the Urbane and the Weird

THE URBANE AND THE WEIRD
A fictitious account - by Preservoir K. Alabaster - of the happenings in and around the city of Veretchin as of the year 1635.

Part One: Learning the Way of Sinners

The Sermon Not Meant to Exist

Veretchin is a massive squat of buildings and spires, trenches and streets, prisons and whorehouses. But it is not a city. It is a smear, a stain, a clot, an open, festering wound. It breathes smoke and fog and drug-fumes into the sky, where there are vile gases in the stead of clouds. Machines toil in the hell-bowels of it, building, crushing, remaking, sitting, rusting.

Above ground, humans, aliens, creatures and things live and ignore the metal below. They make themselves lives and shed heavy clothes when they arrive home like skin from a snake. They pretend that they are happy. They pretend that they are fine.

They pretend that they are safe.

***

One machine in particular sat in the middle of a large, grey room with a light bulb hanging from a string to illuminate the dark. Motes fluttered about uselessly and landed on the floor. The machine was used as maintenance for the city’s ancient combat-cannons. But not anymore.

Nowadays it sat, or stood, or ‘was’ in the middle of the room, it’s boiler-heart rumbling and whistling every now-and-then. It ran on charcoal and steam, pistons flicking switches to tell the thing what to do (or, in its current state, what not to do), and how to set about doing (or not doing) the particular task (or non-task).

Behind the thing, a door opened and a man walked in. He wore dirty, once-yellow overalls. Upon his nose sat a pair of large, unwieldy glasses, the edges of which were rimmed with age, grime, blood, and ****-knows-what. He wore a white cap that was smeared with oil. As the light reflected off his glasses and cut through the dust, creating two small, white circles of light on the walls, the visual receptors of the machine detected the change and turned its head to see the newcomer. Its glass eyes focused on the human like a child eyeing a sweet.

“Righto, old chum. Better get you tickin’ right,” said the engineer, fiddling about in his jacket for the appropriate tools. He unscrewed a panel on the machine’s side and shined a torch in. Small, metal pistons worked and turned and pumped, keeping itself going.

The man began to work. He moved pistons about, wrote notes, oiled cogs, inserted screws, removed scrap, and did so at a skilful, practiced motion. He made a quick prayer and closed the panel. He opened a drawer in the front of the construct, in which was nestled a small keyboard with various symbols on it. The man typed fast and precisely, as if it were a ritual and had to be perfect.

Then, as quick as he had come, he left. But he placed on the floor a small piece of paper, and did not take it with him.

***

Pistons whirred faster now, and steam whistled through cracks in the body’s metal skin. Commands were shot through the thing’s body, making clicking and ticking noises. The air about the construct charged. A virus formed in the mind, and circulated through its switches and sent vibrations through shafts that started new, infinitely more complicated commands. Many of the rogue commands were terminated when they hit the brain, but when several went through at once, they could not be stopped.

It whistled. It whined. It stirred.

Then it thought.

***

It rumbled towards the piece of paper and picked it up with a claw-hand, careful not to rip it. Drawn on the parchment was a small circle inside a square. The circle had a cross through it.

And it knew what the drawing meant.

It scratched in the dust on the wall the sign. The computer-thing sat and watched the sign.

The engineer heard the loud explosion and saw the light from under the door. He smiled and walked away, quickly drawing the circle-square sign in the air with his fingers.

The engineer made his way down a long, grey corridor. It was lined with doors and openings. Small spiders hung from their webs, some indulging on the juicy innards of an unfortunate bug. Flies buzzed in and out of arched doorways and landed in cobwebs or were swatted by the engineer.

The hallway terminated in a tall, wooden door of such quality that it seemed black. It had intricate carvings on it of dragons and birds and men and machines. In the centre of the magnificent door, there was a small, silver sign with gold letters on it.

HEAD ENGINE-PRIEST, BROTHER JAYME FRITHER

The engineer knocked and entered.

On the far side of the room there was a desk, matching the door in magnificence. On it sat a large computer and a few papers.

A man sat in a large, sumptuous chair puffing on a cigar. He was scrawny, with white hair and dark red eyes. He wore a pair of glasses similar to the engineer’s, except with a telescopic lens attached to one eye, and a suit the colour of dried blood.

“Brother Samuel, what have you done this time?” the man questioned. His voice was strong and confident, seemingly joyful and boisterous. He laughed.

Samuel paced to the desk and lay down a small book with a red cover. “Program Book. D’ye know of it?”

“Yes I do, Samuel. I’ve been searching for it for decades.” A look of triumph appeared in Jayme’s eyes. “You shall be rewarded for this, engineer.”

“But Sir,” Samuel’s voice became thin, but he continued, “we’ve gotta burn it, Sir. If the other Priests knew–”

“The other Priests do not know, Samuel. Our little secret, aye?”

Samuel’s lips trembled. “Aye, Sir,” he whispered, barely audible. He walked to the door.
“And Samuel,” Jayme said, just before the engineer closed the door.

“Yes?”

“How’s the construct in A167 going?”

“I woke it before I came ‘ere, Sir.”

“Good,” Jayme muttered before returning to his papers and the Program Book.

Samuel left in silence.

The First Sermon: Eat Your Dinner...

Light broke in the east. Scattered rays lanced randomly through bullet-holes in the smog above the city and on the horizon. Birds sung their hollow chords through fretful beaks. Empty feelings came to them. Crawling bugs died of fright in tiny catacombs that to them were massive. Weavers stabbed their left hands with shaking needles, creating symphonious screams; they died in a way that to them was an art, and their cries were music. The Grim Angels hunched on shattering arches that danced through the air to make unimportant connections between breaking shells.

“Why do you cry, little one...?”

Rivulets of impure water coursed along shabby brickwork before they evaporated in futile moments of half-life. Ink drabbed across fine parchment smeared as dying arms went lax. Blood congealed with alchemical concoctions and breathed life into bare granite. Cracks were placed in crumbling skulls that sat, rotting, in the forgotten cells of ungodly prisons.

Deities were born – from the emotions of pleading Saints – in the confines of dusty tombs.

One such Saint wept into his bleeding, scarred hands. He was in the depths of a sacrificial demon-chamber. Twisted bodies were chained to the wall, their gaping mouths filled with muck and waste. The sorry forms of dead priests bent over altars that faced the centre of the vast chapel. Dilapidated bibles spread their torn pagers across the floor, which was slick with grime.

His clothes hung from him in shreds. They were sodden with unknown liquids that had become crusty and dry over the once-white surface. Creatures slithered in his hair. His crimson-streaked eyes writhed in their torn and wretched chasms.

A violet claw was drawn across the bare skin of his ruptured spine. He howled.

“Petty little child…” The Saint’s tormentor walked circles around the human. Its voice was deep and monstrous, born from a blood-soaked, saber-filled maw. “You attempt to mimic our holiness? You are not worthy of pity. You are worthy only of pain and suffering...”

The Saint unbent his neck to face the Devil. It was tall. Its feet were the claws of a bird, convulsing on the cold marble floor. Its skin was sickly white, with black veins under the thin surface. Eyes dark as nothing else gazed out from wide sockets. Two dark slits for a nose. A thin, long tongue lulled over the edge of its lipless mouth. Four arms that sported three-fingered, two-thumbed hands. Each digit was host to a dark cerise claw. Every time the Saint’s eyes sagged shut, he saw not darkness, but the image of a young girl in a pink blouse, licking a lollipop. As his eyes opened, he shuddered at the image of the beast. It was now noticeable that the Devil was a twisted hermaphrodite; the tormentor possessed milk-dry breasts, a penis, and a gaping vagina upon its belly.

“You are far from holy, Hyosharu!” With words of fury, the Saint jumped to his feet and spat in the Devil’s face.

Slowly, the Devil stepped forward, so that its warm, sick-smelling breath could be felt across the Saint’s face. Its tongue jerked and reached upwards, crawling in the narrow space beneath the prisoner’s left eye. A terrified gasp escaped through the Saint’s contorted mouth. With a final spasm, the snake-like tongue of the Devil ripped the eye from its dwelling-place. “Believe me, Jarec. Believe me when I say that you and your comrades’ efforts are in vain.” Hyosharu watched as the Saint trembled at the mention of food. It had no trouble speaking with the eyeball balanced on the tip of its tongue, yet it rolled the organ into an open claw. “And believe me when I say that you are hungrier than I am…” It walked away and rolled the eye through the muck behind it. As it came to rest before Jarec’s hand, Hyosharu spun on its bird-heels.

“No…nonono…” Jarec wept tears from one socket and blood from the other.

“Yes, my son,” The Devil sang. “Grow up and eat up.”

OoC: Feel free to Comment. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

The Second Sermon: She Sells Fish, Does She Not?

The sun clambered across the azure and slate sky. Its rays were disturbed only by solitary birds and the occasional zeppelin. At the heights of the atmosphere, eddies of air built and combined to form gales that threw aircraft and air-fairing creatures alike off-course, where they were left to find new pathways to reach their varied destinations.

Blurry silhouettes of the unknown danced in the haze of cloud and smog. They hunted on wandering energy, apparatuses of membrane and tendons bore them across many miles of filth-infected air. They slipped through holes in reality, sleuthing spry wisps of aether. This activity engrossed them entirely, pulling them into a frenzy of rifts and spiral pathways between veins of colliding dimensions. Quickly, their meager chases became and organized hunt. They backtracked and brought their targets into cul-de-sacs, where they wound their tongues through the writhing masses of a nymph, a miniscule elemental, a discharge of some futile attempt at magic. Then it became an orgy. They squealed with delight and pleasure, hounding the unlucky, lustful and jerking. Remorselessly they bulleted through reality and dream.

Halfway through an attack, they halted in synchronization. Their heads twitched towards the city below them, and they descended from the firmament. Each one took its own path, but all of them traversed the barren heavens at astonishing speeds. They broke the sound barrier, tearing through the sky. Incandescent trails of effluent traced through the skies in their wake, reflecting light at weird angels, like a haze of gas. The sky thronged with the calls of these nightmarish creatures, screeches and wails of excitement, hunger, thirst, love. Time seemed to slow as they encroached upon the helpless city, host to million s of potential victims; to these beasts, the city was a mere pastime. The speed that they travelled at did not falter, nor did their perseverance. They raged through the streets, sometimes together, sometimes spread wide across dimensions unimaginable.

The first victim was Thomas Crown, the owner of a stall on Alabaster Street. Not that it mattered, though; a hunter gobbled and crushed him in a moment of anguish. The second was Lady Urchin, a fish monger further down the same road; a call-girl on the corner of Alabaster Street and Jali Avenue, afore the Veretchin Library (where the onlookers gasped in surprise as they were soaked with blood and the droppings of a speedy demon).

In the previous flurries high above the city, their number was indiscernible. Now it was apparent that five of them stalked the skies. However, that meant that two of the assassins had not fed on physical matter yet. One broke into the House of Parliament and devoured the Major Minister of Veretchin. The other was in pursuit of a greater meal, for it was far more massive than any of the others put together.

It sailed through the massive gardens at the university, where it consumed forty two students and the Headmaster. It perched on the top spire of the grand building, claws scraping across the whitewash surface. It howled and screamed: it was not yet satisfied.

The Dreamtime Corpses flew again.

***

Thomas Crown’s younger and more successful brother, Joseph Crown, was there when the House of Parliament was attacked by the demon-thing.

He was writing a letter to his beloved mother, scratching a pen across the paper in a messy script. He told her of the sights he had seen at the coast, thousands of miles away from the city he made his living in. He talked about the people he had met at the university, and how he had promptly been promoted from the seat of student to a teacher of ergonomics, then the head of all ergonomic teachings at the school, and then to a businessman in the parliamentarian world we now sat in. Finishing the letter with yours sincerely, Joseph, he folded it into a neat little bundle and placed it in a yellow envelope.

He grabbed his old ledgers and torn files and tucked them under his free arm. Managing to push the leather chair out and back in by placing the letter in his teeth, he walked across the library section of the building. This brought him to an old, oak desk that separated Joseph from an even more ancient man.

“Evening, Charle,” said Joseph. He looked at the old man; a scrawny and had white-haired fellow. He wore a bowler hat, a brown-red suit and a pair of large, dirty glasses. His most interesting feature was a telescopic lens attached to one of the eyepieces of those massive bifocals of his, perhaps for fixing machines (Charle was the mail inspector and a part-time engineer for broken computers).

“Joseph.” Charle nodded.

“I would like to post this.” The young man passed the letter across the gap between them, barely keeping his papers from slipping from his grip. “It is addressed to my mother. You know where she lives, yes?”

The grumble that Charle created formed the word “Indeed.” He scratched his nose and suppressed a faint chuckle. “Sells fish, does she not?”

“Do not mock me, old man. Just make sure she receives the damn thing.” Jayme cursed as he walked away.

He was looking at the face of an angel in the stained glass window at the western face of the large room, then. Inspecting the shine the came off the chrome at the edges of the artwork, he scratched his head and ran his hand through the straight, silky auburn hair.

All of reality seemed to shake as the window was rent open, and the Dreamtime Corpse flew in. Books were sent flying in the onslaught of wind.

Joseph dropped his effects and ran like the clappers.

The first paragraph. Powerful. I'll have to make a note of it in my list of great beginnings, =D

But it is not a city. It is a smear, a stain, a clot, an open, festering wound. It breathes smoke and fog and drug-fumes into the sky, where there are vile gases in the stead of clouds.

I love how you employ words in this passage, how you sum up the city-that-is-not-a-city in a few choice nouns, with a litany that delivers the nature of Veretchin as succinctly as a blow. And I like that you do not continue with the detail after the line, "They pretend they are safe"; you allow the portrait you have painted to sink in, and let the individuals with which you later populate that portrait to offer further detail.

My next favourite line of your prologue describes that "one machine in particular"": "Nowadays it sat, or stood, or ‘was’ in the middle of the room..." I love the choice of the word 'was', flanked by apostrophes - it not only indicates the "mere existence" of the machine, but of the world above it, the people pretending that they are happy, pretending that they are fine, pretending that they are safe. A mere existence soon to be shattered, I suspect.

You do a lovely job of establishing your world in this prologue, not only through description of the actual location, but through word choice as well. Yes, I know, I'm belabouring the subject of language, but what else can a logomaniac be expected to do? =P You use one-liners well, and balance them with the variety of your sentence structure - all in all, nice prologue from the language side of things.

But to continue my flogging of the subject, into Sermons One and Two...

The first thing that caught my eye in Sermon the First was the overabundance of adjectives, as well as adverbs, to a lesser extent. In a word, a glut of descriptive words smote my concentration.

"Scattered rays lanced randomly through bullet-holes in the smog above the city and on the horizon. Birds sung their hollow chords through fretful beaks*. Empty feelings came to them. Crawling bugs died of fright in tiny catacombs that to them were massive. Weavers stabbed their left hands with shaking needles, creating symphonious screams; they died in a way that to them was an art, and their cries were music**. The Grim Angels hunched on shattered arches*** that danced through the air to make unimportant connections between breaking shells.****

* I can understand the bird themselves being fretful, but their beaks?

** I must say, the sentence after the semicolon is art unto itself... but what is your intent, at this point? It's a lovely line, but its relevancy is unclear.

*** Such action seems difficult to imagine, let alone perform... if the arches are shattered, wouldn't they collapse under the Grim Angels hunched upon them? (If they're even still, improbably, standing?) This was the first thought that came into my head when I read this, as I am not yet familiar with the physics behind the Grim Angels... not that I ever want anything to do with physics, but I hope you understand my drift - until I am acquainted with the Grim Angels, I'm going to find it difficult to suspend disbelief.

**** And in itself, this last line, "The Grim Angels hunched on shattered arches that danced through the air to make unimportant connections between breaking shells" makes no sense. Angels hunched on dancing arches, and the arches making "unimportant connections between breaking shells"?

There are far more adjectives than necessary sprinkled throughout the beginnings of Sermons One and Two. Such excess distracts the reader and dilutes the power of your description. I found myself yearning for the noun, a verb, anything to break the stream of adjectives. Such profusion has a habit of numbing the reader - he forgets the first adjective, along with the first image he began to form in his mind, and ends up skimming, missing words and the ultimate image these words were supposed to convey.

And just as a plethora of adjectives is distracting, so too are the abstractions you fall in to: the descriptions of... well... I can't honestly say what. I can't grasp your meaning; there's nothing palpable for me to clasp, to understand. Take paragraph three in the First Sermon, for instance:

Rivulets of impure water coursed along shabby brickwork before they evaporated in futile moments of half-life. Ink drabbed across fine parchment smeared as dying arms went lax. Blood congealed with alchemical concoctions and breathed life into bare granite. Cracks were placed in crumbling skulls that sat, rotting, in the forgotten cells of ungodly prisons.

Now that I reread it, with the prior knowledge of the torture chamber, the Saint, and the Devil instilled in my mind, I begin to catch sight of a... building? catacombs? being described. But when I first read this paragraph, I had no prior knowledge of the situation; thus, paragraph three seemed made up of words without any discernible purpose. Perhaps the description would make more sense if you had prefaced the paragraph with some mention of what you were about to describe (because currently, dialogue prefaces this paragraph; I expected some mention of the individual who said, "Why do you weep, little one?" or the little one addressed) of dispatched with the fancier phrases ("in futile moments of half-life"), the abstractions.

I've noticed that when you describe tangible things, tangible creatures - actual individuals with whom a reader can identify or recoil from - every word you use falls into place, is relevant - there is no longer any excess or confusion. Words seems to flow more naturally in these descriptions. This paragraph:

Veretchin is a massive squat of buildings and spires, trenches and streets, prisons and whorehouses. But it is not a city. It is a smear, a stain, a clot, an open, festering wound. It breathes smoke and fog and drug-fumes into the sky, where there are vile gases in the stead of clouds. Machines toil in the hell-bowels of it, building, crushing, remaking, sitting, rusting.

or this line:

Thomas Crown’s younger and more successful brother, Joseph Crown, was there when the House of Parliament was attacked by the demon-thing.

to these paragraphs:

Weavers stabbed their left hands with shaking needles, creating symphonious screams; they died in a way that to them was an art, and their cries were music. The Grim Angels hunched on shattered arches that danced through the air to make unimportant connections between breaking shells.

...

Rivulets of impure water coursed along shabby brickwork before they evaporated in futile moments of half-life. Ink drabbed across fine parchment smeared as dying arms went lax. Blood congealed with alchemical concoctions and breathed life into bare granite. Cracks were placed in crumbling skulls that sat, rotting, in the forgotten cells of ungodly prisons.

The first two descriptions/introductions are as sweet and refreshing as deep breathing, but the second two are difficult to read and make sense of.

And now that I've finished obsessing over the almost spiritual beauty of comma placement and the article "an", allow me to draw back my focus and comment on the story.

I enjoyed the dialogue between Samuel and Jayme Frither in the prologue. You have a nice handle on dialogue. Their secrecy ("The other Priests do not know, Samuel. Our little secret, aye?") inspires my curiosity – is this the face, the voice of villainy, "strong and confident, seemingly joyful" – a man who laughs? I'm really looking forward to seeing more of this laughing brother.

Your choice of details, throughout prologue and sermons, is most interesting: a suit the colour of dried blood, the orgy of the Dreamtime Corpses, the Devil—particularly the Devil, fantastic in a grisly, nauseating way.

I'm curious as to how you'll tie everything together – the Devil and Saint, the Corpses, the newly animated machine and the men who animated it, Joseph Crown. Carle gave me quite a start, however – it seems events are coming together already. But how? I can only look forward to another chapter.

Much luck in your writing! I look forward to the Third Sermon, and the no doubt fascinating title you'll devise for it, =D

Until next time,
Selah

OoC: Thanks for your comments; It's good to hear that you enjoyed it so much. By the way, the person who awoke the machine was not Joseph Crown, but Brother Samuel. I think you knew this, but made a mistake with the name.

Without further adieu, I give you the fourth installment!:

BiC:

The Third Sermon: Playtime in the Dark.

East of the House of Parliament, the archaic buildings of Old Veretchin squatted, smeared with filth. Eons of this grease covered the skin of the buildings, wrapping them. There, the buildings were merely one storey in height, and small. The streets were close, the air seemingly tightened by their constricting routes. Light was twisted as it passed through the windows in odd directions due to the oily coating of the panes; webs grasped to their edges.

After the Dreamtime Corpses had eaten their fill, they met in the skies above the village at the heart of the city. The largest of them failed to appear, so they waited.

To any ordinary person in the streets, the darkness would be too strong for them to see the limp figures hanging in the skies. One denizen, however, could. His face was hidden in the shadows behind his voluminous hood. If another were to gaze beneath the folds of the black leather he wore, they would behold a sight to be seen: rows and rows of knives, saws, weapons, anything that could be used to mutilate and kill was given a home there.

Puzzler’s heavy boots thudded on the cobblestones, leaving no mark in the grime that sat, undisturbed, across every facet and in every orifice of the entire city. Almost as if he did not exist, the sepia light of the lampposts barely reflected off him and the light that did revealed that his physical body flickered between visibility and transparence at random intervals. His right hand held a large, ivory handgun. Its barrel was quite long, measuring in at about one and a half feet, and was spawn from the maw of a silver dragon.

“Don’t fail me now, Nurix…” Puzzler mumbled, raising his pistol to the heavens. Without even taking a second look to aim, his finger flicked the trigger. He felt more than heard the angry screams of the Dreamtime Corpse that he had fired upon. Then, the darkness of the figure descended with some kind of malicious grace, its ebon claws flashing ghoulishly. As it was upon him, Puzzler phased out of reality, only to appear behind the beast. He blinked and let loose a hissing, ethereal bullet into the spine of his prey: this infuriated the dark thing.

The ensuing seconds were quick and blurred. The Corpse leapt, allowing another puissant missile to hit it, this time in the shoulder. Puzzler clubbed the darkness upon its horned head with the handle of his pistol, Nurix. He then channeled some kind crimson energy into his feet and was propelled into the air, encased in flames.

The dark man came to land on the roof of a scratch-built housing complex. As that particular platform was not suitable for combat, the hunter began to move. The blood-soaked fire was wrapped about him always as he leapt and traversed the roofs and chimneys of the old town. As he travelled north-east, the buildings slowly became larger and more frequent. Eventually, they towered into the sky with spires and gargoyles.

And the Grim Angels.

When Puzzler came to realize where he was, he nervously looked around at the buildings that flanked him. Thankfully, none of those dark assailants lurked there. Even though he could not see or feel any nearby, he was still jumpy and nervous. After some minutes, he recomposed his visage of impunity and shadow. From the confines f his jacket he removed a pistol the same size as Nurix. It was made of burnished gold, and formed in the shape of a dragon. The handle was the body and legs, the barrel the neck, with two wings, folded down, at the point where they converged.

Puzzler brought both weapons to bear, aiming them at the darkness around him. When he felt their approach, he readied himself, flames swirling around him.

The first Corpse shot out of the night, spotting the man on the steel rooftop. It flexed its muscles in delight and spread its wings, opening its mouth to reveal rows of ivory, needle-like teeth. It lashed out with one of many arms, tearing a hole in the leather of Puzzlers outfit. The man attacked, blasting into the dark folds of skin before him. The creature screeched and receded, licking itself. It dived backwards off the building. The man laughed and followed.

Puzzler freefell from the forty-storey building into the veil of darkness that cloaked the streets below. Even without sight, he knew where they were. He pointed Nurix out to his right, landing a bullet in the wing of one Corpse. At6 the last moment, he squeezed the trigger of his other weapon with a click. Violet flames roared from the tongue of his dragon-pistol into the face of an airborne enemy. He placed his feet on the beast’s chest as they crashed into the ground, absorbing the impact by firing flames from his feet across the ground. The hunter jumped onto the road, watching the form of the deformed thing the lay on the pavement. Slowly, hues of blue and purple emanated from the figure, causing the other Corpses to shout fitfully. The glowing carcass slowly stood and reformed, until there was a lithe, tall man in a white suit in the stead of the animal. He held in his right hand a large blunderbuss with a blade attached on the underside of the hefty weapon, which the enigma wielded with ease. In the other hand, he held a small, red knife.

“Reshima.” Puzzler addressed the man.

The suited man chuckled morosely, and responded, “It’s not time for formality, child.”

“You are so right: It is more as if tonight was meant for playtime.” With those words, Puzzler flicked a hidden switch on his flamethrower, which issued a short burst of flame before glowing red-hot. The gun straightened, its wings outstretched, and lanced its tongue out in a straight line. It suddenly roiled with flame, growing and sharpening. After a few seconds of fire and heat, Verix was shaped into a broadsword, roughly six feet in length. Its handle was still the body and legs, the hilt a pair of now large wings, and a crimson blade sprouting from the mouth in the place of a tongue. He jumped at the white person.

Reshima, in that time, had also reconfigured his weapon. It straightened, and the blade underneath became more prominent. At the end of the transformation, when Puzzler had leapt at him, he was wielding a half-gun, half-sword. The handle was long enough for two hands, with another handle, large enough for one, sprouted at a right angle with it where they were attached to the gun. With this fearsome cleaver, the Corpse attacked.

The two blades slid along each other, spawning sparks and sometimes flame. Puzzler fired and missed, the white energy crumbling a wall behind the demon. Gracious movements brought the two up the side of a building, where the conflict raged on. Reshima grasped the second handle with his left hand, now holding his weapon like a gun. A huge sphere of violet power smashed into the wall, propelling his person across the street, onto another building. Puzzler fell, bringing Nurix up to point over his head, and managed to shoot his foe in the ankle. Utterly consumed by that difficult task, the hunter collided with the ground, projecting air and blood from his throat.

Reshima howled with laughter, walking along the wall on the opposite side of the street. “You need to brush up on your fighting skills, Jigsaw. Your slow. You have no idea what’s about to happen.” He fingered his spiky, dark green hair. “Follow me, if you can…”

Reshima headed south, jumping over the building Puzzler had fallen from. He hadn’t the energy for another pursuit, and curled around himself to rest. He slunk into nothingness, disappearing from the material world.

He now stood, alone, on the soft, leaf-littered floor of a forest. The trees were reasonably tall, with branches reaching out from about a foot up the trunk. Their skin was a sullen grey, with cracks drawn across it. The leaves were like emeralds, but darker, with veins across them in mimicry of the breaking bark that slowly crumbled and peeled away. White silhouettes wandered at the edges of his vision, vanishing when he tried to glimpse the flowing hair that trailed behind them.

He felt uneasy all of a sudden. No… I don’t want it… he thought, jumpily looking from side to side, trying not to close his eyes. His eyes got so dry after hours of concentration. They grew weary, and he gave in. When he blinked, he was greeted by the vision of a woman in death, bloodied and distraught.

These dreams would not stop. They came every day. A tear slid down his cheek. “I’m sorry, Alex…” he whimpered. “I-I’m so sorr-sorry…” Puzzler did nothing to stop this nightmare that invaded his mind.

***

Meanwhile, at the University, the Alpha Corpse did not flinch, staying put on its sitting-place with its claws sinking ever deeper into the stone beneath it. Its eyes shut by shrinking back into its skull, slowly covering them with surrounding skin and tissue. The darkness closed around the dark beast as it changed.

Originally Posted by P.

OoC: Thanks for your comments; It's good to hear that you enjoyed it so much. By the way, the person who awoke the machine was not Joseph Crown, but Brother Samuel. I think you knew this, but made a mistake with the name.

I actually erred in regards to the punctuation - I should have used semicolons throughout that list, since I did intend to distinguish between the machine and the man who awakened it, and Joseph Crown. My intention was betrayed by a comma. And a lack of the word "and", xD

But to your story.

We have ourselves a demon hunter, of sorts, and a haunted man at that. I assumed, at the introduction of the Dreamtime Corpses, that their blight was a first-time occurence, but the appearance - and more importantly, the reactions - of Puzzler seem to indicate that he and the Corpses have already been acquainted. What is his history, regarding these creatures? Even more: are the Corpses responsible for the fact Veretchin is a diseased ruin? (Questions to keep my reader's suspense boiling, and my mind eager for the next chapter, =D) I'm also curious as to the significance of Puzzler's name. It seems a name to bear some significance, being without precedence (as far as I can tell) up to this point.

My favourite line, from the battle between Puzzler and the Corpses, was, "It dived backwards off the building. The man laughed and followed." It paints such a vivid image, concise line that it is. And I love the daring - the death-defiance - that it shows Puzzler to possess.

I am very interested in watching how you tie together the various characters so far introduced.

Until the next chapter, then. =)
Selah

The Fourth Sermon: Into the Roses

A formless, grey fog rolled in off the sea. The thick miasma was quick; the coast was blanketed in little over a minute. Here and there, the mist was interrupted by torches that hissed in the moisture of the atmosphere. The ground was coated in a soft, luscious grass, each blade lined with dew. There were roses planted randomly, scattered along the coast in irregular clumps of red and white.

The silence was cracked by the muffled footsteps of a barefoot figure. It lumbered slowly across the ground, as if in search of something it had lost. Every so often, it would lift its face to the sullen sky and sniff the air, which was salty and warm.

Eventually, the form stopped in the centre of a circle of roses and fires, its person awash in the golden light. It was a man, in his mid thirties, of surly make and gentle face. His hair was a dark auburn, curled in circles that looked almost perfect. Green eyes stared out from under heavy brows, with a gleam in them that appeared unnatural. His nose gave him the likeness of a hawk, perched and ready to hunt. A spear was strapped to his back, its rusted point gleaming the in the light. He possessed a pair of rather broad shoulders, and towered well over six feet. It was strange that his steps were so light; it was obvious that he was a heavy man.

He knelt down, running his scarred hand over the ground. Cautiously, as if there was something waiting to remove his hand from behind his back, he reach around his shoulder and unlatched his spear, bringing it to bear in a well-practiced position. Without a noise, he rose to both feet and spread them, achieving a lower centre of gravity. A second later, he arched his back and prepared the shaft in his palm for throwing. He flung it with extraordinary velocity into the murky brume.

Steven smiled as he was answered with a thud and a sharp squeal. The man walked without hesitation towards his catch, the water in the air sluicing about his legs. It was a fox, only small, and the spear hand landed in its neck, fracturing its spine and cutting off its blood-flow. He left the carcass on the ground; it was insufficient. He slipped his weapon back into its straps and continued on his walk.

As he cantered on, the frequency of the roses around him increased until he was flanked by the blossoms. Their bark was dry, green and cracked, its surface bending into knife-point thorns. The leaves were of deep jade, with spines to line their edges. The flowers themselves, however, were as if they were made of snow, stained with blood. The spaces between the branches evidently tightened as Steven neared his destination.

He arrived only a minute later, and stared through the mists towards the small, wooden house that was perched at the edge of the cliff, its windows open. Through the gaping holes in the building, Steven caught glances of a woman, her silhouette (created by the light of a candle within) embedded on the linen blinds.

“Samantha.” Steven’s voice was loud, yet not aggressive. It carried easily to the threshold of the hut.

The woman stepped through the door and onto the grass, a few meters from the man’s position. Her person was clouded by a shift, although Steven could see the curves of her hourglass-shaped body. Her hair was jet and straight, brushing over her shoulders. Her eyes were dark brown and, like the onlooker’s, possessed that weird sheen, like crystal glazing.

Her words were mumbled, but Steven knew what she said. “Did you catch anything?” said her face, as wells as her lips.

“Yes.”

“Then where is it, little man?”

Steven laughed. “Does it matter?”

The Fifth Sermon: "Ahh, They Have No Hope."

The sky above reflected the turmoil in the world below. Heavy clouds rolled in as if they were the stony-shoulders of the horizon that lunged over the land. Veretchin sat in a stupor below the oncoming storm, unknowing of the terror it would bring.

One of the few people who roamed the streets knew, though. He was alert, tense. Every muscle in his body, which was gnarled with them, looked ready to snap. He was clad in brown, beggars clothes. They were sodden with muck and filth, but the stench they conjured did not faze the man in the slightest. His eyes were precise, and picked out every detail of the world about him. His hair of pure white seemed to posses an ethereal glow.

As he turned the corner, into a wider street, he removed from his pocket a small, silver instrument. Its smooth surface caught the light of a streetlamp and reflected it in varied directions. After taking glances at the street and the mechanism in his palm, he placed it back in his pocket and continued at a faster pace.

As he cantered through the streets, all in his wake was given new life; rats suddenly looked healthy; weeds flourished and became wonderful blossoms. Every where he went, visions of pure wellbeing unfolded.

Soon, the man had covered many of the streets in glory. This endeavor obviously drained the man, and he slumped over in the knee-high grass that smothered the road. He looked to the sky and stretched an arm out towards it, as if he could grasp it, feel the heavens.

“My work is done…” said he, with the voice of child left out in the cold. He collapsed and the carpet of flowers crawled over his haunches.



Joseph Crown’s apartment was very tidy. Not a speck of dust could be found in it. The vital exception to this was his office. It was a mix of chaos and clutter, with books stacked high on the floor and paper providing suitable covering for the myriad of desks that encompassed it. Crown had his head slumped on the main desk, his hair sprawled out in an ark over an aged tome. He stirred and lifted his head in the light of a prox-lamp. Joseph’s hand came to his face quickly, sheltering his eyes from the umber light. The skin beneath his eyes sagged under the weight of his eyes; the snooze had been the first hour of sleep he had managed since the attack at Parliament.

Joseph made his way over to a large, inviting arm chair in one corner of the room. A sigh was forced from him as he sat down and he almost forgot himself in the embrace of the chair. He reached to the small, wooden desk at his right lifted from it a white cube the size of his fist. It hummed as he fondled it, glowing at his delicate strokes. The care he exerted upon the white surface was returned to him in the form of overwhelming calm. Tides of giddiness barraged his mind between swathes of relaxation that found their way into every part of his aching frame. Never before had the plasto-form responded with such eagerness, and Joseph was quickly lost in the daze.

When he awoke, his body was awash with vigour. Every muscle was teeming with life, and he grinned at the feeling. Joseph stood from the chair and strode through the threshold that guarded his house from the chaos of his office, glee in his eye.

The door seemed to welcome him, and he welcomed it, continuing his canter through. The light outside was amber, flooding the streets with crystal sunlight. The sun was setting, indicating to Joseph that it was high time he got to Parliament. His way was untroubled.

When he arrived at the Parliament, however, he was greeted by yellow tape, swarms of onlookers, and several men garbed by incarnadine robes. They looked as if they had slept in crimson beds, and still the sheets clung to them. The wall of people was nigh impenetrable.

Minutes of strung-out confusion lead to Joseph’s encounter with who appeared to be the leader of the crimson men. He tried to slip past the dark-haired man. The reactions possessed by the man were extraordinary; he swung an arm to block Crown without looking, and resumed his duties of halting many others.

Joseph’s voice caught in his throat, but he managed the words against the red form. “I demand entrance.”

“No.” The response came before Crown had uttered the last syllable, as if he had the foresight to know Joseph’s statement before Joseph did. “I am Stannald.”

“Well I’m Joseph Crown, and I demand entrance.”

“So it appears,” Stannald gazed questioningly at Crown. “I am Stannald.”

“I know that already! Now let me in.” Joseph stared Stannald in the eye.

“I am Stannald. I am stone.” The words that passed through the man’s lips were devoid of expression, as if they were extensions of the rock he claimed to be.

The tone of Stannald’s refusal insulted Joseph, fuelled his rage. As this anger mounted, Crown Swung an arm at the guard, who spun his wrist to catch the attack. “Let me in!”

“I am—”

“I know tha…” Joseph halted; he had realized that Stannald was large – very, very large.

“I am Stannald, the bane of all efforts towards entering the House of Parliament!” With those words of final judgment, unfathomably fast decision, Stannald launched his palm into Crown’s chest. An instant later, the crimson-booted foot was behind Joseph’s ankles, sweeping them out from under his body.

Joseph ran his hands over the stone beneath him, as if he were searching for the orifice into which the last fragment of his dignity had fallen. When he seemed to find it, he brought himself to his feet. This time he tried a different approach.

“Why am I not permitted entrance?”

“I am not at liberty to spread such light unto you, self-described Joseph Crown.” Stannald wiped his brow as if he tried to wipe away some kind of emotion that may betray his thoughts. “I hope you have no more…” He searched for the word, “… disturbances, for me, Joseph Crown.”

“Who do you answer to?”

“I am Stannald. If I am to be ordered, then it shall be my bane.”

Joseph looked at Stannald, searching for some trace of emotion; it appeared that he had smote what traces he had of them a few moments ago. He tried to understand the odd man and his blood-robed compatriots, tried to fathom their intentions, their purpose.

“My purpose is not your knowledge, nor do I desire it to be, self-described Joseph Crown. Do not try. Such attempts, ahh, they have no hope. No hope.”

The Sixth Sermon: Mud-men.



By the early afternoon, the fog had cleared. It had risen, slowly, until its murk dissipated. The coast breathed vigorously in the sunlight. It teemed with life, as if the sun held the key to the land’s hibernation.

Steven’s bare footsteps made little noise on the green carpet below; it was not perfect, but it sufficed. His gaze seemed indirect, gaining insight on his entire vision, and more, at the same time. He had learnt from long years of darkness how to reconstruct the world in his mind, evaluating situations as he saw fit, in his own time. Very much was he the master of his own world, manipulating the myriad of ways he interpreted it, bending his opinions to gaze at impossible angles. That was the gift given unto him by the world, his reason for living. Yes, he lived for the ways in which he cou