[Flashback] Children Stories with Unhappy Endings

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A city floating in the center of a lake, Ravok is a place of dark beauty, romance and culture. Behind it all though is the presence of Rhysol, God of Evil and Betrayal. The city is controlled by The Black Sun, a religious organization devoted to Rhysol. [Lore]

[Flashback] Children Stories with Unhappy Endings

Postby Devmond Incarnata on August 19th, 2011, 8:09 pm

PC's: Devmond Incarnata, Victor Lark
Timestamp: Spring, AV 500, Day 13


Even years later as Devmond grew in the last of his adult fangs, he would never forget that a human was responsible for his own father punching out his first on that wet morning of spring. It was during a business trip to Ravok when their family still dealt in the trading of Kalinor silk. Against a natural shyness and fear of the surface, Devmond had been dragged along by his father when he was still young enough that many things were left unnamed. He was told that experience was a way for him to become a better man, but Devmond stayed silent as his soles wore thin. After a few months of traveling, a few days before that fated moment, they were boarding a ship from The Southern Trading Post to a southern point at the Docks of the city’s edge. It had taken four days for their papers and goods to be inspected and approved. They were lucky to have at least one contact, the Crespi family, who had a good reputation from entertaining parties that a nonhuman merchant, a Symenestra at that, could pass through without too much jostling.

It also helped that Mr. Passiflora-Incarnata had an appearance that made him appear outlandishly foppish if not simpleminded. His father dressed, in Devmon’s secret opinion, like a circus clown. White dress pants that always carried pockets full of sugar snaps to hand to his business partners’ children. The black boots were polished to reflect those stripped pink and purple knee-highs. A casual smile balanced on a silk tie with pink and white dots. Today, he was embarrassing his son further by toting a lightning patterned umbrella, matching lime cane, and white top hat plumed from exotic birds. He even dyed his goatee the same purple dye he used on the tips of the curled locks on his head.

If Mr. Passiflora-Incarnata showed any attention to the fresh remarks that his presence enticed, it was a sideways grin that showed pearly canines that was as generous as it was terrifying. His father had taught his son that their family name was that of an exotic jungle plant that’s perfume and fruit were displayed proudly, heritage of a fearless nature. Devmond, not as romantically metaphorical, preferred the quiet array of the dark. These preferences were never practiced, as he quickly learned what a lashing tongue his father hid behind that fenced smile. The small boy was dressed each morning like a doll by their servants at his father’s direction.

Embellished in a long riding jacket and silk ribbons, the only thing young Devmond did not regret wearing was the miniature parasol that he could hide his blushing face from the blank, searching stares of the other passengers. It had been issued to hide the delicate Symenestra skin from the rays of exposure, the thick clothing to hide inhuman features; it was Mr. Passiflora-Incarnata’s intention to ‘hide in plain sight’ against the xenophobia that ran pulsing along the canals from the Temple of the Black Sun. Those adult concerns were lost on the boys’s turbulent heart that issued a thousand curses of wrinkles on the tall man beside him. He was at the age that doubted everything about the once polished image of his parent, but also because of the insignificance he felt in the shadow of an eccentrically forceful character.

“You know, Dev, it wouldn’t hurt to look a little more cheery, you know this city is not the kindest to strangers.” his father said under his breath as they walked down the docked boat’s ramp. The order was given to their attendants to follow behind with the bolts of silk fabric, while they would continue to the residence of Salvo Crespi where they had been cordially invited for warm beds and plentiful entertainment. His father led him to the Crespi’s private dock where a Ravasola emblazoned with the name of their host, and seated a slave woman who beckoned to them with a slender oar. It did not escape Devmond’s notice that his father winked flirtatiously to their pilot as they pushed off into the muddied water. Glowering, the child sat with arms crossed and continued to bore a hole in the leaky bottom of the gilded craft with all his concentration.

“Hey,” his father’s voice sharp next to the lapping of the waves, “Did you know how they find slaves in this city?”

“No, father, I do not.”

“You see the Ebonstryfe-. You remember what I told you about Ebonstryfe, son?”

“They’re the militant force in the city.”

“Yes, well, more specifically they are the militant arm of the Black Sun. In any case, the slave market is supported by them. They have agents everywhere, lying in wait to snatch victims for profit. There’s a key point though in common with all those they choose for slaves, can you see what it is?” Devmond followed the pointed finger to a crowd of people gathered in front of a large stage. Instead of costumed performers, were bedraggled paupers all chained together looking neither comedic or tragic but had the blank faces of those no longer feeling even your pity. “Can’t figure it out?” his father continued. “Well, see they were unhappy. As ironic as it sounds, everyone who is a true citizen here can only smile under the protection of the god of evil, Rhysol. Only strangers or those who pose harm to the city would dare not feel his influence. The moment an agent spies someone with a face like that, they put the shackles around him.”

The words were spoken with such calm, unbroken rhythm that Devmond’s eyes widened in panic. Something was passed between a look from Mr. Passiflora to the slave woman, and she turned to the child and nodded with solemnity. Leaning back, his father watched with clasped hands and an amused smile as his son stretched his face to put a strained smile in the center of the twitching muscles. “Better.” he said, giving the boy a pat on the head.

They arrived at the Crespi villa in the afternoon just as the hot sun was beginning to relax from its stiff place in the center of the sky. The boat had pulled into the dock, where their hosts had come out to meet them. Mrs. Crespi was wrapped so tightly that curves bulged and jiggled in every direction as though trying to escape. She shuffled so excitedly towards him in four-inch heels that Devmond was left flustered from a whirlwind of kisses and giggles. His father had to prod him forward with the parrot at the top of his cane as they continued into the opened doors.

“What was that?” Devmond muttered dazed.

“That’s what you call a trophy wife.” his father whispered.

“Why don’t we have one of those?”

“They have very expensive upkeep, and need replacing every so often.”

Mr. Crespi might have heard them because he gave Mr. Incarnata a sly smile below a large bumpy nose that looked pickled. He walked next to his father, contrasting the Symenestra’s airy walk with a gate that was as stiff as a mechanical toy soldier. Guided to a sitting room carved out of velvet and cherrywood, Mr. Crespi steered the conversation immediately to topics that were lulling Devmond to sleep. They discussed rates of miza exchange, politics, money, and money. As he sunk into the plush armchair, he felt a manicured hand rub his shoulder. Mrs. Crespi, saying that she had no interest either in those ‘man talks’, asked if would like to accompany her on a walk. Thankful that it did not become a showy tour of her possessions, Devmond was taken to a balcony that overlooked a lower veranda filled with potted flowers and an open view of the noble’s district. Whether it was his increasing exhaustion or the beauty of the setting sun that lighted the fine buildings in a glow of Syna’s glory, he barely heard the lovely woman talk of some gossip about their neighbors, the Larks, and a mischievous son that was about Devmond’s age. He only nodded, trying to brush sleep from his eyes, as she prattled about another party they were hosting that next night. He was gone into the softness her arms when she asked about dinner.
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[Flashback] Children Stories with Unhappy Endings

Postby Victor Lark on August 22nd, 2011, 1:42 am

    “If it en’t the truth, my mother’s a Kelvic!” Jacob Nitrozian had said, when Victor Lark doubted the tales of the so-called spider-kin.

    “And there’s one here, in Ravok?” He’d conceded, breathless.

    “Brought his spawn with him, too.”
The sun was already dropping fast when Victor found his way from that alley to the gilded Crespi townhouse. As soon as rumors of a Symenestra merchant’s arrival had reached the ears of the Noble District’s boy-gang, the flavor of their games and conversation took a turn for the mystical and mysterious. Victor and Jacob did not want to paint themselves up as helpless damsels or white-faced villains, so they discussed a different game, one that should prove infinitely more exciting. The game culminated in Lark’s little fingers clinging to the vine-wall below a wide yellow balcony, while his friend’s words egged him on from the front of his memory.

And just as Jacob had said, the balcony and adjacent hall were empty. The Crespis would be busy inviting in their less-than-wholesome guests at this hour, and if they entertained the way they usually did, then they would occupy the first floor long into the night. The eight-year-old human emitted a grunt of effort as he hoisted himself up the final distance, then a groaning noise as he thumped onto the hard floor beyond the banister. He lay there for a few long seconds, regaining his breath and the feeling in his arms. Then his gaze twisted towards the large door on the opposite wall, more glass than it was wood, and he rose towards it. It did not hesitate when he pulled on the handle.

    “The only way to kill ‘em is with a bloodstone,” the elder boy had told his gullible companion, “They don’t have any blood, you see, so when it touches their heart, it fills ‘em up, and they die.”

    “Why should you kill them?”

    “Because they’re evil, dimwit. They’re only here to steal our mothers and sisters out of their beds.”
Victor moved through the narrow corridor to the first room, happy to find the master bedroom where he thought it would be. He noticed the vanity instantly. His mother’s silk-and-lace chambers seemed spartan compared to the ornamentation on the curtained bed and flowered dresser and three-mirrored vanity. He immediately crossed the room to the cream-colored table, scuffed shoes carving the faintest black line in the plush floral rug. There was a pink velvet jewelry box set to one side; though he was more than tall enough to reach it, the boy still tossed it onto the floor, in his haste. The carefully organized jewels and chains spilled into a heap and Victor rifled through them as if it were an excavation, as if touching the wrong piece would bring down the wrath of Rhysol himself.

The Lark boy looked like a common thief, dressed in the dark colors to which his mother was partial, frayed and dirty from a day’s worth of play. His shoes had once been clean; so had his hair. He was a black blemish in that gaudy pastel room, but his eyes shone like the finest silver when he saw it.

    “There’s only one bloodstone in the whole city, you know.”

    “Oh yeah? Where is it?”

    “Mrs. Crespi has one in a necklace. It’s the only reason she feels safe enough to let that creature into her home.”
Like a green-goddess amulet stained with unholy blood, the little gemstone hung from his trembling fist by a dainty golden chain. He did not have the time to look too closely at it, though. Out in the hall, he heard the discordant chattering of a woman who could only be Mrs. Crespi, and he panicked.

The plan went only as far as to bring the weapon back to Jacob, who would know how to properly trick and trap the evil foreigner, and Victor had not the slightest idea what to do beyond that. He dared to open the bedroom door only as much as would allow his body to fit through, and the time it took to close it quietly probably cost him the time he would have otherwise had to escape. He did not bother to close the door to the outside as he stole into the cool evening air, only to dive behind a particularly large pot of azaleas just in time to hear the whimpering woman blame the servants for the draft.

They took a seat and began to chat. The conversation went on and on. Well, it was less a conversation and more a lecture; the girl that accompanied the merchant’s wife did not seem inclined to speak. Was it a girl? Victor could not quite tell from his angle, but despite her silhouette against the orange dusk, she seemed to be wearing trousers. Anyway, needed to find a way out. Before he could look too carefully, he was distracted by talk of himself. Victor was proud that he had begun to gain a reputation and he was ready to accept all accusations she made of him, no matter how embellished. He was beaming by the time the subject changed. As his private expression faltered, he remembered his more pressing goal. Her back was all but turned from the corner where the balcony’s edge met the house’s façade. Now that her company had fallen asleep, there would be no one to look...

Victor rose to a crouch and darted to the banister, but as he climbed over it he looked back to make sure he was not being watched. There he saw a better glimpse of the girl, or whatever it was, from within Mrs. Crespi’s embrace. The child’s arms were so thin, its fingers like spider legs... could that possibly be—?

    “Is she going to kill it?”

    “No. That’s why we have to do it.”
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[Flashback] Children Stories with Unhappy Endings

Postby Devmond Incarnata on August 22nd, 2011, 3:43 pm

The only stories his father told had unhappy endings. They were gathered from every important city of the world, picked like souvenirs of curiosity by their merchant calling. His father would write them in Symenos, etched in gold ink and bound in expensive leather. Every night, even in the beginning years that speech was akin with every noise, the curled parchment would be recited until he could no longer stay awake. Not every story was the depiction of the heroes’ isolation, some were open-ended or simply halted at the verge of a revelation. Even if the hero would solve the riddle and slay the monster, making Devmond give a whoop in spontaneous hope, it would follow with a detailed depiction of the violent end of the adversary: rolled down a hill in a barrel full of nails, pits of fanged salamanders and venomous frogs, or dancing to death in shoes of white-hot iron.

It had been introduced so early that it was only natural that Devmond felt racked with guilt as he awoke in his father’s arms. Mr. Crespi was leaning against the back of their sphinx damask loveseat, looking red and irritable as though his intestines were in disagreement. They were sitting now in a richly splashed room with varieties of silver trinkets and carved gemstones of varying rarity dangling from the ceiling. The walls were covered in the painted faces of animals and men, both happy and sad. A gentle tune was played on the violin by a lace adorned slave, who’s gold collar tapped against the swaying piece of spruce and maple. The music was marked at every other measure by the harsh whisper of exchanging voices. Devmond turned against his father’s shoulder to see Mrs. Crespi in the doorway, talking down to a young servant who’s skin became as pale as his own. With pleading hands that trembled the white-suit shirt, the boy asked, “Have I done something wrong? I didn’t mean to fall asleep without you.”

His father looked down with his brows and the tips of his mouth raised to the vaults. “You always assume the fault is your own? Someone upset the master bedroom and may have made off with one of Mrs. Crespi’s finest pieces of jewelry. They’re concerned that the thief could still be in the house.”

“You’d think they would have at least had the decency to keep out of my boudoir, and steal something more valuable and less personal.” Mr. Crespi muttered. “Her mother gave that necklace to Julia before she decided to die of of cholera instead of her feet she always claimed were killing her.”

Reassuring their host that at least he know longer had anything to remind him of mother-in-law’s, Mr. Incarnata then asked what punishments the Ebonstyfe dictated for stealing from a noble’s house. The older gentleman gave one example of a thief who had robbed a prominent dealer of antiques only a month ago. After quietly trading away the dirty items for mizas, the culprit had been distributing his inflated pride with free ale at a local tavern. Unfortunately, his new friends had the arms of The Black Sun: he was dragged from the establishment, strung by his toes, and whipped until flesh hung in ribbons. A miniature carousel horse and half-eaten dinner were the last trophies won by the man who died in a cheap infirmary. “How morbid.” his father said pleasantly while Devmond shuddered as he remembered even more horrible fates that could befall the wicked or the unfortunate. The child was becoming aware that the stories of grown men had meaning besides the sickly feelings that stung his insides, although these characters still only cast shadows that danced their lives away through his mind.

The servant in the doorway had suddenly let loose a sharp sob, unsettling the violinist whose bow swerved a garbled note against two strings, and fled to the kitchens. Mrs. Crespi, looking breathless as the pursued, flopped ungracefully to curl against her husband’s feet. Giving a sigh, she curved toward Devmond, and asked if he would enjoy going to their party tomorrow. A concern was voiced if the midnight parties of Ravok were appropriate for such a small boy while Mr. Crespi wondered aloud why such as his son would not already be exposed to such things. Devmond kept silent for some time as the adults laughed away their subject into the air, keeping the details just out of his reach. His father did this often, but it never ceased to ire how obviously forced was he from so many secrets. Finally, Mrs. Crespi, dropping the innuendos and pretenses, asked what mask he would like to get.

“What’s a mask?”

This question was met with more guffaws from both the free and the slave. The child crossed his arms, burying his face to hide the hot color. Mrs. Crespi generously stopped giggling, and motioned to the masks that decorated the walls. “You wear them,” she explained. “So, for one night, you can be anything you like.” His eyes became horizons, mystified that these floating personas could actually be worn by whoever touched them. At the prompting of Mr. Crespi, a nod of gratitude from his father, Devmond was told that he could keep the one he liked best. He panicked, leaping from his father’s lap to turn around the room as though he had to choose that moment or the chance would be gone. Laughing again at his expense, they assured that he had until his bedtime to decide.

He immediately avoided the obviously female masks with red lips and wispy feathers. Others were too ornamental with peacock metal fans that were jeweled to the weight of two times what his hands could carry. Some even had felt hats attached to the tops or beards made of twined cotton that hung with beads. After awhile, Devmond became vexed with the wreck of colors and hues in his eyes, pouting on the middle of the wool rug. Now with his chin in his hands and a sticky throat, he gave the wall in front of him one final glance. He spied a jester mask, a mottled harlequin, and gave a short laugh at its familial flare. Below it, near the floorboards, was a dull mask that would escape the eye for those who desired the bright garb of the spotlight. It was a dull bronze in color with silver horns that rearranged into the branches of treetops. A snout had knots of bark and ran with gold threads in the grooves of the ears. The slant of its eyes welcomed as though they were already friends. He crawled over to it and plucked it from the wall gently, turning it over and over in his thin fingers.

“You sure this is your child, Duratani?” asked Mr. Crespi. The adults were watching him from their perches on the cushioned furniture, amusing themselves at the amusements of another.

“I do wonder sometimes,” Mr. Incarnata said. “He certainly does not have my sense of style. Then again, the golden hind was always a mysterious character.”
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[Flashback] Children Stories with Unhappy Endings

Postby Victor Lark on August 26th, 2011, 4:24 am

An instant after Victor’s black head ducked beneath the balcony floor, the conscious woman heaved a sigh and began to stand. She muttered something to the child that hung in her arms, turning towards the indoors. He dared to peer over the edge again, little fingers clutching the rail bars, just to catch another glimpse—

It was no use. The two escaped into the hall, and Jacob’s impatience tugged at the back of his mind. His friend would want him to return, to learn of the next step in the plan. But Victor was this close, already! Maybe he did not have to go back. Maybe he could devise his own plan, and then he would not have to wait! The prospect of the Nitrozian boy’s fury eluded him. Mrs. Crespi’s muted scream sparked on the oil of adrenaline that had begun to build in his gut; a short, triumphant gasp escaped his throat.

Though it would have been easiest to climb up and enter again through the same door, even this most foolish of thieves knew it was a bad idea to follow the offended woman, even if the door were not already locked. There were plenty of windows on this side of the house, anyhow. Victor draped the necklace over his head and ducked downward. Descending swiftly against the ease of the vine-wall, he inched to its carefully trimmed edge. To reach the next window from there stretched the bounds of his trousers’ flexibility, but with a little jump he managed it, and then he was hanging from the upper lip of a large (and luckily, curtained) window. He could hear distressed chatter and the wailing of a violinist on the other side. His fingertips had almost shuffled across the entire length of the sill when his swinging feet accidentally bounced against the glass with a hollow, rumbling noise. Panicking, he did not check to see whether a crack had formed before scrambling towards the nearest ledge and summoning up the last of his strength to push through the tiny, unlocked window adjacent.

He found himself on a narrow stairwell, the kind reserved for the likes of slaves and servants. Hastily he closed the dirty window and glanced in both directions; when he found no one around to discover him, he smiled. His gaze turned up the stairs, which would lead him away from the commotion—and the excitement. Lark looked in the opposite direction, towards the occupied room whose window he had disturbed, and decided against the quiet safety of servants’ quarters. Moving as slowly as possible over the old, creaking steps, the boy leaned a careful ear against the door at the bottom of the stair.

Only the indiscernible sound of muffled voices found him. So, naturally, he found the little ring of a handle, crouched, and pushed. To a pair of eyes on the other side of the wall, Victor’s threshold looked like barely a seam in the crowded damask wallpaper, half hidden by the shadow of a peculiarly large bonsai tree. His intrusion drew a hair of a black line in the wall within an extensive collection of masks, interrupted only by the pale olive face that peered through.

From his vantage, one thing occupied most of Victor’s view of the room: that child, with the same head of peculiarly colored hair and those same hands, like painted wisps of willow branches. The hands clutched a metallic mask, which looked from his angle like a stag’s head. The hidden boy wondered momentarily why it held such a thing, but beyond that, he wanted to get it closer, to see if it really was one of them. He could prove it; he knew he could, at least to himself, with the pendant which he had wrapped in one hand as if it were a protective amulet. He waited patiently until a golden eye strayed in his direction, then caught the other child’s gaze in the devious, beckoning hold of his own almond-cased grey. With the glint of a chain dangling from his fist, he raised a forefinger to his lips and hissed, “Shh.”

Then he moved back into the shadow of the secret hall, a shining lure at the end of a mischievous line.
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[Flashback] Children Stories with Unhappy Endings

Postby Devmond Incarnata on August 28th, 2011, 3:00 am

The adults’s found their entertainment in the child soon guided away by Mrs. Crespi’s fantastic menu for the party’s smorgasbord. Amid the sound of dripping chocolate strawberries, Devmond heard a squeak near the twisted bonsai. He peered up from the mask a moment to spy the mouse that must have made the noise. Wearing the mask, he could act the horned Lord of the Forest, Cernunnos, and hunt the creature across the trees that were the carved table legs. As the boy was smiling, something larger then his anticipated prey moved in his sight. A face on the damask wallpaper shifted and its eyes blinked. A mask had come alive. It grew a thin arm that went up to its mouth and hissed at Devmond before disappearing into the very walls.

What threatened was surely a magical being from the stories told under the the brim of the white top hat. Clothed in a thin film of chilled sweat, the child remembered how heroes would be beset by monsters when they stepped too close into their territory. The mask in his hand became heavy. It had been removed from the shadow seam that the black spirit appeared moments after. Devmond turned to see Mr. Incarnata grin, his white fangs bare, at the punchline from the violinist’s ascending note. The child knew it was his fault alone. The one who triggered the curse must see it to the end, he could not seek his father which would be, as it always was, a sneer at the pleading voice. With stiff knees, he rose from the shaggy carpet. They were in the warmth of flushed laughter when Devmond left them to slide into the darkness. Breath had to be held tight to fit into the secret door in the wall. His whole body became the pounding of the blood that’s deafening blows shook him to his fingertips when he found himself alone with the darkly clothed spirit. Hanging farther in the narrow hall, it was standing poised but still. Silver eyes figuring as death lukewarm.

“Good evening, honorable spirit, I meant you no offense in taking this mask.” Devmond whispered with a cracking tone. “The Crespi’s, my hosts, offered me one as a gift, that I may take any that-” He halted his Symenos tongue. What language was spoken in the spirit realm, he wondered. Taking a risk, he hoped to not offend it by speaking Common. Although his father had rigidly schooled him to make human’s comfortable, Devmond’s vocabulary suffered from his preference to relax into his imagination during lessons. His throat constricted in ignorant panic. The mask was held out with his bloodless fingers. “H-hello. Don't take me to the fairy world. Father’s b-business a-ah...make him mad if I got eaten. You want it back? Here take this.”
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[Flashback] Children Stories with Unhappy Endings

Postby Victor Lark on September 1st, 2011, 6:37 pm

The wide smile on his teeth shone in the lambent darkness as he watched the boy approach—it was a boy, he could tell, as he was finally allowed a good glimpse of his face. A boy... but a strange one, the kind that would be greeted with sneers and jests were he ever to seek company among the likes of Jacob or any Lark cousin. Victor’s face fell into unblinking concentration as his prey regarded him with a peculiar look. The eyes glistened, like curiosity, but also fluttered and strayed, like anxiety. Even though the lanky boy was much taller, he seemed to cower and droop. Then he began to stutter some strange, soft noise. The human did not know the language. What if he was telling a secret that Victor would never learn? What if it was a spell? What if he was going to take him away, like Jacob at all but foretold?

It was all he could do not to frown in confusion, or let his own eyes widen in alarm. His arms had dropped, though one hand still clung mindfully to the pendant on his chest. Otherwise he was unmoving, a painted statue waiting for the prayers of a deluded Symenestra child. When that frightened little tongue finally danced a tune he recognized, Victor’s relieved sigh was gracelessly audible. He betrayed a fleeting smile. Without granting the comfort of words, he stepped sideward and swept around the mask-bearing child, so that he could stand between him and the door. His head shook, as if he were disappointed, and he closed the door that remained ajar. The last of the clink and chatter of the adults’ dessert was instantly transported a world away, and the two boys were left in the muted gloom of a false fairy realm.

“You won’t get eaten, if you stay with me,” he finally said, unable to twist his voice into anything more magical or foreign. Fooling the boy that he was a fairy was the only way to convince him to stay by his side. Like everything else, it had become a game, and Victor would make up the rules as he went. He placed the ends of his free fingers on the mask, but only to push it back. The first rule: “Wear it. You’ll need it.”

What was he doing? He could take him to Jacob, and they could see together what a dying devil looked like. But Victor was beginning to resent his friend. If he was smart enough to get this far, why did he need anyone else? He would eventually need to go to a place where people could see him blot out the evil spider-kin. If he just did it and told everyone, no one would believe him. But for now, he wanted to play. He wanted to hear the hissing melody of that other accent, but in words he knew. He wanted to see how long this creature of unknown power and intelligence could be fooled.

He leapt past him again and darted up at stairs, moving as fast as his legs would take him, trying to seem mystically quick. At the top there was a small room, with a table and a lanternand a door. It was where the servants stored things that their master would want, Victor knew, but for now it was unoccupied. For a few long moments, most of his concentration was spent steadying his breath, so he would not huff like a human when he spoke. He sat and leaned against the door. For the first time, the bloodstone emerged from his grasp, untouched and undaunted. It gleamed greasily in the lantern light as he turned his head to the older boy. “What do you want?” Victor said, less accusing and more frank. The second rule: “Everyone who sees fairies wants something. Maybe I can give it to you.”
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[Flashback] Children Stories with Unhappy Endings

Postby Lazybones on January 20th, 2012, 6:09 am

Thread Complete!


Notes: Devmond, if you return, PM me for your grade.

This was hilarious, hahaha.

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