Post by MorningStar on Feb 17, 2007 17:32:32 GMT -5
Joe “The Mic” Richards – sound man extraordinaire – jumps in shock at the loud crash that thunders through the room. With a look of worried apprehension he glances nervously around the basement, eyes searching for something to distract him, anything which will keep his attention from the source of the noise. Stacks of boxes and the years of accumulated paraphernalia, everything from high school trophies to exact replica wrestling belts, old magazines to exercise weights… what one would usually expect, all dimly lit a pale amber from the lone lightbulb, swinging back and forth aimlessly. Joe’s eyes widen and only his quick reflexes save him from being clocked by a flying encyclopedia…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Too far, Joe… this time he’s gone TOO FUCKING FAR!!!
Up to his hips in memories of better days, scrabbling through box after unmarked box, Johnny Mental rummages, his face a crimson mask of anger. Every word is bitten off abruptly, almost spat in a high old rage.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
He wants to se me angry? He wants to push my buttons? He wants to bring back The Grim? Well, he’s going to fucking get it!
Hands trembling, Mental stops his frantic scrabbling and stares down, finally finding his goal. He reaches down, pulling a silk wrapped bundle clear from the rest of the clutter. Almost reverently he cradles it gently, watching the light shimmer and play from the surface. He sighs…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Y’know Joe… I said it’d never happen. I said I’d never go back to that. Finally I gain control, and now one man has destroyed three years of battle and hardship… Is this the right thing to do, Joe? Am I making a mistake?
Joe, quickly weighing up honesty versus survival chances, blinks rapidly to remove the trickling perspiration from his vision. He licks his lips nervously, and when he speaks the words come rapidly, tumbling over themselves as he rushes his piece…
:: The Mic ::
It’s your call, Johnny. I don’t think you really wanna go back down that road. Remember what you said? All that pain and anguish? Do you wanna go through it again?
Mental just stares at the bundle, unflinching, barely breathing. Finally his shoulders sag as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
I don’t know, Joe… but that’s not what’s important here. The question is… is it worth it?
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The air is bitingly cold, driven to a cutting edge by a brisk wind. It whips through the sparse bushes and trees, sending up eerie moans and weird howls. Overlaying it all, a backing harmony to their ghostly chorus, the thundering crash of the rolling waves. Stood at the cliffs edge, mere inches from the empty, unforgiving air and the perilous drop below, The MorningStar stands unscathed and unafraid. Clad in a billowing robe of shimmering black silk, he looks almost ethereal in the wispy moonlight, stood as he is staring across the moon-kissed breakers as they caress the pebble beach far below.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
You had to do it, didn’t you? You had to push it just that one step further. Tut Tut Convict… hurting an innocent old man to get to me… how cliché. How stereotypical to try and wound your victim by wounding those closest to them. Please, Beast… I thought you had more originality on that. But then the crowning glory of your imbecility… Stabbing him on film, on a country wide broadcast? Maybe you have less intelligence than I gave you credit for…
He turns slowly, gracefully, allowing the world to see the dark portal where his face should be, shrouded in shadow by the black cowl. The only parts of him plainly visible are the hands, the nails pointed and painted black, fingers hooked and claw-like. This does not bode well…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
The man is nothing more than an acquaintance… a work colleague, if you would. Of course, I would feel some sense of loss… after all, no one could capture my presence quite like The Lens… but although I’d send a beautiful wreath and mumble from words of regret, I’d soon shrug it off and move on without a care in the world. Now your botched attempt to push me over the edge has been seen by a million eyes, recorded and copied thousands more… You should have killed him, Beast. You should have silenced him, made sure he’d never rat you out. Now you have his blood on your hands, and he has you, complete with evidence, completely nicked. No technicalities this time, Convict… no way out. Mr. Sullivan will be doing what he knows is right, and soon you’ll be back behind bars. But not, of course, before I get hold of you… Oh no. You’ve started it… now I must finish it, Beast…
His clawed fingers reach up, touching the hemline of the cowl, hooking it with razor sharp nails…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
You wanted the Evil…
…Hands grab tight onto the cowl, inching it black slowly.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
…You wanted The Destroyer…
Further back the hood falls, the paltry moonlight falling upon pale flesh, sharp and angular.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
…You Wanted The Prince Of Insanity…
Releasing, the hood folds behind him, leaving his head exposed. Hair plastered back, hiding the straps of the bone white mask covering forehead, eyes and cheeks.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
…You wanted the Lord of The Morning. Heh… and I know why, Convict. You want me to play a game you’ve played all your life. You want me to become just like you. You know better than anyone how you and your kin function, how your minds work and know exactly what needs to be done to get the job done. But I? I am something different, an anomaly, if you would. You cannot cope with something like myself, so you try to twist it, subvert it, make it your own…
A hand reaches up, grasping the cheekbone of the mask and lifting it higher, the elastic of the headband pulling the wet hair into cloudy disarray of black and red. Stretching his hand out as far as he can, he stares at the mask, at those soulless holes through which he once saw. The wind blowing through the eyes whistles and screams, for just a split second sounding feral, then demonic… then almost human…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
…I don’t play games, Convict…
With a disdainful flick, his casts the mask out across the void, watching it fall… falling… until the ebon sea sucks it beneath its hungry waves. Mental watches for a few seconds more, then turns back, the corners of his mouth upturned in the merest hint of a grin…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
In my own mind, and now in yours, I’ve already won, Beast. You’ve done everything you can think of to try and push me, to get me angry, to force me into doing something I didn’t need to do. But at each and every turn you were blocked, every pawn you moved was stopped dead in its tracks. I didn’t bite no matter what you threw at me, even though you cranked the lever and upped the pressure each time. Not once did I crack, and all you’ve accomplished is to up the ante. Once upon a time I was weak, I was cowardly, and I looked to a power beyond imagining to come to my aid. With head held low and knee bent I submitted and rode the tsunami of darkness to heights undreamed of… But I needed no power then, I need no power now. NOW I am whole, NOW I am returned… and NOW I am your demise. On my hope of Salvation and Rebirth, These Are The Words Of The MorningStar…
…Heed them well, Convict…
With that Mental turns and resumes his vigil over the ever crashing waves, his booming laughter joining the thunder and the howling wind, completing the symphony of the damned, gleefully raging their song against the heavens, and the fiery orb soon to greet them….
“And we’ll sing that chorus of the night,
Until the sun of mornings rise…”
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Too far, Joe… this time he’s gone TOO FUCKING FAR!!!
Up to his hips in memories of better days, scrabbling through box after unmarked box, Johnny Mental rummages, his face a crimson mask of anger. Every word is bitten off abruptly, almost spat in a high old rage.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
He wants to se me angry? He wants to push my buttons? He wants to bring back The Grim? Well, he’s going to fucking get it!
Hands trembling, Mental stops his frantic scrabbling and stares down, finally finding his goal. He reaches down, pulling a silk wrapped bundle clear from the rest of the clutter. Almost reverently he cradles it gently, watching the light shimmer and play from the surface. He sighs…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Y’know Joe… I said it’d never happen. I said I’d never go back to that. Finally I gain control, and now one man has destroyed three years of battle and hardship… Is this the right thing to do, Joe? Am I making a mistake?
Joe, quickly weighing up honesty versus survival chances, blinks rapidly to remove the trickling perspiration from his vision. He licks his lips nervously, and when he speaks the words come rapidly, tumbling over themselves as he rushes his piece…
:: The Mic ::
It’s your call, Johnny. I don’t think you really wanna go back down that road. Remember what you said? All that pain and anguish? Do you wanna go through it again?
Mental just stares at the bundle, unflinching, barely breathing. Finally his shoulders sag as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
I don’t know, Joe… but that’s not what’s important here. The question is… is it worth it?
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The air is bitingly cold, driven to a cutting edge by a brisk wind. It whips through the sparse bushes and trees, sending up eerie moans and weird howls. Overlaying it all, a backing harmony to their ghostly chorus, the thundering crash of the rolling waves. Stood at the cliffs edge, mere inches from the empty, unforgiving air and the perilous drop below, The MorningStar stands unscathed and unafraid. Clad in a billowing robe of shimmering black silk, he looks almost ethereal in the wispy moonlight, stood as he is staring across the moon-kissed breakers as they caress the pebble beach far below.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
You had to do it, didn’t you? You had to push it just that one step further. Tut Tut Convict… hurting an innocent old man to get to me… how cliché. How stereotypical to try and wound your victim by wounding those closest to them. Please, Beast… I thought you had more originality on that. But then the crowning glory of your imbecility… Stabbing him on film, on a country wide broadcast? Maybe you have less intelligence than I gave you credit for…
He turns slowly, gracefully, allowing the world to see the dark portal where his face should be, shrouded in shadow by the black cowl. The only parts of him plainly visible are the hands, the nails pointed and painted black, fingers hooked and claw-like. This does not bode well…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
The man is nothing more than an acquaintance… a work colleague, if you would. Of course, I would feel some sense of loss… after all, no one could capture my presence quite like The Lens… but although I’d send a beautiful wreath and mumble from words of regret, I’d soon shrug it off and move on without a care in the world. Now your botched attempt to push me over the edge has been seen by a million eyes, recorded and copied thousands more… You should have killed him, Beast. You should have silenced him, made sure he’d never rat you out. Now you have his blood on your hands, and he has you, complete with evidence, completely nicked. No technicalities this time, Convict… no way out. Mr. Sullivan will be doing what he knows is right, and soon you’ll be back behind bars. But not, of course, before I get hold of you… Oh no. You’ve started it… now I must finish it, Beast…
His clawed fingers reach up, touching the hemline of the cowl, hooking it with razor sharp nails…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
You wanted the Evil…
…Hands grab tight onto the cowl, inching it black slowly.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
…You wanted The Destroyer…
Further back the hood falls, the paltry moonlight falling upon pale flesh, sharp and angular.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
…You Wanted The Prince Of Insanity…
Releasing, the hood folds behind him, leaving his head exposed. Hair plastered back, hiding the straps of the bone white mask covering forehead, eyes and cheeks.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
…You wanted the Lord of The Morning. Heh… and I know why, Convict. You want me to play a game you’ve played all your life. You want me to become just like you. You know better than anyone how you and your kin function, how your minds work and know exactly what needs to be done to get the job done. But I? I am something different, an anomaly, if you would. You cannot cope with something like myself, so you try to twist it, subvert it, make it your own…
A hand reaches up, grasping the cheekbone of the mask and lifting it higher, the elastic of the headband pulling the wet hair into cloudy disarray of black and red. Stretching his hand out as far as he can, he stares at the mask, at those soulless holes through which he once saw. The wind blowing through the eyes whistles and screams, for just a split second sounding feral, then demonic… then almost human…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
…I don’t play games, Convict…
With a disdainful flick, his casts the mask out across the void, watching it fall… falling… until the ebon sea sucks it beneath its hungry waves. Mental watches for a few seconds more, then turns back, the corners of his mouth upturned in the merest hint of a grin…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
In my own mind, and now in yours, I’ve already won, Beast. You’ve done everything you can think of to try and push me, to get me angry, to force me into doing something I didn’t need to do. But at each and every turn you were blocked, every pawn you moved was stopped dead in its tracks. I didn’t bite no matter what you threw at me, even though you cranked the lever and upped the pressure each time. Not once did I crack, and all you’ve accomplished is to up the ante. Once upon a time I was weak, I was cowardly, and I looked to a power beyond imagining to come to my aid. With head held low and knee bent I submitted and rode the tsunami of darkness to heights undreamed of… But I needed no power then, I need no power now. NOW I am whole, NOW I am returned… and NOW I am your demise. On my hope of Salvation and Rebirth, These Are The Words Of The MorningStar…
…Heed them well, Convict…
With that Mental turns and resumes his vigil over the ever crashing waves, his booming laughter joining the thunder and the howling wind, completing the symphony of the damned, gleefully raging their song against the heavens, and the fiery orb soon to greet them….
“And we’ll sing that chorus of the night,
Until the sun of mornings rise…”