Posting - Faces in the Fog
Ikon grows ever more bleak in her images and words. I have taken this because she is reluctant to post it on this site.
The character in this story is the sole property of Square-Enix. I alone am responsible for this excursion into fantasy.
A/N - Warning: this is not froth and contains explicit violence.
FACES IN THE FOG
TRANSITION - 3
by Ikonopeiston
They usually came at night but of late they had appeared in the daylight hours, forming before his vision when he was between jobs or otherwise at loose ends. He dreaded the time when they would be bold enough to encroach on his real work or embarrass him when he was with others. It would not do to have them appear while he was conducting an exercise in diplomacy or trying to wheedle a sphere out of a reluctant hunter.
They came singly and in small clusters, holding out their pleading hands and uttering incoherent sounds out of their broken mouths. He recognized them all although he knew the names of only a few. He had not often asked for a name before beginning. He knew them mostly by this handiwork on their faces. The carefully executed scrollwork was easily visible now that there was no more blood to obscure it. The pallor of the remaining skin formed an effective support for his art.
He supposed this was the expected result of his love affair with Death - these deformed offspring. The relationship with Death was a complicated one. He both anticipated and longed for the culmination to come quickly. Not fearing his own extinction, he had no qualms about offering it to those who also courted the Queen of Nothingness. So he frequented the House of Pain.
A counterweight to the Houses of Pleasure, the House of Pain offered a place where those who chose Death and those who needed to give vent to their taste for cruelty could meet and satisfy both their requirements. Nooj found the such a place useful in controlling his less acceptable impulses. It had become his custom to kiss the lips of those he used in this fashion, both as a token of respect for the release they gave him and to mark them as his own. Once this habit had nearly cost him his own life. When he bent to bestow the ritual seal on the man he had chosen, the victim drew out a concealed blade and buried it in the Crusader’s side. Nooj, filled with appreciation, made sure this man died with particular slowness.
He had perfected his form of art so that he could feed his demons efficiently and completely without using the available supplies too extravagantly. What had in his early years been a simple slashing, disembowelment and rapid release had become refined and attenuated. The spirits which haunted him now bore the evidence of that increased skill. Their faces were the only parts touched. They had become grotesque masks with cursive designs etched into the skin by the scalpel sharp tip of his dagger. The sculptor had taken his time and carefully drawn the elegantly curving shapes smoothly and precisely. The nostrils and ears had been notched and carved to complement the plan as had the lips, outlined and emphasized in their turn. When the subject finally died, the last thing his tortured eyes beheld was the steady gaze of his tormentor and agent of his release, looking at him with compassion and gratitude.
His victims had died screaming but they now visited him in silence. He had tried cutting out the tongues of those he killed to spare his sensibilities the sound of their cries. However, he discovered that the guttural noises they made once deprived of that vital muscle were far more disgusting and that they had an annoying habit of choking on their own blood and dying too quickly so he stopped that and simply schooled himself to ignore their shrieking as they struggled. Now he did not understand why those whom he had accommodated in their quest for death should bother him so long after the deeds. He felt no guilt for his actions. He had graced these men with a delicate and unique exit in a situation where they could be Sent without delay and faced no danger of transmuting into fiends. They had no legitimate complaint against him. In his own eyes, he had done that which was desired and necessary so his conscience was quiet; his honour was unsullied.
Yet the figures and faces thronged about him, disturbing his rest, preventing his concentration. He wondered if he should consult a Summoner. Several who had once followed that obsolete profession were among his acquaintances. At the thought, he smiled grimly to himself. He had never relied on others to solve his problems. Part of his code was dedicated to handling such matters on his own. He would not be reduced to cowering incompetence by a collection of ghosts.
A sudden and quite unexpected idea blossomed in his thoughts. The spirits might be emissaries of the Lady Death herself, sent to make ready the way for her own advent. The more he thought about it, the more likely this scenario seemed to him. It was logical, explaining why the phantasms had come at this time when he was so tired of living and felt all his purposes had been fulfilled. If his conclusion was truth, he could be patient and welcome those so dispatched. An unaccustomed peace settled on his restless mind and body. He could be approaching a time when he would be free. Free from pain, from uncertainty, from his increasingly tedious duties, free to dissolve into Nothingness. With a gesture as unstudied as it was expansive, he stretched out his arms, both the flesh one and the metal, as if to embrace the Queen of Darkness. An unfamiliar emotion filled him. He was happy.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
1
The character in this story is the sole property of Square-Enix. I alone am responsible for this excursion into fantasy.
A/N - Warning: this is not froth and contains explicit violence.
FACES IN THE FOG
TRANSITION - 3
by Ikonopeiston
They usually came at night but of late they had appeared in the daylight hours, forming before his vision when he was between jobs or otherwise at loose ends. He dreaded the time when they would be bold enough to encroach on his real work or embarrass him when he was with others. It would not do to have them appear while he was conducting an exercise in diplomacy or trying to wheedle a sphere out of a reluctant hunter.
They came singly and in small clusters, holding out their pleading hands and uttering incoherent sounds out of their broken mouths. He recognized them all although he knew the names of only a few. He had not often asked for a name before beginning. He knew them mostly by this handiwork on their faces. The carefully executed scrollwork was easily visible now that there was no more blood to obscure it. The pallor of the remaining skin formed an effective support for his art.
He supposed this was the expected result of his love affair with Death - these deformed offspring. The relationship with Death was a complicated one. He both anticipated and longed for the culmination to come quickly. Not fearing his own extinction, he had no qualms about offering it to those who also courted the Queen of Nothingness. So he frequented the House of Pain.
A counterweight to the Houses of Pleasure, the House of Pain offered a place where those who chose Death and those who needed to give vent to their taste for cruelty could meet and satisfy both their requirements. Nooj found the such a place useful in controlling his less acceptable impulses. It had become his custom to kiss the lips of those he used in this fashion, both as a token of respect for the release they gave him and to mark them as his own. Once this habit had nearly cost him his own life. When he bent to bestow the ritual seal on the man he had chosen, the victim drew out a concealed blade and buried it in the Crusader’s side. Nooj, filled with appreciation, made sure this man died with particular slowness.
He had perfected his form of art so that he could feed his demons efficiently and completely without using the available supplies too extravagantly. What had in his early years been a simple slashing, disembowelment and rapid release had become refined and attenuated. The spirits which haunted him now bore the evidence of that increased skill. Their faces were the only parts touched. They had become grotesque masks with cursive designs etched into the skin by the scalpel sharp tip of his dagger. The sculptor had taken his time and carefully drawn the elegantly curving shapes smoothly and precisely. The nostrils and ears had been notched and carved to complement the plan as had the lips, outlined and emphasized in their turn. When the subject finally died, the last thing his tortured eyes beheld was the steady gaze of his tormentor and agent of his release, looking at him with compassion and gratitude.
His victims had died screaming but they now visited him in silence. He had tried cutting out the tongues of those he killed to spare his sensibilities the sound of their cries. However, he discovered that the guttural noises they made once deprived of that vital muscle were far more disgusting and that they had an annoying habit of choking on their own blood and dying too quickly so he stopped that and simply schooled himself to ignore their shrieking as they struggled. Now he did not understand why those whom he had accommodated in their quest for death should bother him so long after the deeds. He felt no guilt for his actions. He had graced these men with a delicate and unique exit in a situation where they could be Sent without delay and faced no danger of transmuting into fiends. They had no legitimate complaint against him. In his own eyes, he had done that which was desired and necessary so his conscience was quiet; his honour was unsullied.
Yet the figures and faces thronged about him, disturbing his rest, preventing his concentration. He wondered if he should consult a Summoner. Several who had once followed that obsolete profession were among his acquaintances. At the thought, he smiled grimly to himself. He had never relied on others to solve his problems. Part of his code was dedicated to handling such matters on his own. He would not be reduced to cowering incompetence by a collection of ghosts.
A sudden and quite unexpected idea blossomed in his thoughts. The spirits might be emissaries of the Lady Death herself, sent to make ready the way for her own advent. The more he thought about it, the more likely this scenario seemed to him. It was logical, explaining why the phantasms had come at this time when he was so tired of living and felt all his purposes had been fulfilled. If his conclusion was truth, he could be patient and welcome those so dispatched. An unaccustomed peace settled on his restless mind and body. He could be approaching a time when he would be free. Free from pain, from uncertainty, from his increasingly tedious duties, free to dissolve into Nothingness. With a gesture as unstudied as it was expansive, he stretched out his arms, both the flesh one and the metal, as if to embrace the Queen of Darkness. An unfamiliar emotion filled him. He was happy.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
1