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Topics - Val

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Sweet Crusades / The Accountable
« on: June 07, 2017, 03:08:40 PM »
[size=24]B[/size]eyond the city?s gates one will find, nestled in upon the homely cottages dolloped over the serene, grassy slopes; across the reed-and-mud banks of streams and shallows and only miles from the jam of the city?s innards, some of the very best taverns in this realm or any other. The sweetness of these taphouse ales are bested only by their potency; the hospitality of their hosts bested only by the generous hands of the he or the she or the it that may be seated on the stool to one?s left. The uncommon courtesy of the country is derived from nothing but the simplicity of its residents: warm are they; genuine are they; not agile of mind, but impossibly flexible in heart are they. It is for any one of these reasons, if not all, that he chose not to venture beyond the city?s gates to drink among them.

Within the gates where the structures are stone and broad plank; where the streets are cobble and scribbled upon by a great many strain of old, dead blood; where the child, the sister, the mother and the father don rags and the wretched flesh of poverty, one will find The Inns. From gems of a peculiar matter; the sleek, prepared, opaline flesh of inner-thigh; the purveyor of flesh itself and the life that once dwelled within, one would be challenged to issue a want that could not be secured by one or many within The Inns. Hospitality is defined differently in The Inns, or rather is represented by those of a more eccentric moral range: To say they who deal in rare goods; they who deal in the skin of the owned woman (and often man or etcetera); they who accept coin in exchange for blood are ?worse? or, moreso, ?less good? than the smiling kin in the country is of course a matter of the eye and the mouth that asks, but they all, regardless, offer hospitalities of certain and more precise tastes. It was not because these great many perversions were for sale in The Inns that he chose not to drink within them (at least not when he could help it), but instead was the reason their owners chose to sell them, and that reason was, as he saw it, the flat margins of coin profit and that alone.

Modernization in The City begins as it maybe does in all things: Smoothing: The stones in the road are flattened into soft, sleek tarmac; the coarse angles of the broad plank houses and pantries are supplemented for the curvature of concrete and steel; the finity of long, masking, hiding walls are replaced by the impeccable transparency of glasspane. No longer secure in their rows, in their uniformity, every structure races faster than its neighbor towards the sky, becoming best in all eyes save its own, for there it pauses; loses. Neither flesh nor gem nor blood is sold here; nothing is sold at all; everything is consumed. Here drink is shared at all places and at all times and at all occasions, for, and best of all in his eyes, every moment is a continuing occasion here, and all occasions are in celebration of the minutes spent here. What glassy corner or crystalline-tiled room he drank in mattered not in this place?this day it was a handsomely decorated restaurant with black walls that had clever little lamps that shone acute, triangular beams upwards, a mirrored ceiling, and a black marble-topped bar with titanium rungs spliced into the stone reared by four impressive tiers of high-priced liquor. The name over the door beamed, Ignus, in cursive neon light; someone with whom Val neither sat with nor cared to hear informed him the establishment was named for a heinous fire-god of curious and wrathful origins, as were they all, he?d discovered in his too-many years here. He did not sit alone. Their corner was quiet: this was not paid for, but rather a consequence of the time of day, which was the hour preceding noon, for the many lords with whom Val not only associated with but enjoyed associating with: even they were required to be in-place from time-to-time. The silence of their corner was shattered by his counterpart, a slender woman with skin light and maybe hued moderately grey?not human, but not obscene; not distracting?with hair long and straight and dark, blue hued on the fringes maybe, with eyes as white and bright and as perfect as freshly forged haloes, still glowing from the coals. A martini glass raised just-so between three fingers, two of which were ringed, and not cheaply, the woman smiled at Val before she spoke: ?Lurs Ignus ge uermas hotora??Our Ignus burns the path??In case you were interested. In the God?s motto, I mean.?

Val swirled the rocks around in the syrupy brandy; his pinky indicated a portly man in a suit laughing at the bar. ?I?m sure he was getting to that.?

?I know, I know,? she said in a patronizingly soothing, mother-like voice before sipping through a smile. ?Life is so. . . disastrous; so cruel, Mr. Val. Strangers speaking to you, all without invitation. Would you like I tell everyone in here to stop staring when you brood your way to the bar, lest you?ll throw a fit??

?Raise in it for you.?  

?You don?t pay me anymore,? she said. Once more she sipped, full lips of wet crimson singing in cruel harmony against the bright, strange skin, ?And even when you did it was hardly enough to keep a girl of certain tastes clothed. You know, in only a week as your secretary I think I came to find you just the most sour, insipid, cruel bastard I ever met.?

?But.?

The woman in black laughed as she stood. She showed Val her palm. ?Money.?

The rangy corpse in black leaned back in his seat, and he did so to wed gaudy, zealous posture with a face piqued, offended and, rarest of all, amused. ?Money? How many months have I been going at this?what makes you think I still piss gold??

?The hotel. The cars you claim to hate. The clothes?you think I believe that since you no longer retain any stock in RDC you?re broke??

Val sighed; his broad shoulders deflated; his left hand sunk into the side-pocket of his overcoat. ?Our definitions of ?broke? vary,? he said as he passed over several folded bills.

?And how so??

?No fluid income is broke, Risa. Every cent I?ve spent since my departure has been in error. Without income I do nothing but borrow from a pool I cannot replenish.?

?If the pool is deep, there is no error,? the woman said. ?Not even I could spend all you have, I?d wager.? She bent over the table. Softly: ?Should you find yourself a gambling man in the future??

Val waved her off. ?Go,? he said. ?Get the drinks, devil.?

And so she did: a second martini for herself and a third rocks brandy for her counterpart. Upon her return Risa set the drinks appropriately then gathered the empty glassware and ferried it back to the counter, where she was met with a shocked but thankful nod from the man behind the bar. Half-way across the floor towards their table, Risa paused to watch Val rise and mend the creased edges of his overcoat collar; he snapped his head towards the door commandingly before exiting. After pulling herself into the grey peacoat that she?d hung on one of the pegs right of the door upon their earlier entry, she obeyed. She found him left of the entrance with his back against the glass and his right hand out in offer, the lid of his silver cigarette case ajar. Risa carefully slipped one free of the band and let the filter sink into the plush, malleable flesh of her bottom lip. To her silence, Val replied, ?You?re welcome,? and as acknowledgment, Risa bent a mild curtsy.

Silence was not a game for a girl such as she: While the man smoked quietly, Risa toyed with her phone. And when her toying failed to encourage even a flinched brow from the man she stood with, she snapped her tongue, sighed and let the phone fall back into her pocket. ?Must you?? she asked.
   
?Must I? What??
   
?Must you be so loud with your silence? Of all the silences in all the world, yours, Mr. Val, is the most obnoxious and voluminous of all. I can not hear you from miles away.?
   
Flesh in the man?s right cheek creased a bit as his lips stretched amusedly. The hand that held his cigarette raised over his head; he snapped a long ash off its tip. ?All of us have talents,? Val said. ?Perhaps one day you?ll find yours. Aside from being a glaring caricature of downtown money: We both know better, mm??

?Saying your pet-project is a failure?? asked Risa. ?Am I not what you tailored me to be??

?Too-much-so,? Val said. ?I was hoping a bit of dolling and charity would perhaps produce the first-ever downtown individual, but. . . alas.?

Risa laughed, agreed with a nod and repeated, "Alas.?

2
Sweet Crusades / Beyond the Rim
« on: December 04, 2013, 01:10:10 AM »
[size=24]A[/size]lmost. Almost, he thought, again and again as a rehearsal, as an agent or narcotic. Judace's face was three wide stripes of dark, red blood. Only a tiny triangle under his left eye and pieces under his chin showed white flesh. His jacket was torn in six places on his back; five long, driving slashes, and one puncture. The boy was crawling, and he feared that both his knees were powder. A great many things ran through him---first and foremost: Will I even make it? Afterthoughts include, Will I Walk Again? Did That Just Happen? Almost, he thinks, but Martyr's home was too far away. The trail of blood behind tallied off a distance of no greater than fifteen yards, and this was taken in thirty minutes. Only his elbows propulsed him, on knifing jar at a time, and he was gaining no ground whatsoever. Judace smiled, but no one would see under the blood. The boy passes out near the mouth of the alley---he had, if nothing else, managed to stick his arm out of the throat and onto the sidewalk. Maybe the chap would get lucky.


Phoenix had been wandering, as she often did. She'd noticed the smell of blood far quicker than she had the hand--otherwise she might have wrote it off as an alley-drunk. Why did it seem so familiar? The immortal swiped her bangs from her face as she moved a bit faster. Curiousity drove her to investigate, and so she did. Moving for that alley, she knelt down toward the body and her eyes narrowed. "Judace... I'm going to beat her senseless for this..." Lifting him, she threw him over her shoulder and headed not towards Martyr's, but towards that hell known as a warehouse.


"Queen, I believe we are out of Tea. I like the tangerine. I shall go get some." Nodding stoically as always, the Playing-House hellioness rose from their little table in the secluded back room. It had been about a week since the application of Phoenix's blood, and although Aggie did not verbally indicate, Nazareth was sure that her sight was again waning. Because of this, Neth's mood had been in decline the last two evenings. She slips through the door of her warehouse, the usual ensemble of trousers and turtleneck, but, airing on the side of fashion, she sported a long, leather overcoat. She sets off.


"Be safe," Agnus whispered as Nazareth took her leave. Her sight was giving way, and she had kept quiet about it. Why not fake it as long as she could? Convince herself that she was happy... Foresight was twenty-twenty for young Agnus, unfortunately.

Phoenix held the young dominion on her shoulder. She could have healed him--and she would have, but she wanted to Make Nazareth look at what she'd done.... Like a dog that made waste on the carpet. Picking up the pace, the tall woman headed in Neth's direction.


Neth pauses. Dominion blood in the air, a set in-fact. Judace was family and easily identified; Phoenix's scent was changing all the time, but the distinctions stood. She travels towards the billowing fronts of blood, too curious to pass them up. Springing a corner, Nazareth halted her boots. Phoenix's image was divulged in the distance. Dominion eyes are not exceptionally sharp, but it was clear that Judace was slung over her shoulder and the smell of his blood flooded her nostrils. Neth approaches with caution now---it was clear to her that, for whatever reason, Phoenix was seeking her out, just as Neth sought her. At about twenty yards out, Nazareth pauses and pockets her hands in that new, long coat.


Phoenix could feel that she was drawing close, and it had only been apparent that Nazareth had been on a similar mission seconds before they were face-to-face. She propped Judace up against the wall and moved closer to the dominioness. Once in range, she'd attempt to snatch Neth by her pretty little throat and slam her against the wall.


Nazareth had decoded Phoenix's anger before the strike, but made no suave evasive maneuver. After her body hit the wall, the Dominioness grinned, spiky choking fits curling from her separated lips as the powerful immortal held her neck in a vice grip. As if surrendering, Nazareth lifted her arms slightly. "I---I---Know---What---You think----"

3
Sweet Crusades / Anticked
« on: July 09, 2013, 04:57:54 AM »
( This is a continuation of the Giants at the Feet of Children SL logged under Dragon Tails. Lemme' say thanks to the Mods of SC, especially Mizz Minoko, fer' lettin' me post here 'n junk. ENJOY O___O )



Nazareth glides her scarf along the curvature of her blade again. She looks into her reflection and smiles. ?Now we just need to get in.? Her eyes rise, lock onto Val?s and her smile spreads and infects her chin and cheeks. ?With your talents,? she begins sweetly, ?I don?t see it as a challenge.?

   Val?s eyes roll away. He is stoic, is calm, is uncomfortable. He eyes the tall, thick wall. ?Just tell me what to do.?

   ?Tell you what to do?? Nazareth hoists an eyebrow and sheaths her blade. She lifts a bare foot and softly rests it on the young, dead boy?s armored torso and leans onto her knee. ?I just told you what to do. I told you to use your talents to get us through the village wall.?

   ?What does that mean!?
   
Nazareth leaps over the body and reaches for Val?s collar. Attached, she stares up at the boy with large and marvelous copper eyes. ?Quiet, damn you,? she whispers loudly. Nazareth looks over her shoulder and up the wall. ?There?s still men in the watchtower. C?mon, your little sandstorm has passed, let?s get to the wall so they can?t see.? Nazareth winks at Val, the cheek below her winking eye sharply pitched as a sidelong smirk drove into it. ?And grab this guy and pull him towards the wall. The men in the tower won?t be able to see if we drag them towards it.?

Val did not express much. His eyes were narrow, his limbs were still. Nazareth jogs over to the older man with the hole in his throat. The man?s neck was black and glistening, the sand below was black and matte and chunky. Val eyes her a moment, then looks down to the boy. His lips move and something small and quiet leaves them. Nazareth sees. Val steps over the corpse, leans over and begins dragging him towards the wall by his ankles. His armor carves into the sand, the trail black and matte and smooth. Val grunts, tugs, grunts, stops and wipes his forehead.

Nazareth lifts the old man up easily, lifts him right off the ground by his iron collar. Her strength anomalous, unnatural. She whips her arm around the shoulder and throws the heavy, armored man right at the wall where he collides with a hollow, metal echo. Val snaps to the sound, then squints at Nazareth. She quietly says, ?Hurry,? and nods. Val trugs backwards, hands around the boy?s ankles, makes it to the wall, sighs and releases. The dead boy?s ankles dig into the sand. Val leans his thin little red blade eyes in over the boy, smoothing his sight over the crooked knicks of his armor, down in to play in the dark hollows where Nazareth?s blade had run through. Nazareth pinches Val?s belly.

?What is your problem,? she says. ?Surely this innocence is for show.? She looks up Val and fetters her eyes with his. Val fetters back blankly with an obvious obtuseness to him.

?What??

Nazareth sighs and pushes him away with her knuckles. She shakes her head and whippets of watery platinum spray around charmingly. Nazareth says, ?You?re impossible,? through a frown and moves ahead with her back to Val. Sliding her palm along the shantilly constructed village wall, Nazareth orbits until the barrier door is found. The door is impossibly large and is nuzzled by the aforementioned watch posts that pecker up shabbily on the left and right. Nazareth smiles and presses into the cold and massive door. Naturally, it does not rattle, budge or sound.

?Here,? Nazareth says. She turns her happy reds over to Val. ?Right here. Give us an opening. Be subtle.?

Downcast, Val approaches on deaf, embarrassed feet. His hand joins Nazareth?s on the tall door of wood. Val closes his eyes and Nazareth steps away to admire him. His fingers meld with the wood and the wood begins to run away like sand, fragmented chips running, drooling away like grains, spooling to the sand like sand as sand. He creates an entrance as ordered, six-by-three, larger than ordered, but soft and soundless. Eating, running, drooling sand falls away, six-by-three, draining and pooling and Nazareth admires; unplumbed, scratching her brother?s face with her sharp, scalpel like gaze. Val opens his eyes when he feels nothing against his hand. He had carved straight through the wooden door, had made a six-by-three archway by turning the wood into sand. Nazareth slides her index finger across Val?s lower back mysteriously.

?See,? she says on a warm smile. ?A special boy indeed.?

Val reacts by tangling his eyes up with Nazareth?s face anxiously. The boy?s jaw falls down a moment. He corrects, clears with a cough and steps away from the entrance he had created. He says, ?What now?? And Nazareth was on a knee, untying her red scarf.

   ?First,? she says, intonation occupied and hands-off while untying the scarf. Nazareth flicks back her head and all her hair goes scudding back luxuriously and she builds space for it by pulling the back of her collar open and pushes all her hair into her shirt. Next she twists the scarf around her head and it crowns her like a flat and amateur turban. The scarftails whip around and cut down her shoulders and the wiry little refuse threads on the ends finger and jolt out like cotton-electric frizz. She smiles up to Val and poses cutely.

   ?Hm? Yeah??

   ?You look ridiculous.?

   ?But I don?t look Dominion---do I??

   Val nods knowingly, but smiles. ?I see. The hair.? again he nods. ?Too bad the color of that scarf makes your eyes jump out.?

   Nazareth tears a two feet of steel out of her sheath rabidly and admires her eyes with a crooked, indecisive mouth.

   Val says, ?It?s fine,? with a mellow and understanding smile and Nazareth beams and hops towards the six-by-three. She sticks her red-toweled head through the cutting and squints into the town.

   She whispers, ?Clear,? over her shoulder. ?Could not have been more opportune. The Brides are renewing their vows to the dust.? Her laughter comes with genuine hissing and the egoist cobramouth steps completely into the hole in the wall. Val crouched and watched her path through the burrow. She exits the burrow and immediately turns right and escapes Val?s view. So, Val rushes through the six-by-three, his limby body tucked in on itself to negotiate the three, but the six was affordable. Val takes a long arcing step out of the burrow and sinks his belted sandal  into the town sand. Large eyes reflectively scan the villagemouth, split between awe and fear and fear the favorable lean. The square was smaller and he squints. From atop the cliff and looking down, it appeared a grand strip of barterers and tented kiosks and criers and the carelessness and deafness of spending. But on its toes, the square was but three tents and crumby, boarded stands that were naked in the evening. Val cringes at pain on his ankle. Because Nazareth had kicked it.

   ?Hey,? she whispered angrily. ?get out of yourself, please. For once in your life: don?t be Valcroix. Be something of use to me. So hurry yourself, and you may get your wish of haste and perhaps no combat.?

   These words appear to wind the boy pervasively and his little red scythe eyes bolden in mighty and shocked gleefulness. ?Okay,? he whispers orderly, on board with Nazareth?s attrition because she had defanged it favorably for him. And because of her clever translation Val?s eyes coruscate brilliantly and slyly, sleuthing through corridors and up eaten banisters of wood as he stays low on Nazareth?s heels as she creeps through the town?s outskirts, keeping low and against the tall interior wall, navigating the nucleus like a repulsed proton with her gelding in toe.

4
Sweet Crusades / From the Same Stone.
« on: April 26, 2013, 02:41:54 AM »
( From play between my baby and I. Mature content within.)







"I'm thinking... Mexican?" Strangely he speaks this, and eyes that don't believe these words shuffle and sift through the high clouds; red, orange and gold. "Egh," pensively returning to the subject. Walking along the boulevard, his Martyr aside, Val draws on his cigarette and minds the various signposts and dining kiosks. "Well... what do you think?" He looks to her for affirmation. " 'Cause really, I'll eat anything."



Dressed to impress, Martyr walked next to him. She wore a collared little yellow and white plaid dress that nearly stretched to her knees. The sleves stopped at her shoulders and left her arms bare and pale for the world to see. Her legs were a different story; visions of white stockings tucked in at the feet beneath a pair of black Mary Janes that were worn in the middle from her constantly being on the tips of toes. Her hair was down, mocha stretching toward her rear and trembling within the wind; pulled back with a yellow head band leaving chunks of coffee bean bangs to mingle with the only thing on her ensemble that didn't match--those violet eyes which were surrounded by copious amounts of lash. She wore make-up today, a subtle amount of foundation, cinnamon blush, and light brown eye shadow. Her lashes were painted in a thick black mascara curling them up and out. "O-oh... I c-could eat j-just about anything right n-now." Martyr whispered, her voice trailing just above a whisper.



Fresh from an afternoon at the office, Val is sharply assembled and astutely aired. The tones of his fabrics are outlandish in comparison to the blank and severe colors worn most often. His slacks are crisp and a light gray and buckle-bound by a black belt with a silver clasp. His shirt is black and clean and evenly pressed and tucked below a grey, four-button vest. What's new is the tie; it's blue and happy and doesn't quite fit his strict assembly. He tugs on the knot uncomfortably, filing up the avenue with his young fiance.

"Yeah... the same. There's an Italian place a few blocks out. It's a-ways from downtown, but it's worth it." Val looks down and keeps eyes on the rhythm of his steps.




Martyr's eyes trailed up to Valcroix, and the corners of her mouth were manipulated into something of a childish smile. "Y-you lead, V-val.. I will f-follow." Then, in some amount of playfulness she attempted to bump her boney hip against his. This, of course, resulted in the off-balance immortal stumbling. She grasped his forearm to keep herself upright and allowed a little gasp to fill her lungs. "I d-don't care w-what we eat. As long as y-you're across that t-table, and looking at m-me." As if they were highschool kids, she trailed that same hand that was grasping for balance down his wrist to tuck it into his palm and attempted to lace her fingers within his. Mocha bangs were not long enough to hide that natural glow of her cheeks, which defined the artificial cinnamon dusting she'd given them. "I l-love you, V-val.. I c-can't w-wait to m-marry y-you." Martyr whispered softly, that voice lost to the soft whisper of the wind.




Tightly, he holds on. It isn't force, it's a link, it's perfection and a simple representation of the complexities of their love. Val lifts his head and a jolly buoyancy refits his cold mouth and a smile appears. "I love you too, Martyr." He appears timid and maybe embarrassed. She held the keys to this version of the ma---but he trusted and understood her above it all. With the violet-eyed darling hitched to his side, they continue until the buildings up-on-high level out and lessen and are no longer glassy and formal. This end of the city isn't a crag or a project, but is certainly a far-cry from the downtown bustle and accredited composure. Soon, Val lifts his eyes questionably. How long had it been since they'd passed another person? He stops ad wheels around in a complete circle like a pup on his tail.

"Hm. Desolate." The sky was low and fiery and the big juicy tangerine sun looks on doubtfully; where had the people gone?

Val pulls a little knife from his pocket. He opens his palm and it rests upon it. It was something he'd crafted from the remnants of Nazareth's blade. It doesn't rattle or relay some ominous energy. But it felt heavily as he solemnly admires it.

5
Dragon's Tales / File my eyes
« on: February 27, 2013, 12:26:28 AM »
I?ve lived along a blank page for too long. The moments I?ve let slip from my fingers were better off; I haven?t the appreciation, haven?t the capacity to understand. To hold them hostage in my paltry drawers would afford no justice to those enrolled. From the tender arms of my chair I stand, collect my memorabilia; cigarette case, strike-anywheres; and make for the balcony without heart. Outdoors, I stare the city down. I hold a quarter-million in my wheeling irises, a spin-cycle of indifference. Can?t say I see things differently, also can?t say I?ve spent much time between the ears of anyone else. Paper's render the statistics of the day, and as I light a cigarette I peruse; nineteen robberies, thirty-one      assaults, ten murders.  It?s really not funny, right? It?s what they wrote; for God?s sake?how can you blame them? Sure, censor the successors, print only the fragmented grins of the captive, show us that straying from the collared path leads to trials, cells, executions. Lead us not into temptation. Suppress it all, for we, We don?t need the truth. I?ll breathe, I?ll sit and eat, I?ll buy a vase, pay my goddamn taxes. Why do I really need to know what the badge beats with his justice? Why? I laugh. ?Why??, because it?s my f'cking right.
   
 I sigh for nothing and lean against my rail. I hope for wings. Never flew; neither plane, jet, carpet. Smoke burns my eyes, stings my nostrils. I spit the old butt onto the terrace. Maybe a pickpocket?ll wind his foot on it like a banana peel and the old woman?s purse will leap back into her arms. Maybe a dog?ll eat it. Maybe I?ll pick it up later.

And maybe one day I?ll give a sh't.

6
If The Boards Could Talk / Inches Short of Israel
« on: December 09, 2012, 04:08:23 AM »
The man?s face is taken in a flush of scrunched nose and bridling wrinkles; a peculiar expression that writes of awful smells and sights. The docks: a putrid row of shoddy planks and shoddier people. Val had spent his years in this city thoroughly apart from this portion of town; in truth he held no particular love for any secular region of the place, but inside he always held a fermented hatred for the port. Bushels of deep brown sway in the salted air, cruel, knotted bangs scissor across his eyes as his final step marks an arrival at the waters-edge. Hands are sunk in either pocket, that clean and sternly pressed white overcoat his love took rightful care of?it was enough to have her image stamped below the lid, but the scent of wash and detergent she favored strummed something awful in his belly?something of butchered chords and inverted scales; rojam-ronim.

Images collide behind the eye; a paltry consignment of highs, lows and loose ends--those which make him, and, with a grin that spells disaster, those which will dissolve him. The click of Val?s cigarette case echoes upon the sterile night air, paired along with sips of stirring currents. It?s a ghastly sigil, a certain nothing that doubles the knot of twisted organs roiling within the man?s belly. Next he smokes, after he waits. He lumbers towards the piers edge and plants his rear upon the boards, letting legs swing free below in a silly, kiddish way.

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