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TheReverend
08-12-2008, 10:33 PM
Trying something new... writing loaded like Ernest and Hunter. Thoughts?


“It’s said that life is a gift; that it’s too short… or it’s said life is a curse and that the road of life is long,” he said slowly, dragging out the last word. He dismissed either notion with a slight wave of his hand. “Of course these schools of thought are dependent on whatever fool philosopher, idealist, pessimist, poet, prophet, or other charlatan happens to be in favor.” He paused, slowly tapping his index finger against the heavy, oaken desk top, before releasing a long drawn out sigh. “Perhaps you can understand how you’ve become a personal source of vexation to me, Cagliostro?” Thoughtfully styled from trousers to tunic, matched by his neatly trimmed beard, and undercut by dull, brown and weary eyes, he slowly turned to level his gaze at the self-proposed “Master Alchemist”. “You see, Cagliostro, this world preserves a delicate balance of self-absorption. It’s this that grants us our,” he growled the word, “freedom. Sleight of hand on a massive scale… the poor tend crops, slave at the smith, die by the sword… for what? Sense of duty? Fear?” He paused, slowly uncorking a bottle of red wine, drawing the bottle to sharp nostrils which flared with his steady inhale. “No, Cagliostro,” he smiled, shaking his head slowly. “This ‘work ethic’… this ‘sense of duty’… it stems from inherit human weakness. Man can be pushed to slavery, so long as he is permitted scant hours of freedom and a sense of ‘culture’ at the day’s end, no matter the conditions that bureaucracy may place to rape his land and pride throughout the day.” The lips of the bottle ‘glugged’ as he poured himself a full glass, offering nothing to Cagliostro. “…And these ‘ruling elite’,” he mused with a smile. “These fools so blinded by their ‘divine right’ that they dare not glance outside their sycophant advisors’ opinions.” The smile that creased his face broadened ever so slightly, a rare flash streaking his boring eyes. He took a long drink. “Sleight of hand, indeed.” A groan of satisfaction escaped his lips as his tongue sought any refuse. “But, I digress. I’m wasting these insightful words on you, Cagliostro. A man who has witnessed, experienced, and taken full advantage of these secrets. You are my dilemma, Cagliostro. I despise your originality, inventiveness, and cruelty… yet, I respect it at the same time.” He slowly drew a chair from underneath the home laboratory desk, and sat, leveling his gaze at the “magician”. “So, tell me, what am I to do with you, Cagliostro?”

Ray Finkle
08-12-2008, 11:14 PM
I like it. You write very well....great discription without having to spell everything out for the reader...

TheReverend
08-12-2008, 11:18 PM
I like it. You write very well....great discription without having to spell everything out for the reader...

See they took me by the hand

And invited me right in

And they showed me something

I don't even know where to begin!

Really though, it's gonna be a fun story... it ends up being about the 2nd coming in modern times but he doesn't know he's divine. So he has human flaws and reactions and happens to be supremely powerful once he understands himself etc. Blah, blah, blah, I'm self-important everyone look at what I've wrritten!

...but when it comes out, buy 10, it'll make great gifts... especially to religious family members!

Ray Finkle
08-13-2008, 10:40 PM
post a note when it does come out...

alkemical
08-19-2008, 11:29 AM
I just found this thread - and subscribed to it.

alkemical
08-20-2008, 08:33 AM
Bah, just take the buzzed and writing in stride - everything in moderation. :)

- seriously - i really dig it - and i think it will fit really well into what i've seen before.

It's crazy - but you and i (reverend) sort of "see" the same way. I totally get what you are doing. So critical of writing style i may not be your "best" guest, but i can tell you if i think it's good. I do. (so far).

TheReverend
08-20-2008, 09:03 AM
I'll post up the first chapter in its entirety soon. More context than one paragraph will help.

TheReverend
08-20-2008, 09:05 AM
Ames, since you read the first couple hundred pages of this sequence in its entirety, I'll hit you up in PM/myspace or something to talk about organization and structure because I'm curious for a second opinion. (Thinking about putting this part before LotM)

TDmvp
08-20-2008, 09:08 AM
The night was sultry...
http://www.stufffromthe80s.co.uk/images/throw-momma-from-train.jpg
:)

alkemical
08-20-2008, 09:09 AM
Ames, since you read the first couple hundred pages of this sequence in its entirety, I'll hit you up in PM/myspace or something to talk about organization and structure because I'm curious for a second opinion. (Thinking about putting this part before LotM)

No prob man....so far today - looks to be a light day lol

broncosteven
08-21-2008, 02:25 PM
Bah, just take the buzzed and writing in stride - everything in moderation. :)

- seriously - i really dig it - and i think it will fit really well into what i've seen before.

It's crazy - but you and i (reverend) sort of "see" the same way. I totally get what you are doing. So critical of writing style i may not be your "best" guest, but i can tell you if i think it's good. I do. (so far).

That was Ambiensteven posting. I didn't remember posting those at all.

God how embarassing.

Sorry REV

TheReverend
08-21-2008, 02:54 PM
That was Ambiensteven posting. I didn't remember posting those at all.

God how embarassing.

Sorry REV

No need for apologies. If I didn't want input, I wouldn't put it up until it was done or in stores.

I'll have the full first chapter done soon. There's some REALLY good parts and I'm trying to bring the rest of it up to par.

Taco John
08-22-2008, 02:09 AM
It was a dark and stormy night...

TheReverend
08-25-2008, 11:10 AM
Okay, posting up the full chapter one.

Anyone who posts things they feel aren't clear, what they feel should be expanded or cut out, criticism whether constructive or deconstructive, will be greatly appreciated.

Edit: Sorry about the odd format display... maybe a mod knows how to fix that?

TheReverend
08-25-2008, 11:11 AM
“It’s said that life is a gift; that it’s too short… or it’s said life is a curse and that the road of life is long,” he said slowly, dragging out the last word. He dismissed either notion with a slight wave of his hand. “Of course these schools of thought are dependent on whatever fool philosopher, idealist, pessimist, poet, prophet, or other charlatan happens to be in favor.” He paused, slowly tapping his index finger against the heavy, oaken desk top, before releasing a long drawn out sigh. “Perhaps you can understand how you’ve become a personal source of vexation to me, Cagliostro?” Thoughtfully styled from trousers to tunic, matched by his neatly trimmed beard, and undercut by dull, brown and weary eyes, he slowly turned to level his gaze at the self-proposed “Master Alchemist”. “You see, Cagliostro, this world preserves a delicate balance of self-absorption. It’s this that grants us our,” he growled the word, “freedom. Sleight of hand on a massive scale… the poor tend crops, slave at the smith, die by the sword… for what? Sense of duty? Fear?” He paused, slowly uncorking a bottle of red wine, drawing the bottle to sharp nostrils which flared with his steady inhale. “No, Cagliostro,” he smiled, shaking his head slowly. “This ‘work ethic’… this ‘sense of duty’… it stems from inherit human weakness. Man can be pushed to slavery, so long as he is permitted scant hours of freedom and a sense of ‘culture’ at the day’s end, no matter the conditions that bureaucracy may place to rape his land and pride throughout the day.” The lips of the bottle ‘glugged’ as he poured himself a full glass, offering nothing to Cagliostro. “…And these ‘ruling elite’,” he mused with a smile. “These fools so blinded by their ‘divine right’ that they dare not glance outside their sycophant advisors’ opinions.” The smile that creased his face broadened ever so slightly, a rare flash streaking his boring eyes. He took a long drink. “Sleight of hand, indeed.” A groan of satisfaction escaped his lips as his tongue sought any refuse. “But, I digress. I’m wasting these insightful words on you, Cagliostro. A man who has witnessed, experienced, and taken full advantage of these secrets. You are my dilemma, Cagliostro. I despise your originality, inventiveness, and cruelty… yet, I respect it at the same time.” He slowly drew a chair from underneath the home laboratory desk, and sat, leveling his gaze at the “magician”. “So, tell me, what am I to do with you, Cagliostro?”
“What are you to do with me?” Count Alessandro di Cagliostro withdrew with a flinch, visibly stung. This man who had been such a strong mentor and staunch advocate not twenty years prior, now seemingly leveling threats. With a groan, accompanied by creaking wood, Cagliostro rose to his feet and shook his head. In twenty years, this man had faded into anonymity and it was he, Cagliostro, whose mystique had begun to surpass the human existence. It was Cagliostro who had become a legend throughout Europe, and not his mentor. Yet, it was also this man who had unnerved Cagliostro with his mere presence, no matter the duration of their relationship.
Then, softly, his cloudy, green eyes lost their edge in resignation. After all, time had left it’s stain on his body. He thoughtfully ran a single hand over worn, wrinkled skin to his balding pate. What few wisps of hair that remained were now devoid of youthful color. But this man before him… he had not aged a day.
The great work. The philosopher’s stone. Lead to gold and the bounty of eternal life. Cagliostro dismissed the notion immediately, as none knew the clandestine metaphorical origins of the philosopher’s stone better than he. He let his arm fall back to his side as he studied the stoic and brilliant man before him. “Years I have studied at your side, and for years we worked hand in hand.” He exhaled slowly, struggling to find the words under this man’s steady gaze. “And those years saw not even the slightest glimpse into your person, your reality, or your soul. You, who taught me the ways of Egyptian Freemasonry and built temples at my side throughout this continent. You, who refined my mental perception with philosophy, ritual and alchemy. You who instructed me in the arts of grand deception. And still,” he began, shaking his head, “you are no less a stranger to me than the first time I set my eyes upon you.” Cagliostro released a heavy sigh. “’Holy brother’, ‘sanctus germanus’, Saint Germain… who are you?” His eyes narrowed sharply. “Are you the last scion of Rakoczy and prince of Transylvania? Are you vampire? Angel or demon, perhaps?”
“What am I?” the Count of Saint Germain scoffed, casually setting the wine glass back to rest upon the table top. “What are you? The Count Cagliostro, raised by the Sovereign Military Order of the Knights of Malta, master alchemist and magician, or poverty struck Giuseppe Balsamo, ignorant occultist and accomplished liar, imprisoned by his own shame?” The latter was highlighted with an evil grin.
Cagliostro pounced forward at the mocking figure, as gracefully as his aged body would allow, with a growl, but as he braced for impact, his body sailed uninhibited through the air where the Count of Saint Germain had stood a heartbeat before. Vanished. His body groaned in protest as he began pushing himself to his feet, and then his eyes split in amazement as he beheld the smiling figure standing casually in the back of the room. “How?” he breathed, paralyzed on his knees. “What are you, Comte?”
“Your parlor tricks and oblique understanding do not place you in a position to pass judgment on an immortal,” the Count of Saint Germain erupted. “What I am is none of your concern, Cagliostro. Rather what you are is my concern, and in such, has become your concern, as well.” He calmly walked past the prostrated Cagliostro to retrieve the wine glass.
Cagliostro swallowed hard. “Whatever it is you think I’ve done… whatever it is I have done to offend you or your affairs, I can assure you it was unintentional,” he pleaded, hands spread in a gesture of submission.

TheReverend
08-25-2008, 11:11 AM
The Count of Saint Germain raised the glass to his lips and took a slow drink, torturing Cagliostro with every prolonged second of his tranquil composure. “You have done nothing to offend me, Cagliostro. In fact, you’ve been an admirable, if unwitting, servant.” The Count of Saint Germain waved his tension away with a dismissive flip of his hand. “If anything, dear Alessandro, I have been meddling in your affairs.”
Cagliostro said nothing, returning only a blank stare etched in confusion.
An ominous smile crept over the Count of Saint Germain’s lips. “You’ve been a useful tool, Cagliostro. You’ve become a mystery to the people. An enigma of fame and infamy in unison. Chaos…” The Count of Saint Germain blinked once, sincerity washing over rigid features and his tone becoming patronizing. “But I’m building a new world from the ashes of this stale… pit.” He turned, calmly leveling his gaze at the aging man before him, and said, “I had you arrested for Marie Antoinnette’s gaudy necklace.”
Cagliostro grimaced, pained by betrayal’s revelation. The affair of the diamond necklace, a vast ruse a skilled forger and swindler had invented to amass wealth, status, and cement public opinion against the queen, had become a catalyst to this French revolution now in it’s infancy. Cagliostro, himself, due to his dubious past, had been arrested on suspicion and exiled despite his apparent innocence.
The Count of Saint Germain only shrugged. “Had the French tribunal performed to expectations, we wouldn’t need to be having this discussion, but, alas, here we are.” He sighed. “This emerging new world is mine, Cagliostro. I no longer have a use for a man of your notoriety. No, Cagliostro, your purpose has run it’s course. So, again, tell me, what am I to do with you?”
Cagliostro stood rigid, jaw tight with defiance despite his uncertainty and fear that echoed inside him. “You would betray me with a smile?”
The Count of Saint Germain shrugged. “’Asher eh asher’; ‘I am that I am’. Such is my nature. Time is supposed to be our ultimate equalizer. What becomes of fear without the threat of retribution and consequence… without death? To stand unmovable throughout each epoch is a remarkable experience, but to bend history itself to your will… this is the power of the gods.” An imposing half smile crept slowly across his lips. “Because of my gifts, I have seen and experienced beyond mortal dreams. To stare entire armies down, blade drawn, without fear. To learn and debate firsthand with history’s greats… and then to surpass them.” He took one final drink as the remains of the wine glass slid down his throat, then paused to collect his thoughts. “Ego is beneath me. I have learned from my mistakes as one must to reshape the world in their image.” His head cocked to the side inquisitively. “Should I have pity on the sheep that must unwittingly surrender their lives for my dream? Does hunter pity the creature that he takes in sport?”
He shook his head softly. “No… men die enslaved by their surroundings, Cagliostro. Such is their nature. Most are no more than beasts of burden, slaving without complaint… to wring use from such pathetic animals you must speak to the soul to electrify them. As you are aware, manipulation is an art, and to this end, I am a true master. I have cast you aside, Cagliostro, as I will Bonaparte when his course has run.”
The Count of Saint Germain sighed once more. He produced a dagger with one free hand and set it upon the laboratory desk top with the empty glass simultaneously. With a glance over his shoulder as he made his exit, he said only, “Captivity or the afterlife.”
The local Roman constabulary was waiting outside as the Count of Saint Germain exited. In stride, he said, “The Count Alessandro di Cagliostro has confessed to be a practicing Freemason. Take him to Castel Sant Angelo. Any heartbeat of daylight he sees diminishes a score from your life.”
The constable nodded and waved his men forward as the Count of Saint Germain slowly melted into the night.


The centurion stood akimbo, cursing under his breath, weathered and tanned skin stretching to accommodate his wide grimace. So many factors had come to pass to land him in this predicament, like so many ripples on ocean of life creating a violent whirlpool that threatened to tear his existence apart. However, his apprehensions were not selfish in nature. Rather, his only fears were in defense of his ideals and what he held dearest, the Roman empire.
The cries from the assembled crowd, whether in support, mock, or desperate plea, were constant and the threat of riot and revolt were ubiquitous. Softly, the centurion cursed again, this time directing his disdain at Caiphas. After all, it was this man who had brought this mess upon him. This heretic, this blasphemer, that they had brought to his door seemed innocent in his own ways. This situation had become volatile quickly, and it was that volatility that tugged at Caiphas’ political strings, given that every breath this “criminal” took threatened Caiphas’ position and his prosperity.

TheReverend
08-25-2008, 11:14 AM
It seemed the sun was in protest as well, steadily pummeling the earth below with heat, unorthodox for the season, as it continued it’s ascent, matched by their own scaling through the outskirts of the city to Golgotha, the “place of the skull“. The centurion’s eyes squinted sharply as he tried to make sense of the situation, those monotonous eyes barely visible under his plumed helmet’s visor. Whether there was cause in this man, whether his punishment was justified, matter little. No, despite his peaceful nature, this man’s life had proven to be incendiary to his very surroundings. Everything he touched sparked with dissonance, and passion, but dissonance of this potential scale could not be afforded in the empire’s borderlands. If it was the centurion’s duty to maintain the order and security of the Roman empire by executing this man, this messiah, or whatever he may be, then so be it, whether guilty or blameless.
Jesus of Nazareth stumbled to his knees, the heavy, wooden cross, mockingly labeled with his self proclamation, “King of the Jews”, burdened upon his back falling to the ground beside him and snapping the centurion from his preoccupied reverie. No god, the centurion softly mused to himself in pity of the defeated character before him. After all, what sort of God could be prostrated before all to see, scorned with his briar crown, beaten and blood drenched from scourge wounds and tortured to near death by wretched, mortal man?
The crowd that thickened with every moment cheered at this blatant sign of weakness, cursing his arrogance and mocking his mortal frailty.
“Help him!” the centurion barked, pointing to the closest guardsman, interrupting their own ridicule of this apparent false prophet. “Can you not see that he can go no further?”
The centurion grit his teeth, frustration evident upon his face. These borderland “Romans” were devoid of discipline. Briefly, he longed to be back with the Legion, among true men made of sterner stuff, where life, death, the rush of adrenaline and the stressors of combat came hand in hand in honorable service to the Caesar. But, after all, it was the Caesar, himself, who had sent him to this pious pit at the world’s end. His decree came following several mishaps the prelate, Pontius Pilate, had made in his dealings with these stubbornly devout people, and though it had been disappointing, the centurion had accepted without hesitation, for his service was unconditional.
Pilate, himself, had preferred to release this delinquent from punishment. For all their findings, this man was guilty only of unwittingly ensnaring himself in a political, religious power struggle… and of insanity, of course. Regardless, Pilate could not afford discontent from the Jewish temple among such a devoted people, knowing an incident of such a profound scale would force the centurion to take his head at the behest of the Caesar.
Why would this man refuse to withdraw such claims when he was given such beneficial contingency? Why would this man force his execution for his foolish pride? This man that stood defiantly before the Roman prelate, Pontius Pilate, and asserted his own position in the kingdom of Heaven! Could anyone invent such arrogance! The centurion grit his teeth and approached this deity now struggling to stand. Man or god, this man would die by his hand before dusk. The indignant glare or superiority this beaten man had directed at Pilate only hours before, now aimed at the centurion. The messiah’s bravado was returned with a mouth of spit, stinging as it slid awkwardly down hemorrhaging wounds, but this man’s body was now numb to pain on such a dull scale.
Despite the affront, his face never flinched, his glare remained steel, only his mouth moved, showing blood stained teeth as he mouthed the words, “You shall wait here until I return.”
The centurion only stared as a chill wind ripped through his insides and shivers tickled their way up and down his spine. His silent and reflective stare continued as a man was pulled from the crowd to assist Jesus, the anointed one, with the burden of the cross, and through their final ascent to Golgotha. As if entranced, the centurion could not hear the cries of agony from sects of observers or from the prophet’s own mouth, instead his ears trained on the pounding of iron and the snapping of bones as iron nails were driven through the Savior of Man’s hands and feet. The wind that ripped through the place of the skull was thick with the scent of blood, but only regret touched the centurion’s sharp nostrils.
Hours of this black day steadily melted away, but nothing dulled the meditative state of the centurion as the words of the martyr echoed through his ears and his mind’s eye. You shall wait here until I return.
He knew he could stop this. To cut this man, spirit, or god from his cross and execute Pilate in the name of the Caesar. Such was in his power. Instead, he did nothing, trapped outside his own body and paralyzed as a spectator to the cruel atrocity before him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to end this. But he stood motionless and staring, powerless even to form words.
Then, with a deep exhale, all remaining life and spirit fled from the body, and the now vacant head slumped forward. This criminal, charlatan, madman, martyr, priest, prophet, king, messiah, deity, or any combination that he may truly be, was now dead.
The centurion stirred, snapping from his trance with a shake of his head. He waved his hand, signaling the guardsman to proceed with their mauls to hobble the legs of the accused, expediting their grim demise. They halted before Jesus, glancing back to the centurion and somberly shaking their heads, reaffirming that life had already fled from the empty body.
“Show me,” the centurion growled, effortlessly tossing a spear to the closest man. There was no tensing or reflexive reaction as the spear drove effortlessly into the holy corpse’s side, only a violent spray of blood. Then, as if mourning, the earth itself trembled, and spasms came in deep sobs.
And as the centurion turned and began his retreat back to the prelate, quietly and to himself, only two words passed through his lips.
“Hail Caesar.”

TheReverend
08-25-2008, 11:38 AM
Better. Still, my apologies for the walls of text.

watermock
09-04-2008, 04:33 AM
Saint Germain certainly was extraordinary, but I doubt he was at Jesus crucifiction 1500 years earlier, or did I miss something?

TheReverend
09-04-2008, 05:03 AM
Saint Germain certainly was extraordinary, but I doubt he was at Jesus crucifiction 1500 years earlier, or did I miss something?

You missed the "fiction" part of it, apparently.

watermock
09-04-2008, 05:43 AM
Even fiction has to have a coherent timeline.

No biggie, you certainly have the gift of description, very impressive..

TheReverend
09-04-2008, 05:55 AM
Even fiction has to have a coherent timeline.

No biggie, you certainly have the gift of description, very impressive..

Sigh...

So the legend in the pre-revolution France was that he was an immortal man. Some people he told he had mastered alchemy for that gift, some he told he had studied the pyramids for it, and one of the legends was that he spit on Jesus and was in turn cursed by him.

Regardless, thanks.

alkemical
09-04-2008, 06:01 AM
Sigh...

So the legend in the pre-revolution France was that he was an immortal man. Some people he told he had mastered alchemy for that gift, some he told he had studied the pyramids for it, and one of the legends was that he spit on Jesus and was in turn cursed by him.

Regardless, thanks.

I like the stuff where he was the mysterious figure that gave..was it jefferson - the great seal and stuff like that -

TheReverend
09-04-2008, 06:04 AM
I like the stuff where he was the mysterious figure that gave..was it jefferson - the great seal and stuff like that -

Or that he was Adam Weishaupt who was in turn George Washington.

Or that he was Vlad the impaler.

Or that...

alkemical
09-04-2008, 06:07 AM
Or that he was Adam Weishaupt who was in turn George Washington.

Or that he was Vlad the impaler.

Or that...

Well, i can see how he was Weishaupt... But i've never heard the vlad stuff.

alkemical
09-04-2008, 06:11 AM
I just did a google search and found this:

http://www.marvel.com/universe/Dracula

Eventually the vampire-hunter the Scotsman staked Dracula and knocked him into his own Pit of Death. Despite his body's destruction, Dracula's spirit sent his agent Comte St. Germaine to obtain the Amulet of Zarathos in a failed effort to resurrect him.


So some of that could be interesting - about the vlad - and if that's your own "world" that could be very interesting.

Did you ever see Dracula2000 - the movie kinda sucks - but the ending is what got me. Dracula - was Judas - that was his curse.

just cool and interesting ****...

TheReverend
09-04-2008, 06:13 AM
Well, i can see how he was Weishaupt... But i've never heard the vlad stuff.

Take any notable character throughout Common Era history, and you can find a legend with him attached to it.

Right now, I believe, he's posing as someone named "Jack Williams".

alkemical
09-04-2008, 06:14 AM
Take any notable character throughout Common Era history, and you can find a legend with him attached to it.

Right now, I believe, he's posing as someone named "Jack Williams".

lol -

watermock
09-06-2008, 12:34 AM
I know about supposed transmutation materially and spiratually.

Bob's your Information Minister
10-04-2008, 07:30 AM
yawn

TheReverend
10-04-2008, 09:57 AM
yawn

Thanks kitten. :kiss:

TheReverend
04-07-2009, 07:21 PM
Too many conversations with too many money grubby ****heads made me decide to rework the beginning. Got lit up and wrote this. Anyone got input?

Moses said to God, "Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, 'The God of your fathers has sent me to you,' and they ask me, 'What is his name?' Then what shall I tell them?"
God said to Moses, "I am that I am. This is what you are to say to the Israelites: 'I AM has sent me to you.' "
Exodus 3:13-14
Eh’yeh Asher Eh’yeh
Moonlight crystals slow danced their way across the surface of the water, gently shape-shifting with the lucid ebb and flow of the tides, and creating a tranquility reserved for this northern edge of the Adriatic Sea. From where Asher sat on his haunches, above the cliff face, he couldn’t hear the water gently lapping against the rocks below, nor would he have been able to. Lost in thought, tanned skin and sun bleached hair gently kissed by the wind and it’s sea-spray, his soft breathing began to mimic the steady shifting of the winds. The stirring behind him foretold his inevitable departure as Lance was saying his goodbyes, but serene green eyes remained transfixed on the water below. So many thoughts, so many memories, so many experiences of… this place. Whether they were for the better, or, most likely, for the worst, well, that wasn’t up to him to discern. No, fate would be the final judge on whether his time here had turned him into a man, or a monster.
A soft grunt escaped his lips with a smile at that thought. He had heard someone say that life was about the journey, and not about the destination, but his journey, the journey of the “gifted” had seen more imprisonment than freedom. And what would they say about the man that controlled both the journey and destination of others? Would the same infantile folklores apply? He shook his head, hoping to finally let himself be free, and to succumb to these gentle winds surrounding his body, permitting them to carry him across the winds of time to his fate. After all, simplicity was a virtue to the Hindus. A virtue that had not been his luxury.
A gentle touch forced a hum from his lips as soft fingertips crept across his left arm. It was a touch he knew well, and yet one he had yearned to know better through years of infatuation. The same touch that had inspired his actions of heroism with a more than modest aspect of boast throughout years. “Hey.” Her soft voice barely cracked through the silent night.
Asher slowly pushed himself to his feet before offering her a hand. She accepted, her hand becoming engulfed in his, as he looked down at her with silent admiration, nodding slowly. Quiet, demure, petite, no matter which adjective you used to describe her, beautiful had to be included.
Dark hair framed olive skin and sharp features that nervously smiled back into his face. Her eyes darted from side to side apprehensively as she spoke, “I just want you to know… I’ll be here.”
Asher cocked his head to the side, a strand of hair falling across his forehead.
She smiled now, light eyes that sparkled with intelligence shining in the moonlight. “I mean… I’ll be waiting here.”
“Why?”
“I’ll be waiting here… for you.” She reached inside the neck of her sweater and removed a silver ankh, the one he had given to her years before. She smiled as she held it, angling it to glow in the moon’s light. “So when you come home… you’ll find me.”
Home. The peculiar choice of words for their background escaped him. After all, could he remember anything else he could consider “home”? What truly constituted “home” anyways? One hundred things, followed by another thousand, to say poured through his mind. Only words escaped him. Emotion refused to let him speak the words he wanted to say. He could only smile.
And with the smile he turned to her twin brother Lance, the only person he could remotely consider a friend. It was time to go.
It was time to discover their destiny.
“Asher!” her voice called behind him.
He craned his neck gently.
Gracefully she swept a rose petal into her palm, and cupped it to her lips before gently blowing. The winds carried the petal off the cliff’s ridge and above the sea below, and steadily to the clouds above before winking out of sight into the autumn sky.
“Goodbye, Jessica,” were the first words his mouth had managed to create that night. “For now,” he said to himself as he disappeared into the horizon with her brother at his side.
Perhaps there was a place for him in this world after all.

The rose petal that had winked out of site, translucent and glowing in the moonlight, crept back into site, spinning and spiraling in it’s descent with wild abandon until illuminated to the point of revealing itself as cold steel, flashing brightly with every crack of maddening thunder overhead, until the steel blade sheathed itself in the earth beside him with a metallic sink.
After all, tonight was not that night.
No longer marked by the unaffected simplicity of youth, Asher stood, sprayed in blood from leather boots to now darker hair line. Smoke still gently wisped from the tip of the nickel plated Desert Eagle hanging loosely in his right finger-tips. “Solomon” was customarily engraved on both sides.
Limp bodies surrounded him as far as he could see, slain by his own hand. All carrying one common trait, a casually emblazoned triangle on their clothing, or a tattoo upon an arm.
Asher ran his left hand through his blood matted hair, sighing softly to himself in silent reflection.
A flash of light pierced the sky behind him, paired with a dull vibration permeating the atmosphere around them and illuminating the tempestuous night sky.
Asher didn’t flinch. “Gabriel,” he acknowledged, under his breath, steadily becoming aware of the dull aches saturating his body.
The slender archangel approached gracefully echoing the fluidity of his element, yet slowly and carefully lamenting the fates of the prostrated bodies strewn upon the earth at every turn.
“What are you thinking, Asher?”
Asher’s left handed scrubbed at his blood matted hair, perhaps in a vain attempt to scrub himself clean. The question seemed simple enough, yet Asher knew that with the ethereal, nothing was transparent. Carefully he whispered, “One-point-six-one-eight…”
Gabriel’s tranquil gaze turned to the fifty caliber pistol cradled in Asher’s right hand. Solomon. “You find that to be amusing?”
Now Asher laughed deeply, mouth splitting in a wide grin revealing his curiously sharp teeth. “And you don’t, little archangel? The ‘wisdom of Solomon’…” He dismissed the rest with a shrug, face still split with a grin. “I thought it was clever.”
“Asher,“ Gabriel sighed, half in response to Asher, half in his immersion with the fresh corpses to be found at every turned. “I fear the morning star shines brightly inside of you…”
“What if he does?” Asher growled his retort, smoothly cocking and leveling his aim at Gabriel, the last of the Archangels, the word “Solomon” parallel with the rough, earth below.
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Would you dare, little human?”
Asher spoke through sharply grit teeth. “I’ve never had the opulence of being the naïve little boy you assume I am, Gabriel. Or did you forget, you put me here?” He rolled his eyes as he slowly rotated around the statuesque Gabriel, aim sure with every step. “My ‘guardian angel’ that ripped my childhood away from me and sold me into torture. My ‘guardian angel’ that released Lucifer’s lieutenants… the four horsemen.” Asher slowly shook his head. “No, Gabriel. You can’t play with my trigger and then blame my gun…”
Gabriel stood tall and unwavering. “The abyss brings perspective, Asher. Perhaps something of a trait that has become a bit too atypical within you.”
Asher’s head cocked to the side. “Perspective or chaos?”
Gabriel’s head dipped in a slow sigh. “You are more than this, Asher,” he said, gesturing to the lifeless bodies strewn across the landscape. “You can choose. Savior… or condemner.”
With his blood-soaked, free hand Asher gestured to the area around them. “Are you blind, winged freak? This is what’s become of me. Would you absolve yourself of any guilt?”
Gabriel shook his head softly. “If one must fall… then do so with honor.”
Asher’s smile broadened as he lowered his pistol, casually walking his aching body over to his sunken blade and removing it from the earth, deltoid burning with exhaustion as he aimed the blade tip at the archangel. “If it is your wish, my betrayer of hope.”
Gabriel’s wings arched as he drew his own sword. “You’ll find I’m not subject to your human frailties, your majesty.”
Asher’s eyes slowly gleamed yellow as his smile split even wider just a moment before the pounding of his feet against the earth eclipsed the roaring of the thunder overhead.
Celestial steel met heavenly metal in a brilliant clash of sparks as the two locked in an ethereal dance of death. Asher’s exhaustion soon took prominence as Gabriel pressed forward in a dizzying shower of attacks, pressing Asher back with every thrust.
“Be done with this, Asher,” Gabriel growled. “We can be done with this together.”
Asher panted, glaring back at the Archangel. Words were useless. Gripping the pommel of his sword tighter, he spit on the ground before the angel of water.
Gabriel growled, stepping forward and swinging in a brilliant arc, spraying a shower of blood as his blade bit through Asher’s face to the ground below.
Asher stumbled backwards, slowly raising his right hand to his eyebrow, now gashed through his nose to his cheek. Deftly, he caught his footing as his own blood dripped down his face to soak the earth below. Memories soaked his mind with an unrivaled rapidity. Jessica. Lance. He slowly shook the fog from his mind. The Count of Saint Germain had taught him too well. A childhood where toys replaced with weapons… No. He was the weapon. Now yellow eyes glared up at the Archangel before him.
Casually and focused he softly spoke the words Krishna had spoken an eternity ago, “Whenever there is decay of righteousness, and there is exaltation of unrighteousness, then I Myself come forth for the destruction of evil-doers, for the sake of firmly establishing righteousness, I am born from age to age. I am become Death, destroyed of worlds.”
And with that he moved forward, pressing Gabriel back in a flurry of heavenly feathers with grunts and growls belying the pain that tore through his muscles. Heroism, villainy, whichever it was that he was currently guilty of eluded him.
And as Gabriel lay prostrated before him with Asher’s blade laying across his neck the archangel whispered, “Asher… what have you become?”
Asher glared in response. “’Eh’yeh Asher eh’yeh‘, Gabriel,” he said slowly. “’I am that I am’.”
And the last of the four Archangels died silently, wrought with regrets.

alkemical
04-08-2009, 06:22 AM
Rev - i'm busy today/this week - going camping for a bachelor party.

But i'll copy/paste this into word and put on my phone - when i get a min - i'll read it.

TheReverend
04-08-2009, 06:28 AM
No worries, Josh. I had my ex in town so I haven't finished Mirror yet anyways, but that'll be done soon. Take your time and be thorough. This starts where the other leaves off.