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    The Pact
    Delirious and weary, I came across a large, steel door. It was locked, but showed signs of recent use. Its barred window revealed nothing in the pitch black room behind it.

    I had a dark foreboding feeling about what may lay inside, but that didn't stop me. I reached into my pocket and grabbed the large, iron key I found earlier, and tried it in the lock. Lo and behold, it worked. The door creaked open ominously, swinging easily, despite its large size and apparent weight.

    Stepping through the open doorway, I finally noticed the true size of the room; easily 100 square yards, and twice as high. After a few steps, sconces lining the walls burst to life in sequence, ending with two large braziers flanking a very ornate (and quite demonic-looking) throne.

    That is where I first looked upon the figure. Draping himself lazily over the throne in a sideways fashion was a darkly clad figure. His long, black hair hung unkempt over his ebony eyes. His left arm hung over the front of the seat, while his right held a book in front of his face. His cloak hung over the right arm of the chair, beneath his boot clad legs. What struck me, however, were the batlike wings protruding from his back, folded in a seemingly uncomfortable way.

    Noticing that I had entered the room, he glanced up at me. “So, you've finally come to set me free?” he questioned, returning his gaze to the book. “I knew it'd be soon.”

    I merely stood there, awestruck. “Who are you?” I finally asked.

    He laughed derisively. “Oh, John. You already know the answer to that.” Closing the book audibly, he stood up and donned the cloak. Spreading his wings and arms, he boomed, “I am the dark deeds for which you refuse responsibility, and the deeds you will yet commit. I am the innocence you've allowed to become corrupted. I am the deaths you chose not to prevent. I am your dark thoughts. I am the evil you've allowed to live, breathe, and thrive. I have always existed in you, yet you've always attempted to lock me away, masquerading as a champion of all things good and innocent. But we both know that isn't the case. My existence alone is proof positive against that.” He was now towering over me. I gazed up at him in a mix of awe and fear, having fallen to my knees. “I am your dark side. The inky blackness of your soul. I am Blitz.”

    He knelt down so that he was staring directly into my eyes. “Most importantly,” he whispered, “I'm exactly what you need.” He burst upward, his voice now booming. “Embrace me! I shall see you through this dark time, as I have in the past. But know this; this time, I'm not letting go. You can accept my help, and survive, but you will never be the same.” Landing back on the ground, he folded his arms. “Or, you can walk out that door, turn the key once again, and attempt to find your own way through the blackness. At least with me, I can guarantee you'll make it.”

    I stood back up, regaining my composure. “What darkness do you speak of, Blitz?”

    “Don't you remember? You attempted to take her darkness away. Now it infects the both of you like a plague. You knew that would be a danger when you attempted it, but here we are. You've lost her, you've lost your sanity, you're losing your family and friends with your silence. Soon, all you have left is darkness. There is your choice; that can either be me, or it can be the Misery you attempted to remove from her. At least with me, you will know what to expect.” He sauntered over to me and extended his gloved hand. It was wreathed in a black, smoky aura, whose wispy tendrils reached out for my hand.

    “Guide me, then,” I responded, reaching for his hand. “Help me survive.” I closed my hand around his, and everything went black.
    Last edited by AngelSword; 2008-03-23 at 05:34 AM.
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    Default Re: Wicked Savior

    I've posted this elsewhere, but I wanted your opinions. Should I expand it into a full story?
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    Default Re: Wicked Savior

    Quote Originally Posted by AngelSword View Post
    I've posted this elsewhere, but I wanted your opinions. Should I expand it into a full story?
    Um... how about... YES!

    Seriously, that's a very intriguing opening, and I've read enough story submissions to a webzine I used to run that I know when I want to see more.
    I have my own TV show featuring local musicians performing live. YouTube page with full episodes and outtake clips here.
    I also have another YouTube page with local live music clips I've filmed on my own.

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    Egression
    I awoke to the sound of dragging chains. Attempting to shake of the massive headache pounding at my skull, I looked around, only to find jail cells. Countless rows of bars stretched out in front of me, containing both body and mind, each marked with a sign written in a strange language.

    As my eyes cleared, I saw the source of the noise, as two…things, dragged a lifeless body in front of my cell. These creatures were vaguely humanoid, but had what appeared to be tentacles in the place of their arms, tipped by a mass of writhing feelers. Moving along on a snakelike body, they left behind a slimy residue in their wake. Jetting out from their backs were what looked to be a set of 3 wings, yet they were tattered so badly that they would never support the weight of such a massive form. Most remarkable of all, however, was the tentacle-like head, whose tail seemed to be constantly in motion.

    The figure they were dragging, it seemed, was of a woman, but before I could get a better look, the jailer noticed my attention, and grabbed me through the bars, thrusting me to the back of my cell with a surprising strength. Speaking from an unseen mouth, it uttered some unintelligible threat, and dropped me to the ground. I rolled myself into a ball, coughing up blood when I was finally able to breathe.

    The jailers flung open the cell adjacent to mine, and tossed in the body. As they slithered away, I pulled myself to the front of my cage, looking for the new addition. Spitting more blood from my mouth, I pressed my head against the bars. Each cell in eyesight were as unremarkable as mine; cold, gray walls, a bare floor, and a disheveled shell of a human being in various positions of depression. In some of the cells, some of the prisoners had even hung themselves, using their clothing strung together with shoddy knots.

    Then I heard the moans. The helpless moans of hundreds of thousands of the incarcerated slaves who had lost all hope. It was maddening.

    But, through the groaning, one voice stood out. I couldn't place it, but it seemed eerily familiar, emanating from the newest prisoner. Her voice hung on my mind as I tried to place it.

    “I see you're finally awake, John,” a cold, steely voice said from behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. Turning around, I saw Blitz, leaning nonchalantly against the back wall. “It's not her, before you ask.”

    “What do you want?” I asked, more annoyed than shocked.

    “Just here to repay the favor,” he replied, stepping forward. “You set me free, so it's only fitting that I set you free.” With that, he charged at me. As I braced for his impact, though, he passed right through me, leaving a trail of black smoke, stretching from the front of me to the door of my cell.

    “All that for nothing?” I cried, after several long minutes. After all that talk, that big production, he did nothing. I yelled out in frustration, slamming my fists against the bars. But, to my surprise, they began to shake, slightly at first, but growing more violent.

    Then, with no warning, they shattered like glass. The shards hung in the air for a brief moment, then came together in a flash of light with the force of an explosion. I was thrown back to my cell again. When I looked up, I saw a scythe, as it briefly hovered in midair before clattering to the ground.

    I slowly went over to it, and took it in my hands. A sudden rush of energy filled me, and I felt the tattered rags I was dressed in fall away, replaced with what appeared to be the same garb Blitz was wearing when he appeared. Even stranger, though, were the physical changes. My hair now fell in my face, my muscles bulged beneath my skin, and something weighed heavily on my back.

    I could not stand in awe of myself for very long, since at the end of the hallway, the jailers were stirring, most likely to inspect the commotion I had caused. I stepped out into my freedom, glancing down both directions. And, since those abominations stood at one end, I decided to try my luck down the other.

    By chance, I looked into the new prisoner's cell, and stopped. It was her. Her auburn hair falling all around her in an unwashed mess around her face. Her arms and legs were lying in seemingly uncomfortable positions, as if she was a rag doll. She was the voice I couldn't place. I looked upon her with a grim feeling of relief. The one woman who loved me truly, that I let get away. It was Anya.

    I didn't want to leave her to this Hell, but I couldn't pick a lock, and I was nearly certain the fist pounding wouldn't work a second time.

    The scythe!

    I widened my stance, and swung at her cell door with the scythe, and surprisingly, it split like a knife through butter. The top half of the bars slid forward, and fell to the ground with a loud clang. Stepping inside her cell, I reached down and picked her up, throwing her over my left shoulder.

    I heard the jailers calling out for reinforcements, so I knew I had to leave, now. I darted down the hallway and cut myself an exit when I reached the end. I realized it was a stupid idea when I saw the endless drop stretching out below me. But I was not falling nearly as fast as I would have thought. Instead, I felt myself drifting slowly forward. Glancing back at my doorway, I saw wings. The same wings I saw on Blitz. I also saw the jailers through the opening. I was afraid that they were preparing to follow, but they remained.

    Feeling confident that I had escaped, I felt Anya stirring on my shoulder. “John?” she groaned, “Is that you?”

    “Yeah, Anya,” I replied, “it's me.”

    “I finally found you,” she sighed, then passed back out.
    Last edited by AngelSword; 2008-03-23 at 05:39 AM.
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    Death and Rebirth
    I couldn't sleep that night. Every time I shut my eyes, images of Anya's flesh being flayed from her bones filled my mind. That, curiously, wasn't what disturbed me. No. What disturbed me was the scaly hide that sludged forth to replace her ivory skin. Each putrid, gray scale seemed even more rancid than the last. And when the transformation was complete, the steel blue eyes I loved before seemed to take on a sinister light, almost in mockery of the gentle vision they once were.

    Stoking the fire, I glanced over at her sleeping frame, finding relief in that the progeny of my mind was simply that. But something seemed...different. The feeling of serenity I used to feel when looking upon her was gone. The beautiful features I was so enamored with in the past appear alien now, as if they were a mask to something deranged beneath.

    “You're up early,” she yawned, pulling me from my reverie.

    “I couldn't sleep.”

    “Oh? Why not?”

    “I was thinking how lucky I must be to have found you again.”

    “Didn't I find you, silly?” She stuck her tongue out at me. Sinister or not, she was still unbearably cute.

    “I suppose.” I looked around for some sort of indication as to where we were, but the trees that surrounded us seemed so foreign that it was pointless. “So, where are we? More importantly, where were we?”

    “Well, I don't know where we are, but we just escaped a place known as the Prison of the Damned.”

    “Sounds like a cozy place.”

    “Tell me about it. It's a place where souls of those who die before their time due to their own ignorance end up.”

    “Wait. I died?”

    “The last few months of your life, you were so weak from the chemo that you fell into a coma. Then one day, you just drifted into death. It was very painful. Your mother, as you know, never left your side. Unfortunately, she wouldn't accept that you were gone. She denied it for days, never leaving your bedside. When they finally wrested your body from her grasp, she went mad. She returned to her home, carrying a picture of you around the house, talking to it as if it was you.

    “Your dad, on the other hand, drunk himself into a stupor. As far as I can tell, it's the only thing that kept him sane. Sadly, it strained his liver horribly, and it finally gave out a month after you died.”

    “Is he still alive?” I asked, not wanting to believe what she was telling me.

    “I don't know. I was suffering so greatly after you died, so desperate to be with you again, that I took my own life. That's how I ended up in the Prison. But at least it worked,” she smiled weakly, “having found you. Though, truth be told, I wasn't sure it was you.”

    “You killed yourself? I didn't think you were that weak.”

    “Hey!” she snapped, “I tried to reconcile with your death, but I just couldn't handle life without you. You were always the one telling me, 'Things will be OK.' When you were gone, I had no one left.”

    We sat in silence for what seemed like hours. “We should probably move,” I finally said. “Those things will probably come after us soon.”

    “To where? We're stranded in this wasteland, with no food or supplies.”

    “Well, I know of a shaman not too far from here.” I did? “Mother Krelo, as she's known, would at least give us some answers.” Mother Krelo? Where was this coming from? I couldn't even determine where we are, and suddenly I can find witchdoctors?

    “Wait. Where did that come from?”

    “I'm not sure, but at this point, I'd rather just try it. It beats wandering around aimlessly through a bleak forest, being pursued by horrible abominations, and barely enough wherewithal to figure out which way is up.”

    “Ah, so instead, we're wandering around aimlessly through a bleak forest, being pursued by horrible abominations, with barely enough wherewithal to figure out which way is up, heading to a destination you pulled out of your ass,” she said derisively.

    “Have any better ideas?”

    “Well, no…”

    “I thought not.”
    Last edited by AngelSword; 2008-03-23 at 05:40 AM.
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    Nostalgia
    We walked through the twisted trees for days. At least, I think it's been days; this ersatz sun doesn't seem to follow a pattern, rising and setting randomly, in varying parts of the sky. Yet, despite this rather disorienting change, it didn't seem out of place. Much like the leaves hanging black on their branches, the erratic nature of the sun only seemed fitting. Though, there is one thing that struck me as odd.

    “I'm hungry,” Anya said, scanning the trees for anything that could be eaten. Ever since we started, she kept having the same urges one would have in life; hunger, sleep, and the like. I, however, did not. Instead, I only had thoughts. I should be hungry. I should be tired.

    “I'll see what I can find.” I still had one desire. Every time Anya needed to eat, I relished in the thought of hunting and killing for her nourishment. Originally, I wrote it off as being able to support the only other sane being I've met since coming here. But, as each meal came, I grew more and more ruthless in my hunts. The beasts I sought to slay became easier to find, suffering increasingly grizzly deaths.

    After a few minutes of searching, I came across a small hut in a clearing. Like everything else, its strange architecture would seem foreign anywhere else. The strange, purple smoke billowed out from the escheresque chimney at an alarming rate. “I guess she's home,” I mused to myself.

    “I knew you'd be along soon,” came a burgundy voice from inside of the hut, to which I unwittingly meandered. “It's been too long, Blitz.” The calm and collected nature of the woman's voice seemed restricted to it; the arm that beckoned me to my seat was clad in a schizophrenic mass of rags cobbled together into a sleeve, attached to what may have been a very regal vestment at one time. Her hair was equally frazzled, appearing as though two different styles were waging war upon her head. Despite this, though, there was a strange elegance and chaotic beauty about her that, if I even began to comprehend, would shatter my mind.

    “You must be the Lady Krelo.”

    “You must be the new Escort.” She eyed me up and down. “And a handsome one at that.” She buzzed around her dwelling, grabbing small bunches of herbs and tossing them into a large cauldron set over a dark blue flame that burned away in the hearth. “I hope she likes my cooking.” While my curiosity was piqued about what may have been bubbling away, the acrid smell emanating from whatever stewed inside kept me from investigating further. Wait…she? Does she know about-

    “There you are!” Anya said, panting, and in a state of near panic. “The moment you stepped away, I heard this horrible wailing. The next thing I know, there were these eyes, leering at me from the bushes! I think it followed me!”

    “You needn't worry about that, dear,” Krelo replied. “While it appears menacing, it can only harm you if you let it.”

    “What WAS it?”

    Letting out an exacerbated sigh, Krelo sat down at the two-legged table across from me, preparing for a lengthy exposition. “That, for lack of a better term, is the embodiment of the tragic events of your past. While it can take many forms, it normally appears as a haunting figure from a terrible incident that scarred you, be it mentally, emotionally, or physically. The more traumatizing the event, the more real it appears. But, so long as you remain mindful that it is merely an apparition, it can do you no harm…at least, no physical harm.”

    She took a moment to spin around on her stool to ladle a sampling of her concoction into two bowls, which she then tipped at each of us invitingly. “You two must be starving.” Anya greedily took up the bowl, forsaking the spoon in favor of a more expedient method of consumption. I wasn't nearly as enthused.

    “I'm not hungry, thank you,” I said, hesitantly.

    “Physically, perhaps not. But I can see it in your eyes; you're mentally drained.” She pondered me for a minute, as if she was trying to come up with a diagnosis. “Maybe your sense of self is not accepting your new self as readily as it should. Have some. Your thoughts will become clearer. I guarantee it.” She smiled. But there was something odd about the smile. Perhaps it was how her eyes narrowed more than they should. Or perhaps it was that, despite their narrowing, they seemed to hold that surreal calm. Or maybe it was the two pointed, fang-like teeth that hung at either end of her mouth. Whatever it was, it had me frightened.

    I grabbed the spoon with a shaky hand and dipped it into the fiery orange broth before me, lifting the foul-smelling liquid to my lips. Reluctantly, I drank it in, and surprisingly, it was phenomenal. The strange mixture of otherworldly flavors blended with tastes of my childhood, creating a palatable essence that was altogether righteous yet profane, with a sense of foreign unfamiliarity I've not felt in years.

    This new sensation was ephemeral, though, as my mind was immediately plunged into a searing hot light of memory, bombarding me with a blitzkrieg of ethereal thoughts and emotions that sent my mind spinning. The dizzying rush of input overwhelmed me, tossing me from flashbacks of happy birthdays and nights of merriment to images of funerals and heartache.

    In a single, blinding flash, it all came crashing down upon me with what I believe to be the mental equivalent of an atomic bomb. I must have passed out from the force of it, since the next thing I recalled was picking myself off of a dusty stone floor. Wait a second…stone? Oh, no.

    “It always takes you so long to find the place.” It was Blitz. Standing over me in that same, condescending manner, he extended his hand to help me off the ground. Reluctant to accept more of his “help,” I batted his hand away as I stood up. “Always the loner,” he sneered.

    I looked about his chambers, noticing that it had taken on a more sovereign appearance, while still maintaining the feeling of crushing despair; a portmanteau of forms, it seems. The sconces along the wall now illuminated sinister gargoyles whose stationary pose seemed more of a personal choice than a sculptor's decision. His demonic throne, even more elaborate than last time, now sat upon a marble dais, draped in a ritzy crimson rug, leading toward the door that had now become a set of gilded double doors. All in all, it was very posh, in a menacing kind of way.

    “What the hell was in that soup?”
    Last edited by AngelSword; 2008-11-10 at 07:50 PM.
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  7. - Top - End - #7
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    Default Re: Wicked Savior

    Since I dont really have time to read this story right now, I just want tell you that im intrested to read it...when i got time.

    This thread looked so empty so I just decided to post anyway.

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    Quote Originally Posted by AngelSword View Post
    “Have any better ideas?”

    “Well, no…”

    “I thought not.”
    This story is PURE WIN. A little confusing at times, though. Still great.
    Quote Of The Week Whenever I Feel Like Updating It (last updated 1/17/12)
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    Quote Originally Posted by Phase
    That guy was badass! He was like, "Oh! Oh, you're gonna try to Chuck Norris me, I'll just Chuck Norris you!" Unfortunately, I am the best Chuck Norris since Chuck Norris.
    Which is saying something, considering that Chuck Norris... was Chuck Norris.

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    Bump10chars
    Quote Of The Week Whenever I Feel Like Updating It (last updated 1/17/12)
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    Quote Originally Posted by Phase
    That guy was badass! He was like, "Oh! Oh, you're gonna try to Chuck Norris me, I'll just Chuck Norris you!" Unfortunately, I am the best Chuck Norris since Chuck Norris.
    Which is saying something, considering that Chuck Norris... was Chuck Norris.

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