck of his head, and with every ounce of strength, dying adrenaline, and sanity he had left, he yanked out what was left of his intestine and threw it towards Haven, aiming to have it as some sort of makeshift crown and land on her head. 

Whether it landed on its mark or not, "l...o.n..g ....  l..i.v....e .... t...h...e. ...  Q...u..e......e.........n....Thresher laughed, he laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed







Death is the last chapter.

 






All that I see is the wickedness around me

I refuse to believe the apocalypse inside of me

I can't even trust myself

I'm burning in my skin

Standing at the gates of hell

But nobody will let me in



Offline Kashmir

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Re: I Will Face God And Walk Backwards Into Hell [PRP]
« Reply #18 on: April 21, 2017, 07:30:12 PM »
Anglachel didn't deserve this. The sacrificial lamb, the faithful friend and devoted son, his love would wrap like a garrote around his neck today, and he would not deserve one painful, humiliating, brutal instant of it. War stole the decency from noble men, it demanded the silencing of natural compassion, it filled them all with adrenaline that muddied rational thought and lingered long after the battle had ceased and the fields cleansed of gore and the corpses lain to rest, troubled with none of this at all. Anglachel was guilty of none of that. Only audacity, if anything.

He didn't deserve this. It happened anyway.

Cutting teeth slid into skin and muscle; they tore both as the human knife tears bald flesh. He mauled and he disfigured and he disgraced. Kashmir pressed into the prince with all his weight, a spare foot holding his muzzle down to bare the face and render his teeth useless. All I can do, said those hellish eyes, radiant with the immensity of his righteous wrath, is the WORST I CAN DO. Never again would Ang be able to look at himself without remembering this moment. The jackal would take that from him. He took the serenity of his dreams; in the hollow space left behind would flood nightmares of him. He took precious moments of time in which the bastard Thresher would continue to suffer. He took his beauty and his nobility. He heard the broken sobs and desperate pleas for mercy and HE. TOOK. THEM. ALL.

Witness me, Saboro! See what Inaria can do to you!

He heard the doctor's shout, but only faintly, as though he'd given it from underwater. There was too much blood in his ears; there was too focused a rage keeping him locked on poor screaming Anglachel. Little Kashmir, passive Kashmir, the Kashmir who can't look you in the eye, he was gone and in his place was the hunter. The spider with a fly in its web. Thinking of nothing else. Feeling nothing else. But. The struggle.

Something seized him roughly from behind. A set of jaws, clamping hard on his neck, dragging him bodily away from Ang, from... what he'd done. The jackal tasted copper and felt points on his skin and for a moment he existed only in the drop of a ghoulish memory. There was no war of the flowers and Kashmir was not here defending his home from the redtats. He was back in the wetlands, struggling to breathe, dying in the sludge. He was far from home and a monster, inexorable as death itself, held him by the throat.

(show you what happens to little knights who try to slay dragons here)

(show you what happens when that knight behaves like a dragon himself)

Kashmir panicked, forgetting his prey entirely. He twisted in Setebos' vicious grasp, bowing in his hind legs and kicking out like a jackrabbit to hammer against the wolf's body, his bloodied teeth clicking frantically in midair. They grappled for a moment, the two of them, and a heartbeat later he'd been spilled onto the ground. The doctor ROARED at him, so close he could feel the hot gust of enraged breath, and the jackal snarled back, an odd sound more hiss than growl... but one look at the bowed posture and ducked head gave away that this fight was already won. He betrayed an edgy lip-lick. Backed a few steps away. Said nothing.

When Setebos made his implacable demand, when he turned bitterly away from his beta, Kashmir rose slowly to all fours. He felt suddenly, intensely exposed, his skin burning hot like a man naked beneath the high noon sun. His legs felt stiff and unresponsive, stupid blocks of meat attached to his torso. Automatically he turned to Haven, barely realizing that he did so, and the look on her face was --

oh god.

His head pulsed wildly. Everything was too bright. The world was a crazy sea of too-strong smells. He backed away further, easing closer to the paladin as though he could vanish at her side, dissolving into her shadow. Thresher was gurgling and sputtering and cackling, digging deep into himself, and at first he thought it was to die faster, but then came the toss of a very special crown and Kashmir jerked in surprise. If those rancid guts landed on his queen's head, her right-hand would reach up to pluck them off and cast them contemptuously away.

"Haven," he murmured painstakingly, eyeing the wound on her belly urgently. "The infirmary..."

It would not be discussed. It would not be clumsily apologized for. Move on. Stay alert. Stay alive.

He never looked at Anglachel again.
« Last Edit: April 22, 2017, 04:11:20 PM by Kashmir »


Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills
Who battled for the True, the Just
Be blown about the desert dust
Or seal’d within the iron hills

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