Through the glass and lighted candles... [Random]

A woman was crying.

He could hear her sobs, which echoed with a sound like a flock of geese arguing over fish. She blew her nose with a hearty honking sound and quieted some. Still, her hitching breath sounded sharply in the empty church.

In the nearly empty church. Because Pip was sitting on the alter, where the wine and waffers usually sat, between two burning pillar candles, each etched with a silver cross. But their flames cast no shadows, and when the bleary-eyed mourner looked up she saw only the empty alter, and the promise of redemption.

Pip looked sadly at the woman for a time, even when her fit was spent and she was dabbing the drawn mascara from her face. He didn't know what had drawn him here tonight, but he had come, for once of his own volition, and sat through the late-night mass in silence, revelling in the wonderful echo of voices that floated thick through the floor boards of the unused attic. When the church had cleared, he wandered down dim, and sat watching the alter boys light the candles and retreat to a game of cards in the priest's ready-room.

Then this woman entered, and he felt compelled and ashamed at once. He wanted to offer her comfort, but what comfort could an apparent demon give in any time of suffering? And as the woman shuffled out, Pip sat transfixed by the sound of her shoes clacking against the hard wood floor. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. It was only once the heavy door fell shut on a flurry of snow that he straightened and looked around.

The familiar image of a pained man stared back at him from every direction. He had met Christ once, and though he knew better than to believe he was the son of anyone Up, the carpenter had been something. It always baffled Pip how the church depicted him as this sallow, suffering man. If there was one thing for which Christ could be counted on, it was a laugh. And possibly some fish. The man liked his fish.

They've got the right idea, anyway, he thought. Churches are alters to Purpose, to Order, even if the access is somewhat skewed. They're trying, at least. Pip scaled the pillars to the attic, where he had found a hole in the wall, where pigeons had nested. But as soon as he entered, he felt something was wrong - the soft, loving coos of the pigeon pair were gone. He sniffed and darted to the shadows, where his heart began to hammer, as something moved across the room.

OoC: I’ll take this one. I’ve been wanting to fight you.

IC:

Thunk.

Thunk.

The sound of metal boots scraped wearily along the worn hardwood floor of the church, their cruel sound reverberating slightly.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The pigeons sprang up out of the nest which rested on the ceiling beam and darted around the room, circled a few times with grey wings beating frenziedly, and headed out an open window.

Pip sat hidden in the corner, concealed in his shadows as the figure moved forwards, its pitch-like guise silhouetted against the blinding light streaming onwards from elabourite stained glass windows. It seemed to be scanning the area for something. The woman had stopped crying, and was now staring intently at the figure, as if she was expecting it to offer its apologies for intruding into such a sacred place.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Pip could now see that the figure was a man, though his figure was still blackened, clad in evil-looking armour and cloak. His long hair danced behind him as he trod onwards through the nave. His eyes turned to the lone mourner, who, upon meeting his vision, stood from her seat, screamed out in shock, and fainted. Her limp, unconscious body dropped onto the seat back in a sitting position. The man seemed unconcerned with the vain woman, stepping ever onwards towards the altar. He passed right by Pip, still hidden in his shadowed alcove, then paused mid-stride, and took a stride backward. He stood unmoving, his black body’s features indistinguishable against an ornate window, and after a moment, he turned his face towards Pip, who gasped, for the eyes of this dark man were deviant, glowing a dead, tragic blue.

The colour of Death.

Death, he thought. We've met before. But you'll still not have me. And with that he willed the thing away.

Death, to someone like Pip, is like a feather on the air; beautiful, dangerous, and easily avoided. Pip was built outside of Death, out of that which cannot die. Certainly he had come closer than he'd like once or twice, but Death could be dealt with on a puff of breath.

But Death, it turned out, was more solid than he remembered. Perhaps it was the haze of belief that hung in the air long after the prayers have stopped; perhaps it was the tears of the woman, so sharp in their pain. Either way, Pip shook his head and saw a man, carved in flesh and set with metal - and he crouched low in the shadows, flicking his tail.

Pip was tired of these warriors, standing smack-dab in the middle of his Path, sticking their metaphorical tongues out and blowing rude, wet raspberries. He was tired of his timid questions, tired of the chase - and tired of his sanctity, his church of thought, under constant threat from the next wanderer. Random was twirling him like a top, only she'd learned something from her sister Purpose - An event's outcome can be logical if that which leads to it is not - the pattern emerges like an equation - random variables coming together to form a solid conclusion. He could hear the cold, disturbed lilt of her voice as he considered his strike.

The man's blue eyes pulsed, and once again Pip saw the child Death, ready to stand, ready to hang on to spite the careless wind. The image faded like a phantom, and Pip was left with the very tangible presence of this steel-plated man.

He felt Chaos surge within him, throbbing through his veins, and thought he heard Order sigh softly, as if tired or bored, or perhaps just completely uninterested in this fray.

Let her eyes be elsewhere, thought Pip as her sister's strength gathered. He felt a tightness take his heart - it was a heavy feeling, apprehensive, as if his better self knew this was wrong and worried about consequence.

You see a form rise from the shadows, cut from the same dark cloth of night. It is small - much too small to be a threat, with sharp ears laid flat against its head and two bright gold eyes burning from its face. You see no details about its form - with its arms held into it body, it a spectre, a shadow, hanging conspicuously in the air, legs tucked in tight and tail dropping down into the pool of darkness below. The eyes. The eyes are bright and have a disturbing intelligence sparking in their depths. You see arms unfold, and your hand drifts towards your sword; it is an unconscious movement, but one you are familiar with.

"I would ask you who you are," the shadow said, seemingly without a mouth. "But I don't much care today. No, today I am in the mood to teach." His eyes narrowed.

He said, Pieces.

You feel a surge pass through your body, like some mild electrical current. It seems to settle into your joints - your ankles, your knees, your hips, your shoulders, your elbows, your fingers and toes. You hold a hand up to your face and watch with unease as your fingers drop off your body and tumble to the ground. Yet you feel no pain, as your knees disconnect and you drop to the stumps of your thighs, as they give way and you fall to your side, every joint letting go and your parts scattering on the hardwood floor. Your head rolls a little ways away from your torso, and you regard the pile of your pieces twitch and flex, each out of your control.

OoC: Just to let you know, I’m using Jul ‘Kaed, so if you don’t know much about him, look up his profile.

IC:

Jul ‘Kaed lay in pieces on the hardwood floor of the church. The glowing eyes still lurked in the shadows, their piercing golden gaze a startling contrast to Jul ‘Kaed’s icy blue. His Master reassured him, and Jul ‘Kaed smirked. The thing used magic. That was of no consequence to him.

K’ul nast r’ul uda.

The searing voice of Jul ‘Kaed’s Master screeched through the depths of his mind.

K’ul nast r’ul uda.

His speech was demonic, it’s incomprehensible sounds overwhelming Jul ‘Kaed’s senses.

K’ul nast r’ul uda.

And he began his rebirthing.

Even though his limbs had been cleaved cleanly and painlessly, the process with which he healed was just as gruesome as it would have been had his body been shattered into a thousand pieces. Flesh knit with flesh, sinew with sinew, bone with bone, until his form was nearly indistinguishable, for it was veiled in a mat of gore which stained the wood below. His armour and clothing found their places on his now-solid body, and rearranged themselves accordingly, as if they had a mind of their own.

And then it was complete.

Jul ‘Kaed rose. He turned his weary eyes towards the shadow which rested in the corner, crouched, which analysed him with a somewhat bored expression.

Its eyes betrayed it, though.

OoC: Heh, sorry that it was a bit short…I’m not exactly sure what your character is capable of, and I don’t want to do anything “wrong” with him, so I’ll leave your attacks up to you. For now. I just want to see the style in which you fight and attack, so I can adjust my entries around that.

Damn, thought Pip. When I send them to pieces villians usually... you know... go to pieces. The ficker of a smile danced across his face and he felt some of his ire abate. Watching the tall, cold figure before him stitch together without much trouble - and without much concern - made it rise again. He narrowed his eyes as the stranger stared impassively with the cool blue expression, seeming just as likely to walk away as to strike.

Pip closed his eyes. The sister-strength churned.

You see the shadow swell - the arms bulging first subtle then fearsome - the forehead getting longer - the tail thicker - the eyes sharper. In the shadow-face you see rows of sharp, glistening teeth break through. A fat, red tongue lolls out, dripping saliva, and a horrible roar pours forth like a river. The gold of its eyes is bleached out white.

You notice the strangest thing. Where it stands before you, the wood of the floor has changed - the veneer melted, the warm wood beneath splintering, swelling, growing a thin skin of bark. Where its hand grips the pew, a curl of vine is growing between its thick fingers.

"I can make you care, boy," Pip thundered. Jul ‘Kaed stepped back as Pip prepared to charge.

ooc: if you pull out your sword in the next segment, be advised that Pip will shrink back to his normal 2ft frame in order to better evade you. Just so you know.

Jul ‘Kaed stood ready. This foolish monstrosity of shadow was just that – shadow. Shadow could not pierce flesh. Jul 'Kaed knew no matter how much a shadow is chased, it does not make it real. It is still simply a place where light dare not tread. Jul ‘Kaed would know. He had seen worse things in the course of his existence. Much worse. And he was bound to see even more before his service of his Master had expired.

The shadow-thing lolled it’s white eyes at Jul ‘Kaed, who now had stepped away from it and set himself down on a nearby pew. It seemed somewhat dumbfounded, and let out another roar in hopes of scaring this walking corpse. It was to no avail, for Jul ‘Kaed now sat picking at his nails with the tip of his throwing dagger, which he kept hidden in a sheath behind his shredded cape.

He glanced up and spoke in a calm, almost saintly voice.

“You know that your shadows will not deter me, do you not? ‘Tis but a figment wrought of darkness. The dark cannot do any physical damage, and even though it can scar the spirit, you should know that mine has scars on top of scars. Your feeble conjures will not deter me. I have been instructed to destroy you, and though you will die, I feel no remorse for you. I will not deviate, for I am but the servant of The Master, and his will is eternal.”

With that, Jul ‘Kaed stood against the shadow-thing and drew his vile, twisted runeblade, noxious fumes seeping forth from the hilt, which was wrought with demon’s skull. He slid the razor’s edge along his upper left arm, causing hot, sticking blood to seep slowly from the wound. The flat of the blade was then pressed against his forehead, smearing gore on it, the red and white a startling contrast. He whispered in the strange tongue, the tongue of the dead.

’Ul vast ‘kil natuk.

Just as Pip turned to gape at the bloodied warrior before him, he felt a tug - a dreadful, familiar pull the began in his gut and spread like chills through his body.

Damn you, he thought vehemently.

Her hands clutch him - fingers to fine and deft to see in their work.

You watch in amazment as your small foe give a pained grin, the tip of his red tongue poking out.

"I'll see you again, friend," he said.

Pip shuddered. It was always so cold being plucked from here and tossed like a ball of chance across the ridges of the universe, skipping across the stars. He never knew what to expect, but could not fight it - especially now, with his ire in such flame. He had opened himself to her grace and forgot her rules.

Namely, that Chaos didn't have any.

And on that grim thought, Pip vanished.

~Fin~

ooc: I'm sorry Sear, but I'm gonna have to pull out. I've just sorta lost touch with it for a moment. I'll challenge you again sometime in the near future if you'll have me. I hope you understand.

I completely understand. I know what it's like to go through rough times. I'll be awaiting your next challenge...or perhaps we could even continue this at a different time?