Angels on the Sideline

[Duke of Clubs]

Boo.

It's a story. Critique it. Tell me it sucks, if you're so inclined to do so. I don't mind. But tell me why. And no, this is not the entire story.

Kellson.

IC:

Section I.


Outlined by flashes of sheet lighting, the sloop exhaustedly bounced up and down on the crashing sea. Waves rose like angry bears, crashing down onto the decks and drenching the sailors with salty spray. The rigging strained at the mast, trying to break free and drop into the raging waters. Experienced sailors staggered around, tightening ropes, rolling up the sails, and battening down any available hatches.

“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life’s for me. Yar har, fiddle dee dee, hur, hur, hur.”

A figure swayed with the ship, somehow retaining its footing on the deck by leaning against a thick mast. It had a crossbow slung across its back and held a spear much like a gentleman’s cane.

“Hur.”

Kellson chuckled as a sailor tripped and went flying into a bulkhead. Hur, hur, hur, indeed. The ship was bobbing like a cork and so were the crew, but here he was salty and dry. A miracle, to be sure. Or perhaps just skill.

“I say! You theyah!” someone called above the roar of the storm.

Kellson turned, very slowly. Anyone who said “I say! You there!” was either extremely posh or royalty, neither of which he approved of. Hell, he killed royalty for a living. Rich people were just annoying, especially if they somehow managed to tack on annoying accents to annoying verbs.

The caller was the captain. God only knew how he attained such a status, or how he had escaped mutiny. Perhaps he paid well. Kellson knew that, were he a sailor, that he would have been the one to drop the man into a longboat near a deserted island and give him a cheery wave. Bugger to you, he thought.

“Yes?” he shouted instead.

“You’re not supposed to blurgle squirgle ack,” the captain shouted as a large blast of foamy seawater purposefully hit him. Kellson wrung his cloak out.

“Er, what?”

“You’re not supposed to beeyah up heeyah,” the captain said. “You need to go back to your cabin, hwhat?”

“I like the fresh air,” Kellson shouted.

A fresh wave crested above the railing; Kellson scrambled up the mast as it descended with the wrath of God onto the deck.

“It’s a bit salty,” he added, clambering back down. “But otherwise fine. How long until we get to land?”

“Ah, ah, it should beeyah about threeyah days,” the captain roared.

“Bugger,” Kellson muttered. “All right, I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning if the storm clears up.”

“hWhat?” bellowed the captain, but Kellson was already climbing down the steps to the cabins.

***

The next morning, the storm had moved on to the north. Several sailors on watch at dawn later swore that an angel had told them to “Bugger off, you grumpy sods,” and consequently flew away towards the south. No one believed them. Humans with wings? Had a bit much to drink, eh? Eh?

***

Kellson folded his wings about a third of a mile away from the ports of the small city, storing them in the strange abyss and diving into the water. He swam the rest of the way, taking breaths as sparsely as possible, before bursting to the surface in front of a small child with a fishing pole. The boy screamed, dropped the pole, and fled. Kellson fell back in the water laughing.

The wharfs soon gave way to the more urban area of the city. Kellson found the tavern he was looking for and strode in.

[Andross]

This looks pretty interesting. I like how you opened it up, with the pirate dialogue and the ocean setting and the events. It looks like you can expand alot on this character of yours. I like it so far.

[Duke of Clubs]

Thank you.

IC:
Section II.

“No, and for the last and final time, I don’t want to buy a wrist sundial, and if you ask me again I will stick that sundial where the sun does not shine. Comprendes?”

The flabbergasted merchant, held up in the air by his collar, gulped and nodded frantically. Kellson sighed and threw him away. Why would somebody want to buy a sundial anyways? It’s not like you couldn’t look at the sun and find out what time it is. And any time you see someone holding timekeepers attached to the inside of his coat, you know something’s up.

He sat back down at his table and replaced his booted feet back on the polished hardwood. Five minutes since he had got here and he was already impatient. He took some long breaths and closed his eyes.

“hOffendi Kellson?”

Kellson cracked an eye. A short man was standing before him. He looked…well, he looked like your average Arab. Black hair, beard, darkly tanned skin, turban. No distinguishing features, which would make it hard to pick him out in a crowd if Kellson decided he needed to die.

“Yeah?”

“Hello. Call me Ghnobi. Yes. I am the one that will take you to the castle.” ‘Ghnobi’ had a strange ‘h’ sound preceding most words beginning with vowels. It grated on Kellson’s nerves.

“Just like that? What about my fee?”

“Your…fee?”

“Yeah,” he said, swinging his feet off the table and standing, looking down at the little man. “This is a living, yes? I’m not doing this for my health.”

“Your fee will be as promised, hwun third now and the other two thirds after the job,” said Ghnobi tossing him a bag that clinked. Kellson detected a smidgen of hesitancy as he snagged the money. Ah-hah.

“Well, lead on, pal,” he said in the sardonic tone of anyone who isn’t your pal, but rather stuck the word ‘moron’ in the seemingly innocent word. Ghnobi noticed it, too: Kellson heard him darkly muttering, “Pal…” as they exited the tavern.

***

“This is it,” Ghnobi whispered, gesturing towards the palace. Kellson rolled his eyes. Why –did- everyone whisper to a regicide when they were at least half a mile away from the castle itself? It bothered him. That would stop with one quick trigger pull or sword slash. He ignored the little man and began walking to the east. They wouldn’t see him with the sun in their eyes. He started running. Let’s get this over with.

***

Fortuitously, there were no guards posted on the wall, which was not to say they weren’t around. Kellson cautiously flew up over the wall, crossbow in hand. Oh, there was one, leaning on a halberd, probably asleep and definitely not looking. He crept up behind the guard and cut his throat with one deft knife swipe. Before the body could fall, he propped him up against the battlements so that it would seem like he was asleep. Now, to find the sultan.

Leaving the body but taking his scimitar, he flew up to a minaret and poked his head in the window. No one yet. The call to prayer was probably earlier or later. He didn’t care. Christians and Muslims were not a good combination in Armenia and thus probably not here. He scuttled in, quietly walking down the steps to the main building. Some assassins, and he used the term loosely, because he did not consider himself to actually be an assassin, would climb on the ceiling or dart around in the shadows. That was not how Kellson rolled, to say the least. He’d just walk through the palace until he found a guard or servant, forced them to tell him where the current monarch or ruler was, kill the guard or leave the servant, go to the ruler, kill him or her, and leave. Much quicker, but still quiet.

He did find someone. A pretty woman was quietly combing her hair by a large window. He tapped her on the shoulder, making her jump.

“’Scuse me. Where’s the sultan?”

She understood the word sultan, at least; she shakily pointed a direction. Kellson touched his brow and departed.

This castle, at least, was fairly easy. Not many traps or guards. He remembered one lord somewhere near the Mediterranean Sea. Talk about paranoid. Kellson had to back track out of the castle to escape the traps and hordes of guards, thus having to wait for a week and a half until the lord went into the troop’s barracks outside. Then he had to kill the lord and almost the entire barracks. All he had met here was some woman, probably part of the fabled harem, and a sleeping guar- good grief.

A score of guards turned the corner, standing stunned, staring at him. He waved.

“Hullo,” he said, and flew through the ceiling.

It was old wood, but it hurt, nonetheless.

Nursing his aching shoulder, he examined the surroundings. A storeroom or attic or something. Some clothes. He carefully walked to the door, trying not to move the shoulder to much, and opened it, entering the hallway, looking for the stairs.

***

“My lord,” said one of the sultan’s advisors. “An assassin has entered the palace. We must get you to safety.”

“Non, on, lon, nonsuns,” slurred the sultan. The advisor looked questioningly at his compatriot advisor.

“His imperial lordship was a bit heavy with the wine last night,” he said, sighing.

“Don’t just stand there, you fleabitten nephew of a camel! Help me with him!”

Together, they half lifted, half dragged the sultan to the door. It opened for them.

“Is that you, Adal?”

Kellson grinned and raised the scimitar.

“Good try.”

Several seconds later, he was bounding back down the steps, scimitar dripping blood. Decapitation was a messy business. People sprayed everywhere. He’d have to get himself an axe to use, to make things messy but official. ‘Twas the official regicidal weapon, the axe.

He was flying high off of the adrenaline rush. He’d pay for it later and be exhausted. It would be better to get the hell out of here before that happened.

He ran smack dab into a group of guards. Plowing through them, he raced past. Their shouts echoed behind him, and he knew they were chasing. Frantically, he looked around…

Ah. Perfect.

He stopped until they rounded the corner and saw him before waving and falling backwards out of the window.

The guards rushed to the balcony to see the impact, and those who couldn’t listened intently for a loud smack. Both impact and consequential sound failed to reach them. In fact, there was a conspicuous lack of blood and guts on the ground.

“Well, that’s that,” one said in their native language. “I’m not bloody going to go look for someone that can bounce off a balcony without splattering. That’s supernatural, that is. No way.”

“But suppose he’s still out there,” another said doubtfully.

“Don’t be daft. What, did he grow wings and fly away like a little bird?” a third said. “I’m going north. I don’t want to be around when the revolution starts.”

“Good idea.”

“Bloody well didn’t splatter.”

The voices died away. Kellson grinned and flapped his wings gingerly. Time to leave.

CONGRATULATIONS, a voice said. I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU’LL BE KILLING ANYONE ELSE IMPORTANT TODAY? I HAVE A BUSY SCHEDULE.

Kellson blinked and turned around.

[Awkin]

Aha! A reader of Terry Pratchett. I don't want to spoil your cliffhanger - but he makes for a great character, huh?

I like Kellson. He seems all stupid and cocky on the outside, but is actually good at what he does. And he has completely the wrong attitude for an angelic figure. Just reading the bio, he seems pretty standard - but you really make him stand out. Respect.

I don't see where this fic is going exactly, but it is very entertaining.

[Duke of Clubs]

Section III.

Kellson turned around. Slowly.

Leaning on an iridescent, icy scythe was a…cloaked and hooded figure. It wasn’t a man or woman. Kellson was fairly sure that it originated from a human body. The grinning skull and bleached-white hands implied an air of future, or at least the future of your body post mortem. The skull grinned, easily.

Kellson worked his jaw looking for words.

“Oh,” he said.

YOU ARE NOT DEAD, Death said.

Kellson tapped his crossbow. “Yes,” he said, “I rather figured that out myself, thanks.”

I WAS ONLY REASSURING YOU.

“Righto.”

NO. YOU ARE MOST ASSUREDLY NOT DEAD, Death continued. THERE ARE MANY PEOPLE AROUND THIS PALACE THAT ARE DEAD, AND THEY DO NOT INCLUDE YOU.

“That makes me feel very proud.”

I HAVE COME TO TELL YOU THAT HE NEEDS TO SPEAK TO YOU.

“Uh, he?”

YES. HE.

“Who he?”

THE HIM. THE ONE AND ONLY. IF YOU WERE WRITING HIS NAME, IT WOULD BE EMPHATICALLY CAPITALIZED.

“Oh, my God,” Kellson said, understanding.

YES. GOD.

“That’s not actually what I meant, but I guess it works both ways.”

HE WISHES TO SPEAK WITH YOU, BUT THERE ARE THREE FACTORS LIMITING THIS CONVERSATION. THE FIRST, YOU ARE HUMAN AND THEREFORE CAN NOT ASCEND TO HEAVEN WITHOUT DYING, THUS MAKING IT INCAPABALE FOR YOU TO SPEAK TO HIM.

“But He talked to Moses and the disciples and many other people,” Kellson said, puzzled. “I should think He could talk to me. I mean, He’s God.”

THINGS HAVE CHANGED, said Death, slightly sadly. I WILL EXPLAIN SOON. THE SECOND FACTOR IS THAT, EVEN IF YOU DID ASCEND TO HEAVEN, YOU COULD NOT SEE GOD OR HEAR HIM VERY WELL. HE IS THE LIGHT. IT WOULD BURN YOUR EYES FROM THEIR SOCKETS. AND THE ANGELS SURROUNDING HIM IN HIS DOMAIN SING A CERTAIN HYMN CONSTANTLY, MAKING IT DIFFICULT TO HEAR. I BELIEVE THAT WAS ONE OF THE FEW MISTAKES HE EVER MADE. THE ANGELS WILL NEVER STOP SINGING.

“He’s God, though,” Kellson said. “Can’t he get me to heaven still alive, block the light and song, and then we could talk?”

NO. THIRD FACTOR. AS THERE IS A CONSTANT BATTLE WITH LUCIFER EVEN AS WE SPEAK, THERE HAD TO BE RULES SET IN PLACE. WRITTEN IN STONE. LUCIFER AND THE FATHER PLANNED TO HAVE DESTROYED EVERYTHING IN A ONE ON ONE DUEL. THE FATHER WOULD HAVE WON WITH EASE, BUT THE REPERCUSSIONS FROM THIS BATTLE WOULD BE CATASTROPHIC, DESTROYING MOST OF THE ETHEREAL REALM AND ALL OF THE WORLD YOU AND I ARE SPEAKING IN. LUCIFER, and Death’s voice radiated Sneer, PROPOSED THE IDEA THAT IF THE FATHER DID NOT DIRECTLY INTERFERE IN THIS EARTH, THEN HE, LUCIFER, WOULD NOT DIRECTLY ATTACK AND DAMN THE DENIZENS OF THIS PLANE TO HELL FOR HIS LEGION.

“The Legion of the Damned.”

YES. SO YOU MUST FIND A WAY TO SPEAK WITH THE FATHER. BUT THERE ARE…Death paused. THERE ARE LOOPHOLES.

“You?” Kellson guessed. It would make sense. If Death, the Angel of Death, worked for God, he could probably bend some rules.

WELL, YES. BUT NOT ONLY ME. GOD’S SON. JESUS.

The sun grew brighter for a moment. I WISH YOU WOULD STOP THAT, Death said, looking at the sky. IT IS VERY DISTRACTING AND I’M SURE IT HURTS THIS HUMAN’S EYES.

“Who are you talking to?” Kellson asked.

Death turned to a white horse that had not been there a moment before. He easily climbed up in the saddle. I WILL RETURN WHEN WE HAVE DISCOVERED A WAY TO GET YOU TO OUR REALM. IN THE MEANTIME, GOOD LUCK IN YOUR WORLDLY DEEDS.

The horse galloped straight into the air, flying away.

Kellson stood there in silence for several moments. After a time, he stirred gently, and said, “What the Hell was that?”

***

“Grog. Now. I don’t want to hear ‘what?’ Actually, I don’t want to hear anything but you giving me that flask in total and perfect silence. That’s better.”

Kellson took a deep swig and continued down the street, leaving the amazed sailor behind. It would take a lot of this to stop remembering all of this…thisness.

God wants to talk to me. He felt his pulse quicken at the mere thought of it.

This stuff never happens to me…

Or did it? He’d never really known where his wings had come from. He had always assumed they were from God, because they were just how he’d envision an angel’s wings, except slightly bigger. Assuming they were from God, why did He give him the wings, and why did He choose me? And, if he was going to ask questions, why does God want to talk to me? It won’t be a friendly chat with tea and biscuits. Especially not if Death is the one that told him that God…wanted…to talk…

If He had sent St. John, that would be a lot more indicating of a more pleasant conversation. Death dropping by to say hello, or rather, HELLO, is very much different.

Sending Death minus one capital letter equaled sending death.

But if He wanted me to die, I would have died in the palace or earlier, right? Unless he wants to do something else. Hey, it might be a good talk. I might even get something out of it.

Or lose something.

What do I have to be removed? Nothing. Just my body. Which includes my wings, which were given to me probably by God…

Oh bugger.

Kellson froze.

“Time to go,” he said to a passerby. He turned and strode out of the city, heading northeast.

OoC: Yep. Death is by far one of the most fun characters to write. He's going to pop back up again in this story just because of that. And Terry Pratchett owns my soul.

I'm going on a fairly short, three day ish road trip tomorrow, but I'm taking the computer. Get some writing written along the way.

[Duke of Clubs]

Section IV.

To do list:
~Get away, get away, get really far away.
~Read Bible. Or think about it.
~Buy new cross.
~Pick up more jerky at market.
~Fly.

So Kellson ran out of the city as fast as he could, started flying northeast (or northeastish, by his observations), and read the Bible while he was flying. Plus, he could be flying while heading to another town where he could get more jerky and a new cross. So he was knocking out all available birds with one stone.

Rather good.

He read Revelations and Leviticus first. Revelations was exciting, because it was the future. Leviticus laid down some ground rules, some of which could be ignored for two reasons: Christ, and lack of food. Ye shall not eat the swine, for while it parteth the hoof, it cheweth not the cud, it is unclean unto you. Or something. If he was starving he’d bloody well have some bacon, and like it. But Kellson liked how Leviticus was written. Imagining God saying in an extremely deep and frightening voice that squid were an abomination was kind of funny.

After, he generally flipped through, picking out random pages sometimes and reading through entire sections at others. There wasn’t much else to do while flying. You couldn’t run into anything. There were no other travelers to worry about.

He reached the next town sooner than he expected. Long-distance flying became a lot faster each time he tried it. Maybe his bones were hollowing, like a bird’s. And also, and this pleased Kellson to no end, whenever someone gave a distance ‘as the crow flies,’ it applied directly to him.

Landing out of sight from the town, he stored his wings in the…in the…He stored his wings and walked the distance to the town.

The prices for a good amulet crucifix were outrageous. Kellson was amazed. But if God was looking to talk to him, he shouldn’t just palm one as he would usually do if prices were this preposterous. For that matter, he shouldn’t be running as though he could escape from Death and God. He couldn’t. He didn’t know why he was. But when they did find him, he should be wearing a crucifix. He lost the last one.

“How much for that one?” he asked the owner of the stall. The crucifix in question had small golden gems on the four points of the cross and the standard image of Christ on.

The owner peered at it. “Topaz cross, very nice, complementary silver chain, it two hundred shekel, you pay up front.”

“That’s crazy.”

“No, that topaz, very nice sparkle.”

Kellson sighed and forked over almost all of the money he had been paid for killing the sultan. Walking away and fastening the chain around his neck, he found a cheap food stall and bought some supplies for the rest of the money. God had better bloody well talk to him soon.

He dropped by the local pub. He didn’t bother buying a beer; there was no money left and, if the expressions of the drinkers were anything to go by, the beer was frankly piss. Sitting down, he caught snatches of conversation.

“Bloody outrageous is what—”

“What’s wrong with this beer?”

“Somebody ought to kill the Duke up—”

“Isn’t doing to well, he caught the mumps and—”

“How much would somebody pay me to kill the Duke?” Kellson asked as he sat down at a table with two gruff looking men. Trappers, he thought. They wore lots of fur.

“You think you could kill him? Don’t be a damn silly fool,” one said. Kellson waited patiently. “All right, go north a ways, then turn west. Town called Haress. You heard o’ it?”

“Not really, but I know where you’re talking about,” Kellson said. He was lying. He’d visited in passing before.

“Go talk to Dernham there. He’s the local cobbler there. He’ll set you up with a fee. About two days of a walk as the crow flies, but a lot longer unless you’ve got some wings to fly over all the mountains.. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I’ll be seeing you.” There was nothing else that needed to be said. Kellson turned northwest, now, and, out of the town, spread his wings and prepared for a less than two days of flying.

OoC: Hrumph. I can't really go where I want with this until Field Trip is finished (if you haven't taken a look at that yet...what're you waiting for, an engraved invitation?) because Kellson needs the amulet in the cave there. Actually, Kellson doesn't, but the other Kellson does. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, go read Jingo by Terry Pratchett (who else?) and learn of the mystic Trousers of Time. They are Vital.

[Duke of Clubs]

OoC: LAWLHAX I POST

IC: "Ye gods," said Kellson. "That's depressing."

He stood at a window with another man, who was wearing cargo shorts that were several inches past his knees, a black shirt with "Jesus Is My Homeboy" on it, and a leather jacket over it. He had a skateboard leaned against the windowsill.

They were watching Kellson being surrounded by guards and killed.

“Yeah,” said the man. “I can see how that might be kind of sad.”

“I just died,” said Kellson. “Sort of. I’m here, but I’m also lying on the ground there.”

“Have you heard,” said the man, “of the Trousers of Time?”

“The what?”

“The Trousers of Time. It’s made Death very PO’ed, if you know what I’m saying. He’s got lots of metaphysical elements and crap to deal with now. Okay, basically, the multiverse just took a giant evolutionary leap, the multiverse being all the different realities and time periods of the world. There’s probably an infinite number of universes. I’ve never bothered finding out since I’m selectively motivated. Death has to go to near-death experiences as well as real-death experiences, because, in a or many different universes, someone may narrowly escape death or die. He has to be there for all of them. God gave him special permission to be in all the universes of the multiverse at the same time so his schedule wouldn’t be totally shredded, you know?”

“Um. So you’re saying that was a different universe?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I guess I get it. Just don’t explain any more.”

“Solid, dude.”

It said a lot about Kellson that he could temporarily be in heaven and not react extraordinarily. He shrugged. “You’re John, right?”

“S. John,” said S. John.

“What’s the S stand for?”

“S period. And it stands for Saint.”

“I thought that was St. Uh, period.”

“Not in the King James Version,” said John. He grabbed his board and dropped it on the ground, hopping on leisurely. “Let’s go, dude. Gabe wants to hang with you for a bit.”

Kellson meandered along after him, narrowly avoiding running into a busy-looking angel, and thought about the past day’s events as he walked through the comfortable cream colored halls of Heaven. He’d been on his way to go kill the Duke, as planned when suddenly and without warning time stopped. Surprised, he met the St… er, S. John the Disciple, dressed as what he called a skateboarder of the early 21st century. Kellson decided it was better not to ask, though the board with wheels on it looked slightly fun. Then John had showed him the window where had witnessed his other self’s death.

All in all, not your average regicide trip. For one thing, he died. That had never happened before.

John halted in front of a door. Reaching inside his jacket, he extracted a giant set of keys. He selected one and unlocked the door.

“Go on in, dude,” he said. Kellson did.

The room wasn’t actually a room; it was a forest. There was an overcast sky above, but not that dark, like a cloudy day with no chance of rain. A bench was set up by a semi-deep stream, and oak, cedar, and pine trees surrounded them. John winked and closed the door, which now appeared to be just that: a door. Kellson walked around it, and there was no wall. Just a door.

“Hey,” said a soft voice. Kellson turned.

A man with dark black hair cut short had appeared at the bench, holding a wooden fishing rod. He calmly reeled the hook back in and stood, laying the rod against the polished hardwood bench.

“You must be Kellson,” the man said. His voice sounded kind, almost comforting. He wore a plain black shirt, muscles straining at the fabric, and black jeans. Kellson didn’t know what jeans were, but the word popped into his head.

“It’s heaven,” said the man, as if reading his mind. “Anything you don’t know, you find out.”

Will I die soon, Kellson mentally asked. Access denied, Trousers of Time interference. Insert another coin. That wasn’t helpful, Kellson thought.

“I’m Gabriel. Call me Gabe,” said the man, holding out a hand. Kellson shook it. Another funny thing. His usual paranoia about people wasn’t affecting him here. He felt…safe. An unusual feeling.

“So…why am I here, rather than killing that Duke?” asked Kellson.

“God bless your soul,” said Gabe.

“Huh?”

“Oh. Any time a major sin is committed or thought of being committed, it’s polite for the one who sees or hears it to bless the soul of the sinner. Minor sins, not so much. It’s your responsibility then. Actually, it’s your responsibility, always,” said Gabe. “But you’ll get into heaven if you repent and mean it. And He knows.”

“I know He knows,” Kellson agreed, “which would also mean he knows my reasons.”

“Of course,” Gabe said, inclining his head slightly. “Now, to answer your question, you are here because you would die just like you did in the alternate universe that you observed unless we helped you along, so to speak.”

“Comparing me to myself, eh? Diabolical.”

“Oh, don’t be difficult. You’re fine. Now, I have to make this fairly quick. We’re breaking the rules of engagement with the Devil and the longer we take, the more chance he’ll have to notice.”


“God bless your souls,” said Kellson immediately.

“Ha, ha, ha. And also, ha. Now, before you go, know that we will definitely contact you again. You won’t be dying for a while yet.”

“Joy.”

Gabe held out a hand, palm pointed at Kellson. A huge beam of light erupted from his hand, engulfing the human in blinding gold. His vision blacked out…

And cleared immediately. He was in front of the Duke’s castle.

“I said, let me see your identification!” the guard in front said gruffly.

“Huh?”

“That’s it! I’ve been telling you this for five minutes!” the guard bellowed. He grabbed his halberd and began advancing on the puzzled man.

Kellson held out a hand, as if to say Stop. He felt energy crackle.

It felt good.

He wanted more of it.

He mentally drove it towards his palm. The same light that had Gabe had hit him with unleashed itself from his skin, smashing the guard and sending him flying back ten feet into a wall. Kellson heard his head crack against the wall, knocking him into unconsciousness. Kellson blinked slowly, then started to smile. He examined his hand and let the energy materialize around it, charging it up.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding and grinning.

Charging both fists up, he sent two bolts flying at the hinges of the gates. They broke.

Pushing the doors open, Kellson stepped inside.

Fifteen minutes later, he was flying away towards the town. It turned out that it took several minutes for a blast force such as the one he had used to break the hinges. A regular blast took about fifteen seconds. If he practiced, he was sure that would be cut down to ten seconds. Then five. Then simultaneous. All it takes is a wish and some drive, and the Duke’s castle gates were just a door.

[Altamira]

I've yet to read your last two posts, out of... sheer laziness, but what I have read has been very entertaining. The incompetence of many of the authority figures earlier on got some laughs out of me, and the informal, almost conversational tone of the story really suits Kellson and adds humor at some points as well. Good writing, Duke. I'd like to see where this goes.

As for Field Trip finishing up, I'd say the recent delay has been, more or less, entirely my fault. Real life has been demanding this summer however, and I haven't been able to do any writing until this week. I'll get in a post sometime though, and see about wrapping it up soon.

[Duke of Clubs]

OoC: This continues after Field Trip (in the Crossroads). If you haven’t checked that out, what’re you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Shoo. And no, I don’t know how Kellson has both the amulet and his godly-shooting power now, or why he didn’t use one or the other in Field Trip or this. It’s magic.

IC:

Jerusalem was alive.

Kellson moved through the streets at speed, muttering hurried apologies as he bumped into Muslims and Christians alike. The Jewish population was low. Not deigning to acknowledge the merchants who shouted out offers, he speed-strode past. Inadvertently, he rammed into a passing Arab. Fez askew, the angry man leapt up and started shouting at him in his native tongue, flailing his arms wildly. Kellson shrugged and started to move on.

“He said many mean things about you,” said an accented voice in a language Kellson understood. “But he says if you give him your sword, he will forget.”

Kellson slowly turned to stare woodenly at the man accompanying the enfezzed man. The servant, assuming it was the man’s servant, was about as tall as he was and had an apologetic and slightly embarrassed attitude.

“Yeah?” Kellson asked. “Tell him that he should go back and herd his camels.”

The servant’s master froze, quivering in outrage.

“He understands you, Armenian,” the servant said, backing away. “He just doesn’t speak your language.”

Armenians must be fairly obvious in a city of Arabs and Europeans. Kellson smirked and began to turn away. The faint, yet distinctive slither of metal halted him.

“Oh, put it away,” Kellson said. “No fights in the bazaar, effendi.”

The man charged him. Kellson shrugged and held out a palm, as if to nonverbally tell the man to halt there.

After the man had landed twenty feet away in a pile of melons and crystallized fruit, Kellson dropped his palm back to his side, letting the energy die away. That always felt so good, and it was always unexpected for the recipient.

“Damn natives.”

He pulled a gaping bystander to the side. “Where was the Ark of the Covenant?”

The man jabbered something in Arabic and pointed in a direction.

“Thanks.”

Kellson looked in the indicated direction. It was a long way, especially with all these civilians in the way…

He began walking towards the ex-resting place of the Ark and dropped into an alley. The man released his wings and soared to the rooftops, plunging down when he had reached them. Charging towards the next roof, he leapt into the air, gave one flap for speed, and landed easily, continuing to run effortlessly across the rooftops towards his destination. Screams echoed behind him, and he chuckled, fingering the amulet that gave him unlimited strength. Of course they’d be scared to see a black-winged man leaping overhead.

Ah-ha.

Skidding to a halt, he half-jumped, half-slid off the roof onto the sandy ground. What he saw amazed him.

“This is it?”

The former lair of the Ark was a pile of rubble and rocks. Nothing was there but ruins and a despondent air. He wondered if anybody cared it was here. Ever since the Babylonians had run rampant through the streets and destroyed the Temple, did anyone think to rebuild it? Did anyone remember their religion?

Apparently not.

Kellson wandered aimlessly through the jumbled mounds, searching for something, anything, to communicate with the angels again. Nothing. He needed some more skills, damnit. Unless he wanted to get ripped to shreds like he did fighting the demon monkey. Kellson fingered the two scars on his cheeks. Yes, more power was the way to go.

He’d come back tonight, and he’d wait all night if he had to. At least he knew where the ruins of the Temple were, now. Pulling his hood over his head, he left the ruins, walking away. The wind rustled behind him, and he almost thought he could hear whispers.

***

He’s looking for us again.

Yes, and? Don’t talk so loud, it looks like he almost heard you.

Well? Do we let him? We don’t have any new powers for him, yet.

Why do we even give him these powers? He’s still alive and he sins all the time.

You sinned too, lackwit.

Lackwit? What kind of a word is that? Christ…

I’ll talk to him tonight. Go be productive and do something.

***

Kellson returned to the ruins that night, as he had promised himself. A cloudless night, the moon and stars shone bright on the city as he ran through it. He could walk, but why? It wasn’t as though he would grow tired running. Besides, the more exercise he got, the more the amulet took effect, giving his strength slight boosts every passing week.

He stopped abruptly at the start of the rubble mounds and started walking slowly, pacing around and through the broken columns. He hauled himself up one and perched on it, sitting cross legged on the broken stone. His breathing quieted and slowed, and he halted his thoughts, quietly and patiently waiting for something to happen. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Evening,” someone said. The voice grew a body, and in seconds, Kellson was facing the newly materialized body of Jesus Christ.

[Duke of Clubs]

His eyes snapped open. Just a dream.

No, not a dream. The regicide lowered his hand to his stomach. It came back soaked in blood. A hallucination.

He staggered forward, vision blurring. Something wet and sticky matted his usually clean hair. One of his eyes refused to work at all...someone must have caught him with a nice little slash. He didn't want to touch it to find out. Everything seemed hazy--he couldn't remember where he was, what had happened--it must have had something to do with that knock on the head. Shapes swam in and out of focus, colors running together like watercolors on canvas.

Kellson pitched forward, throwing a hand out just in time to stop his face from hitting the ground. Strange...his fingers didn't feel. Was it sand, soil, stone? Who knew? Blood dripped from deep gashes in his chest and stomach. Those would leave some nice little scars...

...On a corpse. Kellson rolled over, staring at the sky. Yes, he was outside. His dim vision cleared a tiny bit, taking in the magnificent stars. Heaven.

His wings were splayed beneath him, slashed, tattered, and torn. The demi-angel chuckled slightly, blood oozing out of his mouth and wounded eye as he did so. Normally, he would have passed out long ago with his wings hurt so badly. Not tonight.

Tonight...

Kellson's unfeeling hand reached up to touch his crucifix. It felt...nice. He was tired. He hadn't felt fatigue in years. His breath came harshly, but he grinned nonetheless. "I remember," he gasped out, eyes closing and breath rattling. "'I'll rest when I'm dead.'"

Soon, a kind gentlemen of a farmer found the blood-drenched corpse and gave it a decent burial. No one was there.

---

It started to rain. The fresh mound was quickly washed away as the heavens opened, weeping an ocean of tears. The pale face, then torso of the regicide reappeared, grinning a mad, sardonic grin even in repose.

The grin widened as the corpse straightened, mud cascading off of the animated cadaver. Crimson and gold fire danced up and down the body, burning clothes, skin, hair and blood. The mud covering the legs exploded, flying up into the sky only to fall back down with the pouring rain.

A gleaming white skeleton stood, joints clacking. It glanced down at itself, examining the bleached bones that had previously never felt air. Then, it stared at the sky, opened its mouth, and let wordless rage fly forth into the air.

OoC: HOLY **** HE'S DEAD AS A DOORNAIL...and looking fine. Who dun it? Where is he? What's going on? ...Well, I dunno yet. *goes off to make a new/old character*