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Dexter Morgan
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06-20-2011, 02:36 AM
Following is my recent writing, one I'm writing on a whim, but is quickly becoming a good storyline.
Forgive any weakness in the story line, as it's still a work in progress and will be revised after Part I is completed.
I know it's a long shot, but please read the posts, and let me know what you think. The title is also a work in progress, unfortunately, but I'm hoping to find a better title in this mind of mine.
Prologue
Vincent walked seamlessly with the chattering crowd, one hand in a pocket and the other grasping a black book. The moon was a massive, round orange-yellow, illuminating the sky better than the gas lamps could. Hansoms rattled down the cobblestone streets, pulled by great shaggy beasts that slightly resembled horses, which was what they were called, though they seemed to be some other species entirely. Voices blended with the wooden rattles and clopping hooves, the city a busy place even in the night. Vincent’s ears were always overwhelmed when he left the comfort of his home, trying to keep up with the rapid conversations over the unimportant noises. But their meaningless rambles had none of Vincent’s interest at the time. He turned to a less-populated alley, where he could lean against the wall of a café and breathe easily.
He opened the black book and examined the contents. On the flimsy, yellowish pages, in a hurried and slightly spiked script, a name and time was written. He didn’t have a pocket watch with him--they always broke when in his possession--but the clock tower was conveniently located in the square, which was directly across from the mouth of the alley. He glanced above the bobbing heads of the passersby as they laughed and reveled in the moonlight, as the clock read 11:58. Almost midnight, he thought to himself, closing the book and slipping it into his pocket. He glanced down the alley, into the slight darkness that blanketed the crossing beyond. Someone was moving there.
He didn’t take the time to study who was moving; he leapt into a quick walk as silently as he could. His footsteps were not exactly stealthy, but they were mostly covered by the noise still spilling into the alley and echoing away. The shadow of a man Vincent was stalking moved out of sight, along the alleyway to the left, and Vincent hurried to catch up. Turning the corner, the man had stopped to fiddle with something small in his hands. He was under a lit window, and could be seen easily: Brown hair, the color of earth, and oddly pale skin. His clothes were ripped and dirty, mismatched as though he had scrounged them from bins outside tailor shops. Vincent undid the one button on his jacket, moving it aside and feeling for his belt. It was brass, containing several instruments that were very rare to any humans. Very good as well; Vincent was a demon.
He picked up his pace, trotting then sprinting toward the man; only moments before contact was the man aware of someone else near. When he turned, Vincent ran into him, throwing the disheveled human into the wall behind him and pinning him there. Vincent’s contact had told him the man would be easy, much more than other cases, since he was older and ill. But the man’s face contorted, becoming angry and afraid. Whatever he held fell to the ground and his hands came up, grabbing Vincent around the neck and pushing him back. The demon gritted his teeth, bringing his leg up and kicking him back into the wall. He couldn’t get to his belt while the man was alive. Mostly alive, anyway.
Balling his hand into a fist, Vincent struck out, knocking the man off his feet and onto the ground. He pulled a jade rosary from his pocket--the sight and feel still made him uneasy--and wrapped it around his victim’s neck, pushing down. The man was a fighter, and kicked his legs, managing to hit Vincent’s back and head. His hands flexed, digging into the demon’s arms, but did nothing to stop the strangulation. After several minutes of struggle, as the jade rosary cut both human and demon skin, the older man fell still and silent.
Without wasting time, Vincent returned the rosary to his pocket and pulled a long instrument from his belt. It was an impossibly-large syringe, made of brass and glass, which he uncapped and set on the ground. From the other side he unclipped a small bottle, thickly made of white crystal and corked. Pulling the man’s shirt over his head, hiding his face, Vincent held the syringe in his right hand and pushed the needle into the mortal's chest. When it was secure, he began extraction. Slowly, an odd grayish-red mist filled its chamber, swirling with a life of its own. When it was full, Vincent wrenched the needle out of the man’s chest and yanked his shirt back down, slipping the needle into the bottle through its cork and pushing the mist into the small container.
He stood, placing the syringe back into its holder, and lifted the bottle to the light of the window above. It moved still, as though wind was forever altering its state, but gained a human form from time to time. The soul was relieved of its owner, at last. He replaced the bottle on his belt and backed away, buttoning his jacket back to hide the brass belt. Vincent didn’t need anyone giving him a glance at his odd choice of accessory.
Still, he thought, it was a nice night’s work. A collected soul--be it a cheap one--for his client, and money for him. If it had been a rare or important soul, that of a king or duchess or a high-ranking demon or devil, he would be keeping it. Stepping out of the alley, he smiled. Another soul would come along soon; he knew that. They always did.
Last edited by Dexter Morgan; 07-17-2011 at 05:10 AM..
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Dexter Morgan
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06-22-2011, 04:08 AM
Part I The soul of a fighter
Vincent stood at the window with his hands behind his back. The moon was perched on the pointed tip of the clock tower, which was easily seen from his window. A fire crackled in the grate nearby, two still shadows cast over the old wood floor and its dark red throw rug. One shadow moved, very slightly, of its own accord. Vincent turned and observed its owner, sitting stiffly in one of the only chairs in front of the fireplace. Brushing back his messy black hair, Vincent stepped away from the window and turned.
The man in the firelight was pale-skinned, but not as light as a demon. He was large, a solid man in build, with a rather boxy head and short, dusty-brown hair. He sat rigidly, looking anywhere but at Vincent, small eyes finally locking onto the fire to his left. Vincent stepped up to the chair opposite the other man, reaching into his vest and pulling a crystal bottle out. Within was the recently-harvested soul of a man Vincent didn’t know, or cared to have known. He sat across from the man, placing the bottle beside a teacup. “It’s a demon moon tonight.” He said. His voice was calm, relaxed, mirroring his demeanor. “A demon moon, William. Do you believe in the demon moon?” He leaned forward.
William glanced at him at last. His eyes were dark, and glinted in the fire. “No.” He said. A deep voice he had, only slightly giving away his tightly-wound nerves with a faint tremor. “The demons are always odd, no matter the state of the moon.”
Vincent laughed out loud, but it was mirthless and without joy in any form. “You classify demons as violent and strange, as unpredictable at all times? I don’t think you understand the basic principles of the state of a demon, or a devil. You’ve never met one, personally. Until now, that is.”
“No.” William clenched his hands into fists as they rested on his knees. “But that doesn’t matter, sir. All I want is my soul.”
“Not your soul, William.” Vincent picked the bottle up, turning it in the leaping orange-yellow glow. “The soul of a man who didn’t seem to deserve to die. Perhaps you can tell me why you need this soul so badly? Why you would give me all the silver to your name for this one, insignificant soul? Are you really that desperate, my boy?”
William was silent again. He fidgeted, staring at the floor. He was uncomfortable in the presence of a demon, Vincent could tell. Patiently, he sat back, setting the bottle back down and picking up the cup beside it. Quietly, as William contemplated his answer, Vincent brought the cup to his face. Black tea always made him a little more alert, especially while speaking with clients whose trustworthiness could be called doubtful. The smell was strong, as was its taste. As William shook his head, perhaps to deny a thought that crossed his mind, Vincent sat forward again and placed the cup aside.
“William. Would it not be easier to simply tell me the truth rather than struggle with a lie?” He smiled. “You should know demons are infamous for their anger at being lied to, or deceived, or played in a little game.”
William nodded, as though he had not thought of that. “I just wanted him gone.” He said at last. “The man was a fool, and a waste of space in the city. Not worth the clothes he had on his back; I can use his soul…”
“… Yes?”
“… I can use his soul to pay off a debt I owe a devil. He helped me about a week ago, and would only take repayment in the form of a soul.”
“Oh, he allowed you to find the soul of another, then?” Vincent asked. “Rather than simply taking yours for payment?”
“He said if, after a week, I failed to find a soul as payment, he would take mine.”
“I don’t see what is so terrible about the willing relinquishment of one’s soul.” Vincent twisted several strands of his hair between thumb and index finger. “It’s so much better without that burden, after all. No feelings of guilt, or misery, or love or self-hatred. Inconvenient things like that.”
“But it’s an empty life.” William turned his gaze to Vincent, but refused to look the demon in the striking silver eyes. “A life without feeling is meaningless… Do demons have souls?”
“Every living thing is born with a soul, in one way or another. Demons may not be creatures relating to the good, to the light, but they have souls. So yes, I have a soul. It simply affects me in lesser ways than that of a human.” He picked up the bottle once more. “I don’t care about why you wanted me to take the soul. All I care about is the money that comes with it.” He examined the swirling mist. “Although if you are lying to me, and have not even a bronze piece to your name, your soul will join my collection of foolish humans who thought they could deceive me.”
“I would never lie.” William reached into his trousers pocket, pulling a bolt of purple velvet cloth out and offering it to Vincent. It rattled very slightly as the demon took it and examined it thoughtfully. “I don’t lie.” William assured. Vincent moved the cloth aside, revealing a pile of silver coins. There were thirty. Vincent’s face was impossible to read; William studied him nervously, tapping his fingers on his knees, biting his lower lip. When the demon smiled, William let out a pent-up breath.
“Very good.” Vincent pocketed the cloth and its coins and handed the bottle to the human. “You will keep your soul after all.”
William smiled for the first time since stepping foot into the den. “Thank you, Vincent.” He and the demon stood. “You saved me.” He bowed.
“I didn’t save you.” Vincent said as they walked across the room and to the heavy, domed door. At the man’s perplexed look, the demon chuckled. “You’re dealing with a devil.” He said, opening the door slowly. “They don’t simply let you off after a single favor, even when it’s been repaid.” Without another word, he pushed the man out of his home, but before closing the door spotted something lying on the top step, just outside: A box, made of black wood and brass finishings, wrapped with a dark blue ribbon to hold its lid shut.
He was skeptical, and watched the box for several moments. It didn’t move, nor did it give any indication it was a threat. Gingerly, he lifted it, but nothing rattled inside. On the contrary, it felt empty. Stepping back, closing the door and locking it with the heavy sliding bolt, he went to one of the chairs and sat. The box was harmless, or so it seemed to be. Wood and metal, a bit of silken ribbon, it sat on his knee as a box would normally do. He unknotted the ribbon, letting it slip to the floor. Nothing exploded, or popped out of the box. Lifting it to his ear, he listened. Nothing was scratching, or chirping or chattering or ticking. He lifted the lid.
Rolled parchment took up the blue-velvet compartment. It was tied with the same silk ribbon, though thinner, binding the parchment in its spiral. He pulled the ribbon off and unrolled the parchment, leaning close to the fire to read its inscriptions.
Vincent
Your expertise is required. When the clock tower reads
noon, you will find I am in the square where the fountain
sits. If you are up to the challenge I have, you will meet me
there without delay. A large reward may be in your future.
He had been sent letters many times. Letters asking for his help in retrieving souls, retrieving people, stealing this or that. He was a man--or demon--of many talents. Whatever the man or woman wanted, he would certainly meet them at the fountain in the square at noon. He tossed the parchment and its ribbon into the fire, setting the box on the side table and sitting back. The window was across from him, just behind the other chair, and he could see the moon in the lower right corner. Morning was soon, he knew it. He could see the first of many clouds drifting across the sky, dark like smoke from chimneys, blacking out the moon. Demons would be turning in for the night, their adrenaline-fueled runs lacking in zeal as the demon moon faded from their sight.
And indeed, he was getting tired. The night had been long, and he would need to be well-rested for whoever he would be meeting at noon. Slowly, he levered himself up, a chorus of creaks coming from the old chair and his bones. A demon’s bones always readjusted themselves after being still for a certain amount of time. It sounded like an ancient tree in a high wind, and when he stretched, his joints popped. Moving slowly, he passed the window, drawing the heavy curtain and going through the door on the wall beside the fireplace. It could be called a bedroom simply for the brass bed against the far wall, the tall, thin wardrobe in the corner nearest the door, and the round bedside table containing the brass belt and a candle half burned. The window was filthy, mostly stained from years in the city, and across from it sat a small stove with a fire burning inside its black iron body.
Vincent slouched, shrugging out of his jacket and vest, loosening his tie. Already disheveled before returning home that night, he appeared to have run a marathon when he sat on the low bed. It creaked under his weight, protesting in its old age, but the springs would hold. He carelessly kicked out of his shoes and slid them under the bed, lying back without bothering to change clothes. He was tired, and daylight would come only too soon.
Last edited by Dexter Morgan; 06-27-2011 at 09:18 PM..
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Dexter Morgan
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06-25-2011, 04:38 AM
Rain fell, in large drops warm and thick, coating the roads and hurrying people to their destinations. The horses shook violently when stationary, ridding their gray or black hair of the heavy water. One in particular snorted and jolted forward with its hansom as a couple were boarding, causing a moment of panic from the lady. Vincent was passing at that time, and unlucky enough to be splashed. Cursing, he bolted to the street corner, standing under his umbrella and waiting for a pause in the traffic of carriages and people. Almost noon, he thought, and if the unknown contact was early, Vincent himself would look like a fool for showing up late. He hated showing that side of him, as onlookers judged and ridiculed him silently or among themselves. Dodging the light traffic, he hurried into a group of people migrating toward the clock tower that shadowed the square and the fountain.
Indeed someone waited there, only after migrating away from the pack of people to loiter at the other side of the round fountain. He stood behind the angelic figure, face hidden by an umbrella, one hand in a pocket. Vincent stepped around the base of the fountain, moving into the other man’s line of vision and catching his eye. With purpose, the stranger nodded to Vincent as he approached, a small smile shadowing his face. He glanced around, assuring himself no one was near enough to hear their conversation. His skin was dark, as were his eyes, and what hair Vincent could see under his hat was black, flecked with gray and white.
“Vincent,” he said, “I knew you would make it.”
“Who are you?” Vincent didn’t get very close; he had no idea who the man was, no idea of what weapons he might have. “And how do you know where I live?”
“I am Louis Harvard.” The stranger made to move, but at Vincent’s tense stance, he paused. “I’ve been watching you for a few days, and must say, you’re very good at what you do.”
“And what would you be referring to, Louis?”
“Just about everything. Murder, deceit, fraud, combat. And especially soul-collecting.”
“This is why you wanted to meet me.” Vincent said. “But why at such a public location?”
“I know you have your trust issues,” Louis said. “You aren’t the only one. I felt it would deter either of us from irrational behavior by meeting in public, in the daylight.”
Vincent nodded. “I see. It’s rather reckless of you, though. Anyone could listen to this conversation.”
“Not if we keep it short.” Louis reached inside his jacket and pulled a folder of papers out. “I’ve got my trust in you, Vincent. I know you, and only you, can do this.”
“Only me? So I’m your last resort?” Vincent took the folder slowly, if a bit suspiciously. “It must be serious.”
“Indeed it is.” Louis again swept the crowds with his gaze, observing their glances and passes before lowering his voice and drawing closer so Vincent could hear. “This man is a fighter, with a rare soul. I’ve been after him for several years now.”
“What type of soul?” Vincent slipped the folder into his jacket, protecting the contents from the rain.
“A pure soul.”
“Impossible.” He laughed. “No one in the world has a pure soul.”
“This man does.” Louis’ voice darkened, and he no longer smiled. “His main objective is to save anyone he can, any way he can. He kills only the ones who would do evil upon the good or innocent. He has never cared about the pursuit of earthly pleasures, and his thoughts remain clear. He‘s never smoked, nor has he ever touched a drop of alcohol.”
“Is he a part of any church?”
“No. He spends his afternoons on Moloch Street, away from churches but preaching to anyone who will listen.”
“Is that when you want me to act?”
“No. Only when he least expects it. I know how well you track, how well you spy. If you catch him off guard, you may have the upper hand.”
“He’s really very strong, then?”
“Immensely. Many attackers have fallen at his hand because they thought he would make an easy target.”
“Strong, is he?”
“Shockingly.” Louis squared his jaw. “I can’t give you any advice on this catch, except be very careful. He may be a pure soul, but when defending himself, he will kill.”
“You don’t have to worry.” Vincent assured him. “No soul has escaped me for more than a week.”
“Then I can leave you in full confidence that you will bring me his soul within seven days.” Louis turned. “Good luck, Vincent, and I assure you, the reward for this soul will be more than you can imagine.”
He watched Louis Harvard walk away, slowly, joining the flow of people. The rain had let up a bit, but a dark cloud had been cast over Vincent. Tearing his eyes away from the departing man, he turned and took to a side road, shadowing others as they walked, keeping his jacket closed tightly and the file safe. Turning left, got onto a smaller road with a line of small shops. Walking briskly, he went halfway down, stopping at a bookstore. Roy Brown was the sole owner, a middle-aged man with very dark brown hair and emerald-green eyes, pale skin, and a reserved personality. He and Vincent got along well, despite one being human and the other being a demon.
Vincent leapt up the five stairs, and under the overhanging above the door, collapsed his umbrella and shook the extra water away. A light was on inside, and without knocking, opened the door. At once the scent of old paper and leather hit him, dust and wood. It was peaceful, a bit; no one was there, except Roy himself, who appeared from in between two tall bookshelves. Vincent knew Roy enough to be able to confess his business to the man, since Roy had gotten onto the wrong side of the law many times before. Eyes shadowed, posture poor with sleep deprivation, he nodded to Vincent in acknowledgment.
Last edited by Peeblo; 08-09-2011 at 06:35 PM..
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Dexter Morgan
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06-27-2011, 09:43 PM
“What’s brought you out in such gloomy weather?” Roy asked. “Not to buy a book, surely?”
“Never.” Vincent said. “I’m just looking for a shelter to read about my new case.”
“Oh, I see.” Roy led him to the back of the store, past the shelves and old chairs and to one of the three round tables. Oil lamps sat in the center, illuminating the rough wood in a leaping yellowish-orange glow. Vincent and Roy sat across from one another, and Vincent revealed the file, setting it on the table.
“I just got it.” He said. “From a man known as Louis Harvard. Does the name strike familiarity in you?”
“Not in the least.” Roy said, rubbing his eyes behind his round glasses. “But I don’t know many people in the city, you know.”
“Certainly. What I meant was: Have you heard the name at all in the criminal-based rings you’re a part of?”
“No…” Roy paused, eyes drifting as he recalled his acquaintances and enemies. “I’ve not heard it before.”
Vincent was suspicious. Louis Harvard was a strange man, with very dark skin and equally-dark eyes. He didn’t give off the aura of a demon, nor did he affect Vincent as devils did. He was certainly human, and certainly telling the truth. But the demon had to wonder how pure his target’s soul really was. No one he knew, or even heard of, had never given to the pulls and desires of both human and nonhuman nature.
“Well, this will hardly get read if I don’t open it.” Vincent sighed. Carefully, he flipped the light yellow cover aside, and was greeted by a photograph. Underneath was a name: Carter Hall.
His hair was long, longer than most of the women Vincent knew, and very light. It was almost white, but it didn’t seem possible; Carter’s face was that of a young man, younger than Vincent, with wide eyes. The photo was of him standing on something, as he rose above a large gathering of people, his arms wide as though revealing an earth-shattering secret. Vincent studied it for a moment, before Roy took it.
The papers under the photo were cut out of newspapers from different cities. Headlines varied, but not by much: ‘Man Saves, Teaches Street Children Life Lessons; Vanishes’. ‘Mysterious Man Spreads Hope Throughout City, Disappears the Next Day’. ‘Mystery-man Leads Authorities Through Multiple Cases, Leaves Before Reward can be Given’. It went on for several hastily-crafted pages, and when he moved them, a thin, braided rope of light yellow-gold sat in the back of the file. When he picked the end up, it fell to a length of at least three feet.
“What is that?” Roy asked, placing the photo aside.
“Hair.”
“Carter’s hair?”
“It’s obviously Carter’s hair. But I don’t know how Louis Harvard could have gotten it.” Vincent coiled it, replacing it on the table.
“A fight, perhaps.”
“Perhaps. But I‘ve never seen this hair color before.” He was silent then, thinking. There was nothing included that showed his schedule, or how he defended himself from attacks. Louis was hardly helpful, but he promised a good pay. He sighed, frustrated at the lack of information. “Damn it, Roy. I’m faced with a hundred different roads, and all are so dark I can’t see the right way.”
“You have gone through with odds even more impossible than this before.” Roy said. “I’ve got full faith in you.”
“I’m glad to know that, but it will not make this any easier.” Vincent took the photograph back and closed the file. “I’m not even sure where to start.”
“Surely Louis Harvard told you something?”
Vincent paused. “Of course. He spends his afternoons on Moloch Street, where he stands on any high ground and speaks to the people.”
“People in particular?”
“No, in general. He is hardly around long enough in certain cities to have a solid following. Besides, he isn’t part of a church.”
“I wonder why.”
“He probably has conflicting beliefs with the churchmen and women. That, Roy, or he simply wants to go about his business alone.”
“But the churches would be angry.”
“Not if they are not aware.”
“How could they not be aware? People listen, talk, and certainly people would spread these stories to the churches.”
“That does not matter, my boy. What matters is finding him and his supposedly-pure soul.” Vincent stood, followed by Roy.
“Pure soul? That is not possible.”
“I thought so at first.” He scooped up the file. “But now I’m starting to believe. Roy, please hold on to this file. I will need my hands free for now.”
Roy nodded, taking the file and tucking it under his arm. “Good luck, Vincent. I hope I can take a look at this rare soul before you turn it in?”
“If I have time.” Vincent walked back through the bookshelves and to the door, glancing out. The rain had stopped, so he abandoned his umbrella against the wall before leaving.
Rejoining the flow of people, Vincent retraced his steps back to Moloch Street. It was crowded, as usual, with vendors and loiters, carriages, horses with their wide eyes and shaggy hair stomping their hooves. Voices overlapped one another, roaring dully in Vincent’s ears. He pushed through the crowd, making his way toward a jewelry shop, where he could stand still for a moment and observe the various items on display at the window. Before he could get near enough to see into the window, a voice caught his attention, hooked him.
Glancing around, over the heads of passersby, he scanned the crowd for the voice, not deep but easily carried even among the noise. A group of people had gathered around the one standing several feet above them, using a crate for his stand. His hair was long, very long, and a very pale yellow-gold. Vincent had found Carter Hall without necessarily even looking for him, and with a familiar eagerness rising, he crossed the street to listen in among the spectators.
When he drew close, Vincent noted the pale skin, almost as pale as a demon‘s, with eyes as sharp a blue as ice. Pushing through a wall of people, Vincent drew close.
“… sadness. And sadness is a terrible thing. It can take ahold of you and squeeze the very life out of your body. Don’t give in to that sadness; all it wants to see is your failure, because that’s its lifeblood. You have to fight through the wall and succeed, and help those in need. This world isn’t loving enough, it’s not generous enough. Some have too much while others have nothing at all, you have to help your peers, help them! Live not for yourself, but for others, help others to help yourself. Make yourself someone you would like to know, not someone you would fear.
“Live for today, rather than tomorrow. Because the next day is never certain, is never simply given to you. You must take things as they come, and make the best out of what you have. I’m not saying to neglect your responsibilities, no. I’m saying enjoy life while you have it, because it’s a fragile thing. Life is fleeting, sensitive, easily taken from you. Always be vigilant, but love and listen and give and never take anything for granted.”
Vincent drifted, Carter’s voice becoming a hum, while he thought about what the man was saying. He preached a good story, but he knew many people who could do that. They lied well, those people, and Vincent could only consider Carter another good falsifier. He gazed onto the crowd as a loving father observing his children, and when he fell silent, approving murmurs ran in waves among the people. No one could unconditionally love everyone, accept them for what they were, forgive them for their sins simply because they are humans, flawed and meant to do bad.
Last edited by Dexter Morgan; 06-27-2011 at 11:16 PM..
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Dexter Morgan
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06-27-2011, 09:44 PM
[CENTER]As the group dispersed, obviously lifted by the roadside sermon, Vincent was left to his thoughts. It was only when he felt someone staring at him did he look around. Carter Hall had gotten down from his perch, and was standing in front of him. The man’s eyes, a color Vincent had never seen before, that odd pale blue, prickling, observing, watchful, met Vincent’s gaze.
“I’ve not seen you around for my talks before.” Carter said. “A new face is always welcome.” He offered a hand and a friendly smile.
“And you know the people who listen to you?” Vincent shook the man’s hand, returning the smile, though not as warmly.
“I recognize faces very easily.” Carter said. “Even if I only see them once, it’s easy to recall.”
“I see. Memory like that is a gift.” Vincent looked around. “How long have you been here in the city?”
“Just about four days now. I must say, the people here are very attentive.”
“Yes indeed. They do love a break from the mundane every now and then. Although I have to assume they take an especial liking to you because you are so different in both disposition as well as appearance.”
Carter watched some of the passersby, a placid look on his face. “Yes, I do seem to be the odd one out. But one cannot choose their general appearance, no?” He smiled again. “Still, it’s easier to attract listeners when you look different.”
“I would have to agree.” Vincent nodded. He battled with himself silently. He could simply draw Carter into an alley and ambush him there, extract his soul and get it over with, but Carter’s gaze was intense, as though he were watching Vincent and his mannerisms, observing him. “People do love a new sight in a city of the same.”
“Very apparent. I’m Carter Hall, by the way. Usually I introduce myself at the start of my speeches, but I noticed you arrived a little late.”
“I’m Vincent.”
“Just Vincent?”
“It’s how everyone knows me.” He looked back at Carter. “Where do you come from? I do know you are a traveler.”
“I am indeed. I go from place to place, trying to spread good will and trust, love for mankind.”
“A noble life.”
“I prefer modest. I ask for nothing in return, except that people take what I say to heart and try to live the best they can.”
“Do you really think people will change their lives, or see anything differently, because you gave a few speeches?”
“It’s worth a try.” Carter nodded. “Just because no one else does it hardly means it’s a lost cause.”
Vincent was silent for a moment. He stared at Carter as though he was an alien thing, something he had never seen before. “You hold no ill will toward people?”
“None whatsoever.”
“What if they intentionally harm you or the people you love?”
“People themselves are corrupted, whether in miniscule ways or in very noticeable ways. I will feel sorrow for the ones I lost, but even if the person holds no apology for what they do, I cannot blame them. Their soul is stained, not their hands.”
“You’re very forgiving.”
“I’m only human.”
“Even humans feel hate. Vengeance, desire, a wish to do harm to those who harm them.”
Carter thought about it. He closed his eyes half way, turning his gaze to the ground. “I suppose.” He looked back up. “I suppose I’m not human, then.”
“Then what are you?”
Carter smiled, then laughed, quietly. “That, Vincent, is for both of us to find out.”
Without another word, he turned and was swept away in the river of people moving along the street. Vincent stood still, watching his pale yellow hair vanish in the mist and people. What Louis had said rang in his head, combined with Carter’s voice. The man was certainly not human, and certainly not a soulless. Soulless humans felt nothing that related to emotion, nothing at all. Some drew into themselves, using their skin as a shell, becoming dead-eyed and muttering husks of their former selves. Others simply used their lack of a soul to their advantage. But Carter felt, while other soulless didn’t. He felt for humans and nonhumans alike, and used his vast understanding of life itself to lead them into the light, into a life lead well and happily. He knew the concept of happiness, Carter did. He knew pain, by the look in his eye, he knew sadness, and he knew how to somehow overcome it to be a better person.
Vincent shook his head, starting down the road to shadow Carter Hall’s path. He would not be retiring to the bookshop or his lodgings so soon, after finding Carter so easily. The man did, in fact, look weak, as Louis had said, but Vincent felt he would not be as strong as the old man had said. Perhaps Louis had a hard time fighting the young man, and perhaps he had made up the rest of the story to unnerve Vincent. The demon couldn’t see Carter as a fighter, especially with what he spoke of and how he behaved. He was awkward, if only a bit, and didn’t seem the kind to take to violence so quickly. Not as quickly as Vincent, anyway. If he ambushed the man from the shadows, he could get the upper hand and extract his soul. Whether it would be the pure white it should be was none of Vincent’s concern.
He caught sight of Carter just as he turned right, that odd hair whipping out of sight as Vincent picked up his pace. That small road would lead back to the square, and indeed Carter was moving swiftly into the step of others, avoiding hansoms and horses with what seemed like serpent-like ability. More than once, he slipped out of sight, and Vincent threw caution to the wind as he ran through the square, catching up but keeping a safe distance back. Carter, though odd in appearance, odd in behavior, was like a ghost. He moved toward the clock tower, the street to its right, and among the dark hair and dreary clothes, he moved as though he belonged, as though he had lived in the city all his life.
Carter walked past a clothing store, a library, and paused outside a café. Vincent shielded his eyes, squinting to be sure Carter was opening the door, glancing behind him quickly, slipping inside. Cautious, Vincent walked with the flow, passed by the people in a hurry, cursed at for being so slow. He moved to the dusty window and pressed his nose against the glass. Carter passed the various tables, nodding at some and smiling to others, and got the attention of a young woman. With a quick word, she nodded, her face brightening as though reuniting with a long-lost friend. Quietly, she referred to the closed door near the back, between a wall and counter, and Carter nodded. In a moment, he was there, and through the door.
Vincent backed away from the door, spinning into the alley and running halfway down. A small, rectangular window stood a couple feet over his head. Its glass had been busted out, and he could hear someone speaking inside. A crate, much like the one Carter had used as his stage earlier, was underneath it, and carefully, Vincent used the slightly-sagging wood to gain height. He leaned against the wall to keep balance, and looked into the window. It was dark enough outside to veil the fact that someone was watching the goings-on in the room.
Carter was leaning against the door, illuminated by the fireplace across from Vincent. He was smiling, in an odd way, looking at the figures across from him. A big man, beside a smaller one, both in black. Vincent watched Carter intently, how calm he appeared even in the presence of two much larger than him, and obviously thinking about harming him. But he stepped forward, into the center of the room, crossing his arms loosely, speaking. Vincent couldn’t hear anything above a dull mutter of garbled language. The larger man stepped forward in turn, moving to Carter’s right, circling him slowly. Raising one heavy hand, he set it on Carter’s shoulder, whether in an accepting or reassuring way Vincent couldn’t be sure, but it seemed put-on. Carter himself didn’t react as Vincent would have.
Last edited by Dexter Morgan; 06-29-2011 at 01:05 AM..
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dirune
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06-27-2011, 10:19 PM
ohhhh... i have missed the intricate weavings of dex, your writing (as always) seems to coaxed you along, beckoning you to read more... i must go.. post #2 calls my name... (ok maybe i am the only one that can hear it, but i am off)
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and ? and ? and? oh i forgot to reply to the second post... too busy reading the third :)
and now? i am restlessly waiting the arrival of the fourth!!! who is this louis character and what does he want with the pure soul? on that thought, what do demons do with souls? do they collect them to stare at? do they eat them? i find myself completely lost as to the activities of demons...
but back to the story, what will vincent do, how will he track down his newest bit of game, and what will conspire betwixt the two? will vincent succeed in retrieval of the soul or will this this soul prove his undoing?
did i mention i am restlessly waiting for further installment ;)
Last edited by dirune; 08-02-2011 at 10:04 PM..
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Dexter Morgan
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06-27-2011, 11:17 PM
Patience is a virtue, my dear! But not to worry; I have re-posted the first reserve to be read. Much of these questions will not be answered very soon, but they will be answered.
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dirune
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06-29-2011, 12:43 AM
ah you have written something that will captivate all (i know i am, also i am ready for more, kinda babyish aren't i, "more, more, more") anyway, your story is really good! i did notice a small typo, let me see if i can remember the sentence "his eyes were blue, something, something" anyway you will see the typo when you read the sentence explaining carters eyes (i think the "a" is supposed to be a "and") you will find it, its a small thing, hardly worth mentioning.
as to the story, this carter (i hope i have that name right, its been a hard day) sounds like a very interesting fellow, i look forward to getting to know him better!
looking forward to "more?" hehe
ah i learn something new everyday!! a tone of blue? interesting, thank you for the education. and thank you for adding to the story!
Last edited by dirune; 06-29-2011 at 10:00 PM..
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Dexter Morgan
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06-29-2011, 01:00 AM
Not to worry about the 'typo'. It's actually supposed to be that way. It's a tone of blue, something that relates to the color of ice, accompanied with a sharp gaze. "As sharp a blue as ice." is what it is supposed to be. As sharp a tone of blue as ice is what it would normally say, but I annexed the 'tone of'. I found it seemed more interesting. And I think I'll finish the reserved post and put it up, then add another. Ack, I should write a little faster!
But thank you so much for noting, and telling me you like it. Is what makes writing worth it!
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dirune
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06-29-2011, 10:02 PM
ah we are about (i think?) to learn of carters mysterious strength, hmm, maybe not... we will have to wait and see!!!!
p.s. don't hurt yourself typing to fast! i am an insatiable reader, you have been warned :)
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Dexter Morgan
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06-30-2011, 12:31 AM
The smaller of the two in black moved slowly, giving Carter a wide breadth but not as though he were wary. In fact, Vincent saw a strange smile on his face as he ran his hand over his dark brown hair. The larger one moved in front of Carter, raising his hand and winding his fingers in the nest of pale gold hair. He said something, a glare on his face, as though his anger had showed itself. He jerked Carter’s head back, revealing a knife from his pocket. Carter’s face was placid, blank, even when the gleaming blade was passed across his exposed throat light enough not to cut, but hard enough to leave a thin track. Vincent didn’t see anything; it was too dark to make out any details.
The smaller one drew forward, taking Carter by the front of his off-white shirt and throwing him into the door, pinning him there with one hand. Carter shook his hair out of his eyes and focused on the man, raising his hands but not in a threatening manner. He spoke, but it only seemed to enrage them even more. The smaller one pinning him down yanked him forward and threw him to the side, revealing a knife of his own and pointing it at Carter. Vincent had to raise himself up a bit, but could not see Carter’s face as it was turned to the men. He raised his hands and his voice, and for the first time Vincent could hear what words were exchanged:
“… didn’t come here for violence. And I don’t know what your big friend wants of me, but I’m not going to simply roll over and submit.”
“Human.” The smaller one’s voice was loud, but controlled. “You came here for a reason and still are not afraid. Only fools have no fear!”
From the distance, the slight breeze blowing in front of him, Vincent had not noticed that the two men were demons. Their scents would have tipped him off, but they were too far away from each other. They probably wanted Carter’s soul, or something more. Carter didn’t appear to want to give anything up without a fight.
“I have fear.” He said. “I simply won’t show it.”
The small one was pushed forward by the larger one. “If you have fear, you’ll do as told then.” He said.
“No. I’m not a dog.” Carter stepped toward the door. “I just want to leave without confrontation; I knew this was a bad idea…”
The small one leapt forward, barring the only exit. “No! You’ll stay, and you’ll listen to us! We only want one thing. It doesn’t have to be more trouble than it is.”
“These tactics may have worked before,” Carter growled, “but not now. Not with me.”
The large one spoke, but his words were very low. Carter had turned his gaze to him, leaving the smaller one open for an attack, a chance he took. Using the door for leverage, he pushed off with his knife in front of him, but Carter turned and moved aside just in time. He backed away, but drew no weapon of his own, and when the smaller one regained his footing, Carter moved forward and grabbed his wrist. The man struggled, grabbing Carter’s loose hair and pulling it forward, forcing him to look down, but the hand with the knife was still restrained, even as it tried to move. Carter ran him into the wall below where Vincent watched with a slightly-open mouth, nearly unable to believe what was happening.
The larger man moved forward, grabbing Carter around the waist and lifting him away from his companion, throwing him to the floor. Carter rolled, getting onto his knees when the larger of the two bared down on him with his own knife above his head, swiping in vicious patterns that Carter stopped with a swift grab. His thin hand closed around the blade, but no blood was drawn. He bent the blade upward, snapping it off, spinning it in his hand and thrusting forward, burying its tip deep inside the man’s chest to where it was hardly visible in the darkness. He fell forward, spilling blood from the wound and his mouth, and Carter threw him to the side.
Before he could get up, however, the smaller man dragged him backward by the hair, and Carter let out a gasp of surprise. With his hands at his head, stopping the assailant from ripping his hair out, he levered his feet underneath him and spun around, bringing his knee up and connecting with the stranger’s stomach and lower chest. Vincent grimaced, imagining the ribs cracking at the speed and force of the strike, but the man didn’t seem to give any notice to what damage he surely sustained. He repositioned the knife in his hand and pushed Carter back, over one of the only pieces of furniture in the room, and in a moment was on top of him, pinning him with his legs and the weight of his body, stabbing at Carter’s face.
The man was strong, it appeared to Vincent, but Carter had the upper hand; with both arms he blocked the strikes, making his attacker angrier every moment. When he raised his arms over his head, letting out a howl of rage, Carter struck with the swiftness of a serpent, grasping his arms and bringing them down on the seat cushions beside him with such force a snap broke the silence, and the man’s arm. He released the knife with another scream, this time of pain, and Carter scooped it up, winding his arms around the one on top of him and bringing the blade down, digging it into his spine and deeper, twisting it. The smaller man’s body shuddered, his eyes wide, and he fell to the side. Carter dug the knife out of him, tossing it to the floor, and did the same with the blade still jammed into the larger man’s chest.
Last edited by Dexter Morgan; 06-30-2011 at 01:11 AM..
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dirune
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06-30-2011, 01:42 AM
hmmm... a fight in the back room of a cafe, so carter is a man who knows how to take care of himself and has the strength to back it up, but what is he? human? not demon! what strange and intriguing creature is our friend carter? and will vincent attempt to procure the soul after all or has he found someone with whom a friendship could be kindled? ahhh ... is a good story
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06-30-2011, 01:58 AM
He dragged the now-motionless body of the larger man into the center of the room, splaying him on his back, his hands crossed on his stomach, and did the same with the smaller one, lying him beside his companion. Vincent’s hands had gone numb as he had been gripping the window frame. He watched with still-open mouth as Carter knelt before them, at their heads, and bowed his head. Vincent could not make out what he was muttering, but it lasted for only a moment before he raised his gaze and drew his hair back, pulling it into a pony tail. Pulling his sleeves up, he turned his focus to the smaller of the two.
Hovering his right hand over the open mouth of the man, he murmured with half-closed eyes and fingers dancing only slightly, as though coaxing something into existence. Carter’s hands were graceful, and as he moved them over the open mouth of the dead man, some strange aura filled the room, something pure and cold, something Vincent had never felt before. It hurt him, to breathe in the aura, to even be around it, and it seemed to surround him like a thick blanket, heavy and suffocating, but he remained, gritting his teeth, holding his breath. Something was floating out of the man’s mouth as though obeying Carter’s words, something black and misty that slightly resembled a soul.
Finally, Vincent’s lungs could not cope, and he gasped, falling off the crate and stumbling into the wall opposite the café. The sensation coming from the room, the aura, was too benevolent, too pure. It was like holy light, or blessed water to a demon, slightly blinding and unnerving and crushing. Carter was certainly something Vincent had never seen before.
***
Sitting on a bench outside Roy Brown’s bookshop, Vincent had still not stopped shaking. Roy was beside him, quiet, but observant. His friend had said nothing since returning, throwing the file detailing Carter Hall into the fireplace, and walking back outside. He waited patiently, hands folded under his chin, ready to listen to Vincent. Until then, he watched people walk by, heard vendors and gamblers call to one another or to passersby.
“I’ll never get near him.” Vincent said at last, his voice hoarse and strained. “He isn’t human. He’s… something else. It’s like the direct opposite of a demon. An angel, of sorts. That must be why he looks so different.”
“I don’t think Carter is an angel.” Roy said. “Perhaps he has a holy aura.”
“No, Roy. He isn’t human. I could feel it when we first met, something off about him, but not in a bad way. And now, he killed two men, snapped their knife without gaining so much as a scratch, and… I don’t know what after that.”
“Probably purifying the souls.”
“Pardon?”
“Purifying the souls. I’ve only read about it, but some people can kill someone in self defense or to save someone else, and with a whispered prayer and concentration of all goodness inside them, can manually extract the soul of the deceased and purge the evil and corruption from it. It’s not a human ability, certainly, but I doubt it’s an angelic ability.”
“Well, it’s the only conclusion I can come to. I’ve never felt an energy so powerfully good, so clean.” Vincent put his head in his hands. “I can’t get that soul.”
Roy laughed out loud, making Vincent look up and glare at him. “Yes, you can.” Roy said. “You’ve never said that before, so I won’t believe it. Vincent, you have yet to even try!”
“I can’t get near him.”
“Yes you can.” Roy turned to look directly at him. “This power of his is too strong. Every time he uses it, the energy takes a bit of his life.”
“It’s killing him?”
“Certainly. He isn’t like you, Vincent. Your power is derived from death itself, and every time you use it, you extend your life a bit. Darkness is death, while light is life. Powers derived from light, or life-power, runs off the bearer’s pure life energy, and taxes the body so much it knocks off a day or hour or sometimes a year of their life.”
“I never knew that.”
“Of course not, Vincent. You don’t read as much as I do.”
“But does Carter know?”
“I’m not sure. If he does, he’s really taking chances. I mean, some with this power, I read, never use it, and hide away. They’re afraid of death, of the boat ride down the river.”
“But if Carter dies, he won’t get a chance to come back.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The boat man. He always looks into your eyes before you board the boat for the ride to the land of the dead. I hear the eyes are the windows to the soul, and if it’s true, he studies your soul before setting off. Carter’s is rare, a soul completely pure, unstained. If the boat man is looking for a soul like that, he won’t let Carter go no matter what.”
“Probably. Or he’s searching for a soul so black it’s got no way of being saved from Hell.” Roy looked at Vincent. “Then again, I doubt it. He would have kept you if that were the case.”
Vincent growled, and stood. “I’m going to the river.”
“Be careful.”
Vincent nodded and started off, moving left. He got back onto Moloch street and retraced the direction that led him right to Carter Hall the first time. The location was empty of any yellow hair or an icy gaze, and Vincent managed to settle enough to stop shivering. The remnants of the holy aura was still lingering in his mind, enough to unnerve him but not enough to take his gaze from the road and dive into an alley to clear his head. He had never been so compromised, and it bothered him to be off his guard. Anyone could be following him, waiting for an opening, waiting to strike. And he had left many openings.
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dirune
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06-30-2011, 02:16 AM
ack! and wow! and ho boy! so the mysterious carter get a bit more mysterious and yet a bit more manageable for our friend vincent. sure carter threw him for a loop, but vincent has a strong friend in his corner. what will transpire next... can't wait to see !!!!!
Last edited by dirune; 08-02-2011 at 10:05 PM..
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Dexter Morgan
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07-01-2011, 01:36 AM
He left the city behind by way of Atkins Drive, a wide street that gradually turned to packed earth, and small, stiff weeds started dotting the landscape. The weeds were quickly joined by bristly grass, tall and untended, and trees, their branches slightly bare, harshly jutting up to the sky. Some contained heavy flowers, their petals dark blue and purple, dripping a sappy crimson liquid. The leaves appeared burnt in their green tone, hard to bend and heavy, like the flowers. But in the slight breeze that started to pick up as Vincent left the city for the River of the Dead, the leaves brushed against one another, producing a dry noise like the rustling feathers of a giant bird.
The wind churned the clouds that crowded the sky above. Vincent stepped over a fallen tree, its flowers withered. The sound of slowly-flowing water met his ears, along with the smell of something rotting mixed with an oddly-inviting scent of peace and quiet. The feelings it invoked were made to lure the unsuspecting living toward its dark black waters. The river was wide, massively so, to the point where Vincent could only just see the other shore. Swirling atop the steady water was an oily substance, something no one alive could identify. Its immediate smell was that of rot.
Bending down, Vincent looked into the water. It was too murky to see more than several inches beyond the surface. Most city-dwellers avoided the place as though it carried a deadly and contagious illness, but all it really carried was the boat that shepherded the dead to their final resting place. If they didn’t go to Hell instead. Running one’s hand through the water was usually a very bad idea, but Vincent was one of those who could. With a demon’s blood in his veins, Vincent could easily touch the water and whatever else floated in it without many negative affects. When he did, though, his entire body became cold. The water’s properties were strange, ethereal, and left a sticky black film on Vincent’s fingers when he drew back, something like tar.
He sat back, on the hard-packed ground, watching the river move. On his way to his destination, he had been wondering why he even came. When the first few bubbles floated to the surface, the answer was a clear one. Wiping the tarry, oily substance from his hand, Vincent stood and backed away from the shoreline until he hit the fallen tree. The water was gurgling, bubbles popping, creating a grayish foam that was washed away by the sluggish rush. As though in response to the disturbance Vincent created in the river’s flow, something was moving below the surface.
A hand was the first to appear, groping for solid land, pale, mottled-green skin appearing to move without help from the hand. It grasped a protruding tree root that had wormed its way into the river, pulling itself up and out of the water. With a pained, hopeless moan, the figure fought, and fell onto the pathway. A man, stout in body, shivered and looked up to Vincent.
His eyes were very sunken, white, and the skin of his face seemed to be sagging. His clothes were nothing but rags, a black shirt and pants, but with no shoes. His hair was saturated with the same tar-like substance that covered his clothes and some of his skin. When he stood, he came to be almost a foot taller than Vincent, who had pushed away from the tree to join the man who had dragged himself from the depths of the River of the Dead.
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dirune
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07-02-2011, 03:23 AM
... ok... AND THEN!!! hehe, just kidding. ok so vincent has gone to the river of the dead, to meet?... the dead dude from the tar river? and then....
you just left it hanging... i mean its right there...and then... poof... nothing. i vote you post some more :)
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Dexter Morgan
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07-02-2011, 03:27 AM
“Vincent.” He said immediately, in a deep, harsh voice. “I thought I felt a dark energy. What brings you to the river?” He went to a tree, leaning heavily against its trunk.
“I’m getting away from a situation is all, Bernard.” Vincent replied, crouching at the shore again.
“Mmm, running from your problems, are you?”
“No. I’m running from the people who bring about these problems.”
Bernard laughed, a deep gurgling sound. “Running either way. What’s got you so worked up you’d come to this accursed place?”
“Something I’ve never seen before. Something… impossible.” Vincent stared across the water, at the other shore he could hardly see. “A pure soul.”
“Pure? Ah, impossible! No one’s got a pure soul. No human, anyways.”
“That was what I thought in the beginning. But I think it’s true. I’ve never felt an energy so powerfully good.”
“Everyone is bad, even if it’s just a little.”
“I don’t know about this one.”
“Why you need me to tell you what to do?”
“Well, seeing as your grammar could use an adjustment, I’m not entirely sure.” Vincent smiled a bit. “But really, Bernard, I don’t think I can get around Carter for more than a few minutes. He… radiates a pure energy that curdles my blood.”
“You got to deal with that. No human’s all-good, none.”
“No matter how many times you say it, it hardly makes it true. You don’t know.”
Bernard nodded. Even from where he stood, Vincent could hear his joints popping. “Right. I don’t know. Just because I’m a few decades older than you, but… What could I know?”
Vincent rolled his eyes. “Bernard. What do you know about soul extracting?”
“It’s easy, when you have… erm, one of those things you have.”
“No, not with an actual extractor. I mean by using your… energy. Condensed life energy completely based on your goodness.”
“Never did heard of that.” Bernard scratched his face, rearranging the loose skin. “Didn’t think it was possible. Don’t you have that bookie friend to ask?”
“I thought I would get a second opinion is all.”
“What, you saw it happen?”
“Yes. Carter did it.”
“How?”
“Well he…” Vincent raised his hand over the water, moving it as Carter had. “I don’t know, I only saw a bit. I had to get away because it affected me so… so much.”
Bernard chuckled. “I dunno what you’re talking about, Vince.” He admitted. “But if I was you, I’d go look for the guy.”
Vincent nodded, standing and turning to his companion. “Yes, I do suppose it would be best to actually talk to him. But I’m not sure if he would trust me.”
“If he’s really as pure as you say, he’ll trust you.”
“Hm.” Vincent went back to the fallen tree. “Thank you, Bernard.” He said. “You have helped quite a bit.”
“Not sure how I did that.” Bernard said. “But I’ll leave you to it.”
When he turned again, Vincent saw Bernard slither back into the water, rejoining those who had drowned long ago. Moving toward the city again, Vincent kept hesitating, drifting toward the trees to examine their heavy blossoms. They gave off a sickeningly-sweet scent, intoxicating, and by the time he made it back to the paved road, his head was swimming.
He went back to the café first, questioning the woman who had allowed Carter Hall into the back room a time before. He hardly listened to her, but caught the name Tamari. He recognized the name as a shelter for the sick who could not afford to go to the hospital. With a nod and muttered “Thank you”, he took off at a sprint, out the door and down the street, through the crowded city square and around the fountain, down a narrow street. Smaller shops and vendors lined the sidewalks, workers hauling animal skins or bales of hay and dried grasses, some scrounges and orphans who decided to fend for themselves rather than trust adults.
The shelter was a large one, three floors in all, tucked away between a gambling house and office building used for quieter activities. The door was always open for anyone to come in, and the entire operation was run by a former priest. Without a word, Vincent stepped up the stairs and into the house, shaking the faint cloudiness away from his thoughts. The first room was crowded with overstuffed, mismatched couches and chairs, tables filled with old newspapers read and reread so much they were crumbling away at the edges. Sometimes a cough or sneeze would break through the soft conversations. As Vincent worked through the humbly-dressed poor, he found the priest, Bailey Gertler.
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dirune
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07-02-2011, 03:38 AM
yes, talking to the source is always a good idea (saves a lot of misunderstandings :) ah but who is this new fellow, a priest? is he a major player or is he only with us for a short time? i can't wait to see!!!! (oh but i will wait, i don't want to rush you and sometimes i worry that i am rushing you, how rude of me! :)
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07-10-2011, 07:43 AM
“Vincent! What brings you here?” Gertler asked, a voice high that held some hesitation. Dull brown eyes swept past him to glance at the ill surrounding them.
“I’m looking for someone.” Vincent replied simply, studying the people around. They were all dark-haired, dim-eyed, gray-skinned. Carter was nowhere in sight.
“I would be happy to help.” Gertler said. “Might you tell me what he looks like, perhaps a name?”
“His name… Carter Hall.”
Gertler considered for a moment. He had an astounding memory, and could recall anyone who lived at or visited the shelter. “Hm, no. I’ve never heard the name before.”
“Well, what about someone with pale yellow hair, and blue eyes?”
Gertler raised a hand, running it through his coarse brown-gray hair. “Yes. I’ve seen someone like that. A strange boy, he is. He never gave me a name; all he wanted was to talk to the people.”
“Where did he go?”
“Upstairs. I told him those with not long to live stayed there, where it’s quiet.”
Vincent felt his eyes go wide. “You allowed someone you don’t know to be alone with the dying?”
“Now, Vincent.” Gertler put a hand on his shoulder. “I would never do something like that if I didn’t trust him. Certainly I only just met the boy, but he radiated a very good energy, something I could trust. It makes me believe he would never harm those who could not defend themselves.”
“Is he still up there?”
“I never saw him come down, so I assume he is.”
Vincent looked at the ceiling, as though he could see right through the old wood and peeling paint to Carter. Gertler tilted his head, but said nothing, and left the room through the archway behind him. Vincent could feel the traces of positive energy that Carter left in his wake, and as he wandered around the room, considering what to do quickly as he observed the items at his disposal. The ones who lived on the first floor were rather sickly, but could still walk and hold a conversation without becoming breathless or fatigued. Shrugging out of his jacket, Vincent stowed it away under one of the sagging couches, stuffing his vest and tie underneath as well. Stepping close to the fireplace, he rubbed some of the soot off the wall and floor beside it while no one paid him any attention.
He dusted the soot on his beige shirt, wrinkling the fabric, sweeping his hands over his face and leaving traces of the ashen color on his skin and darker circles under his eyes. Pulling an old blanket from the back of a chair in the corner, he wrapped it around his shoulders like several of the others, who were shivering in front of the window or sitting in front of the fireplace with their eyes closed tightly. Taking a brown cap from the window sill beside him, he swept the back of his hair up and slid the hat over his head, sitting in the chair he was in front of. Turning his gaze toward the door that led to the stairwell, he lifted his feet, tucking them under him and moving the blanket to hide most of him.
Gertler came back in through the archway, glancing around the room. Vincent bowed his head, allowing his hair to fall limply out from under the hat and hide most of his face. Gertler stared around for a moment, obviously searching for Vincent. As he swept the room with his pale gaze, the door at the left of the fireplace opened and Carter entered. He stepped toward Gertler with a stony face.
“He hasn’t got long.” Carter said solemnly. “I would bring his daughter in for a final good-bye, if you can find her.”
Gertler nodded, but moved close to Carter, speaking very quietly, so that Vincent couldn’t hear. Carter’s brows lifted with what seemed like surprise, but it vanished when Gertler met his gaze. With a brief handshake, Carter stepped away and left the house. Gertler stood quietly for a moment, staring at the floor as though saddened, or lost in thought. Vincent could not tell which from his position. With a deep breath, Gertler ran his hand over his hair, and started across the room. In silence, he went upstairs.
Vincent unfolded his legs and retrieved his vest and jacket, and ripped the hat off his head. Tying his tie, Vincent made for the door Gertler had just gone through while buttoning his vest and pulling his jacket back on. Gertler had gone to the second floor, he could tell from his soft voice coming from the door that had been left ajar on the first landing above the stairs to his right. Stepping slowly, evening his weight to avoid letting the stairs creak any more than they would have, he looked around the door and found Gertler standing over the bed of an invalid.
Leaping up the rest of the stairs, Vincent pushed through the door and walked swiftly toward Gertler, whose gaze was wide and fearful. Grabbing the older man’s collar, Vincent yanked him away from the bed of the man who already seemed to be dead and shoved him back. “You know him, don’t you?” Vincent demanded. “You know Carter.”
“Vincent, I don’t want any part of this---”
Vincent shook him. “Damn you, Bailey, I don’t want to hurt you right now! All I want is to know where he went.”
“I… I can’t say.”
“You can. You can tell me. The life of that man is worth it, is it not?” He nodded to the motionless man not far away, whose chest was rising and falling with strained breath. “Tell me where Carter went, Bailey, and perhaps the man will live a little longer.”
Gertler gasped raggedly. “All right!” He backed away and straightened his wrinkled shirt. “He said he would be going to Tillman’s Inn for the night. He has a few issues to take care of, and he will be unable to come back here tonight for the final goodbye between this man and his daughter, should I find her.”
“The Inn? Then he is staying in the city for the night?”
“Yes, obviously. He said nothing about leaving, but I doubt he will stay much longer.”
Vincent’s gaze softened. “I see. How well do you know this man, Bailey?”
“Not well. He came here a few days ago, and asked if he could talk with the people here. They were so uplifted after his visits, I couldn’t make him stay away, and he came around as he pleased, with new words of hope for those with no hope at all.”
Vincent cringed. “I see. Thank you, Bailey, and keep your head low from now on.” With that, he turned and stormed out of the room, his feet clunking noisily on the stairs as he left.
Once more outside, Vincent looked around. Carter was nowhere to be seen; not a lock of pale yellow hair, not a flutter of his brown duster. His pressing gaze was lacking. Vincent leapt off the stairs and started right, pushing through the overcrowded streets and stumbling sometimes over crates or hay bales. Tillman’s Inn was rather small, just across the bridge that offered safe passage across a smaller branch of the river that was fed from the River of the Dead. The water itself seemed to have a mind of its own, but was not deadly if one were to stick their fingers into its flow. Vincent crossed the bridge, its boards creaking threateningly under his feet, a lonely moaning coming from below, gurgling their tuneless noise.
The street on the other side of the bridge was very narrow; two horses could only just get their carriages past one another, should they arrive at the same place at the same time. Vincent took to the sidewalk, tripping sometimes on uneven cobblestones, focusing a bit easier since the sun had started to go down behind the clouds. Glancing to the sky, he could see its pale gray shadow sinking just above the taller buildings of Portman Boulevard, where he was. The tiny shops had slowly become houses, whose windows were coming aglow with pale yellow light. The inn was at the end of the street, where the road split into two going opposite ways. Some lights were on in the windows, and the front door was open to let the outside air flow in.
Before Vincent could get to the door, Carter came out. His expression was blank, as though lost in another world, as he went down the five steps outside the door and turned right. Vincent took chase, following at a distance, using others as shields as he walked in step with them. Carter seemed slow, quickly passed up by others. Halfway down the road, he turned into an alley, vanishing before Vincent could catch up. Rushing past his human barricade, earning a disgruntled mutter from him, keeping pressed against the building and sparing a glance into the mouth of the tunnel. The darkness was strong, but not enough to black out the movement of Carter.
He had gone halfway down the alley already, but had paused. Slowly, as quietly as he could, Vincent stepped inside the alley and started toward him. Unclipping the syringe from the belt under his jacket, he sped up, holding the syringe much like a knife, bringing it back. He swung forward, over his head, aiming for Carter’s neck, almost feeling the impact before Carter swung around with a hand up, grabbing his wrist and spinning Vincent around, running him into the nearest wall. Shocked, but not completely thrown off guard, Vincent pushed himself forward and swung his empty hand for Carter’s hair.
Last edited by Dexter Morgan; 07-11-2011 at 08:51 PM..
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Dexter Morgan
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07-10-2011, 07:44 AM
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dirune
(-.-)zzZ
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07-11-2011, 08:44 PM
ummm... this is me... not rushing you :)
-by the way long time no hear, you guys ok?-
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Dexter Morgan
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07-11-2011, 08:45 PM
Oh! I completely forgot to post the next bit. I've been working on another. And yes, we are all very well. I'll have another posted in a moment, let me see if I have enough.
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dirune
(-.-)zzZ
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07-11-2011, 08:48 PM
ah so you are here! hehe
wasn't trying to hurry you (well sorta) but glad to hear you all are good!
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Dexter Morgan
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07-11-2011, 08:52 PM
Of course I'm here! I'm bored, and tired from eliminating a horde of grasshoppers as our most recent job. So I have the next bit down!
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dirune
(-.-)zzZ
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07-11-2011, 09:01 PM
grasshoppers?... odd, how does one eliminate grasshoppers?
-i have to go but i hope to chat soon... and i want to know how to eliminate grasshoppers? :)
(groan) you always leave it at such impossible places... your last installment was good though.... (hint, hint)
Last edited by dirune; 07-11-2011 at 09:18 PM..
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