GW's Faux Dream
((Yeah, once again jumping the bandwagon. This is GW's dream of Faux, as he is beginning to doubt the power. Heeheehee...so anyway, i'm not god-modding [who came up with that phrase?] and this is not mean to be RPed, my first one ever so be easy on me, ok?))
Ghost Writer let his eyes dart around the ominous section of the library, illuminated only by the melted candle’s dim light clenched tight in his hand. It didn’t really help, but it was just enough to be able to see in that dead section of the library he hardly thought off and never visited. The harrowing, warped walls seemed to close in on his small frame as he heard a deep, hollow laughing echoing from the paper jungle. He stepped toward it and held up his candle. In the dim light he saw what looked like a reflection of Clockwork- only different. Cloaked in black instead of blue and running his long, well-trained fingers through the paragraphs in one of his books. Fingers that looked as though they had done their fair share of choking and tearing at the innocence of a soul. A soul that Ghost Writer thought for sure that he knew. The chuckling demon turned to the novelist- showing one red eye.
“What are you doing here?” he said, but tremulous as he purposely avoided the gaze of the other man, this false Clockwork.
“Catching up on my reading, writer,” he said, flipping another page and chuckling once more. “Catching up on your sins.”
“I don’t believe in sins,” the novelist replied coldly. The creature’s smirk grew wide as he lay his fingertips against the page, and the author of that story looked up to see the false-Clockwork pulling a paragraph of text clear off the page, and crumpling it up in his hand. It was followed by a searing pain- as if someone, something- was pulling a hot iron across Ghost Writer’s abdomen, and he fell to his knees, dropping the candle and grabbing his stomach. He panted, a beat of sweat dropping off his nose as he pulled back his trembling hand, and seeing a soggy wad of text, words, curling around his fingers mixed with thick black ink. He slumped against a bookshelf, and reared back, slamming his head and looking down, seeing the darkening black stain on his gray shirt. He ripped it off and gapped in horror, seeing the gnarled, sticky black holes in the shape of size 12 font. The words in his book. He looked up, pressing his hands to the paragraph cut into his stomach and watched as the creature slammed the book shut, tapping his fingers across the spine.
It read ‘Ghost Writer’.
His eyes widened. The book. His body. His soul.
The cloaked man looked up at the bookshelf and noticed something more enticing to him than the body of the writer and dropped the book, harshly, the front cover snapping back and unlacing the binding a bit. Ghost Writer cried out, tears rolling down his cheeks as he looked down momentarily, just long enough to see a wide piece of flesh peeling back from his hand. Spiraling in a neat blackened coil, leaving a neat blackened square of ink and text about four inches long from his hand to wrist. He watched as text seeped from his hand, forming puddles of sentences on the floor.
Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain…
Thou shalt not worship a false god…
“I don’t believe, I don’t believe,” he whispered repetitively as the ill-omen before him slowly pulled a book from the shelf and opened the front cover, and from the spine the candle still gave off just enough light for him to read the words ‘Nicolai Technus’.
“KEEP AWAY FROM THAT!” Ghost Writer’s hands snapped up and slammed the book onto his fingers, trying to pull it away. The writer felt his eyes cloud over with black as inky tears spilled down his cheeks. As he fought to pull the book away, the man’s hand thrust down and ripped a page from Ghost Writer’s book. A spurt of ink, a gnarled scream, and a look of hatred as he pulled the book from the monster’s hands, only allowing him to take one stream of crumbling text with him. He scrambled away, to his feet that had ripped open like ripe bananas from the tearing of his page, and he ran as fast as he could, clutching Technus’s book in his hands like it was a precious jewel or a newborn child. He tore from the wooden shelves that threatened to close him in and fell to his shag carpet. He held the book tight to his chest, looking back a split second and seeing an all consuming darkness threatening to take the entire library into its depth. He turned back his head and closed his eyes, trying to be somewhere else. Trying to make the monster go away. Trying to believe it wasn’t the devil.
He was stirred from his thoughts by a soft whimpering and looked to the skylight which poured angelic grace over a huddled figure cloaked in a cape that Ghost Writer knew all too well. He attempted to walk, but could only crawl, as his feet and ankles began to unroll like pale, ink-stained parchment. He crawled over to the poor man and drew the cape off of him. There knelt Technus- his body nothing but transparent words and text wrapped in paper. It looked as if a body had been wrapped up and typed on, it scared Ghost Writer. He dropped the book and grabbed his lover, or whatever it was, and shook him.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” he tried to say, but the only thing that would come out of his mouth was foul tasting blank ink. The paper-wrapped Technus held his fingers under his mouth and collected droplets of ink in his hand. It made the text that ran through his form run and stain, and smeared it under his eyes to look like a stream of black tears. Ghost Writer only gave an apologetic look before a hand shot from the darkness and grabbed the book between the two men- ripping off the cover and tearing out a good deal of the pages. Ghost Writer threw his head back and tried to scream a strangled scream but couldn’t as he watched the text frame of the scientist unravel and fall to the ground in a heap of paper and words that meant nothing to anyone except him. He saw faux come out of the darkness, holding his own life, ripped to shreds and destroyed, and the writer attempted to leap up and claw his eyes out for what he did to Technus.
He couldn’t move. He looked down and saw himself dissolving into a pool of his own blood. His own ink. The ink he had manipulated for so long to his own devices. He looked up pleadingly, his mouth wide open but no words coming out; he left the speaking to his eyes.
“Help me, stop this,” he said with his gaze. The monster in black reached into the pages and pulled out a sentence, a sentence which cut over and ripped into Ghost Writer’s forehead.
The figured walked toward him, “thou shalt not kill…” his strong, evil voice rang out as he picked up a stained piece of raveled paper, raveled paper that had belonged to Technus as the novelist lost the feeling in his nerves. “Of course, you don’t believe in that, do you?”
Sinking. Sinking. Blackness. A puddle of ink.
“Do you believe in me, writer?”
Ghost Writer let his eyes dart around the ominous section of the library, illuminated only by the melted candle’s dim light clenched tight in his hand. It didn’t really help, but it was just enough to be able to see in that dead section of the library he hardly thought off and never visited. The harrowing, warped walls seemed to close in on his small frame as he heard a deep, hollow laughing echoing from the paper jungle. He stepped toward it and held up his candle. In the dim light he saw what looked like a reflection of Clockwork- only different. Cloaked in black instead of blue and running his long, well-trained fingers through the paragraphs in one of his books. Fingers that looked as though they had done their fair share of choking and tearing at the innocence of a soul. A soul that Ghost Writer thought for sure that he knew. The chuckling demon turned to the novelist- showing one red eye.
“What are you doing here?” he said, but tremulous as he purposely avoided the gaze of the other man, this false Clockwork.
“Catching up on my reading, writer,” he said, flipping another page and chuckling once more. “Catching up on your sins.”
“I don’t believe in sins,” the novelist replied coldly. The creature’s smirk grew wide as he lay his fingertips against the page, and the author of that story looked up to see the false-Clockwork pulling a paragraph of text clear off the page, and crumpling it up in his hand. It was followed by a searing pain- as if someone, something- was pulling a hot iron across Ghost Writer’s abdomen, and he fell to his knees, dropping the candle and grabbing his stomach. He panted, a beat of sweat dropping off his nose as he pulled back his trembling hand, and seeing a soggy wad of text, words, curling around his fingers mixed with thick black ink. He slumped against a bookshelf, and reared back, slamming his head and looking down, seeing the darkening black stain on his gray shirt. He ripped it off and gapped in horror, seeing the gnarled, sticky black holes in the shape of size 12 font. The words in his book. He looked up, pressing his hands to the paragraph cut into his stomach and watched as the creature slammed the book shut, tapping his fingers across the spine.
It read ‘Ghost Writer’.
His eyes widened. The book. His body. His soul.
The cloaked man looked up at the bookshelf and noticed something more enticing to him than the body of the writer and dropped the book, harshly, the front cover snapping back and unlacing the binding a bit. Ghost Writer cried out, tears rolling down his cheeks as he looked down momentarily, just long enough to see a wide piece of flesh peeling back from his hand. Spiraling in a neat blackened coil, leaving a neat blackened square of ink and text about four inches long from his hand to wrist. He watched as text seeped from his hand, forming puddles of sentences on the floor.
Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain…
Thou shalt not worship a false god…
“I don’t believe, I don’t believe,” he whispered repetitively as the ill-omen before him slowly pulled a book from the shelf and opened the front cover, and from the spine the candle still gave off just enough light for him to read the words ‘Nicolai Technus’.
“KEEP AWAY FROM THAT!” Ghost Writer’s hands snapped up and slammed the book onto his fingers, trying to pull it away. The writer felt his eyes cloud over with black as inky tears spilled down his cheeks. As he fought to pull the book away, the man’s hand thrust down and ripped a page from Ghost Writer’s book. A spurt of ink, a gnarled scream, and a look of hatred as he pulled the book from the monster’s hands, only allowing him to take one stream of crumbling text with him. He scrambled away, to his feet that had ripped open like ripe bananas from the tearing of his page, and he ran as fast as he could, clutching Technus’s book in his hands like it was a precious jewel or a newborn child. He tore from the wooden shelves that threatened to close him in and fell to his shag carpet. He held the book tight to his chest, looking back a split second and seeing an all consuming darkness threatening to take the entire library into its depth. He turned back his head and closed his eyes, trying to be somewhere else. Trying to make the monster go away. Trying to believe it wasn’t the devil.
He was stirred from his thoughts by a soft whimpering and looked to the skylight which poured angelic grace over a huddled figure cloaked in a cape that Ghost Writer knew all too well. He attempted to walk, but could only crawl, as his feet and ankles began to unroll like pale, ink-stained parchment. He crawled over to the poor man and drew the cape off of him. There knelt Technus- his body nothing but transparent words and text wrapped in paper. It looked as if a body had been wrapped up and typed on, it scared Ghost Writer. He dropped the book and grabbed his lover, or whatever it was, and shook him.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” he tried to say, but the only thing that would come out of his mouth was foul tasting blank ink. The paper-wrapped Technus held his fingers under his mouth and collected droplets of ink in his hand. It made the text that ran through his form run and stain, and smeared it under his eyes to look like a stream of black tears. Ghost Writer only gave an apologetic look before a hand shot from the darkness and grabbed the book between the two men- ripping off the cover and tearing out a good deal of the pages. Ghost Writer threw his head back and tried to scream a strangled scream but couldn’t as he watched the text frame of the scientist unravel and fall to the ground in a heap of paper and words that meant nothing to anyone except him. He saw faux come out of the darkness, holding his own life, ripped to shreds and destroyed, and the writer attempted to leap up and claw his eyes out for what he did to Technus.
He couldn’t move. He looked down and saw himself dissolving into a pool of his own blood. His own ink. The ink he had manipulated for so long to his own devices. He looked up pleadingly, his mouth wide open but no words coming out; he left the speaking to his eyes.
“Help me, stop this,” he said with his gaze. The monster in black reached into the pages and pulled out a sentence, a sentence which cut over and ripped into Ghost Writer’s forehead.
The figured walked toward him, “thou shalt not kill…” his strong, evil voice rang out as he picked up a stained piece of raveled paper, raveled paper that had belonged to Technus as the novelist lost the feeling in his nerves. “Of course, you don’t believe in that, do you?”
Sinking. Sinking. Blackness. A puddle of ink.
“Do you believe in me, writer?”