Trip Down memory Lane: The Memory [2/2]
Characters: Sam Vimes/Stoneface (stonyfaced), Jack Landors/Ghost (redrobinhood), Grell Sutcliffe/Juliet (esoteric_rose) and Genjyo Sanzo/Moon (pretecorrotto)
Date/Time: September 21st-24th
Location: The elevator
Rating: PG-13 for probable strong language and violence.
Summary: Everybody gets to witness Stoneface's memory.
It was and wasn’t a battlefield. The barricade made of sturdy household objects built up high said that it was. The homes and doors and alleyways said that it wasn’t. The copper, being one Stoneface, dressed in uniform - three stripes with a crown above it, which meant sergeant-at-arms, thank you very much - said that it was, indeed, a battlefield, but not a warzone. One of his eyes was covered in an eyepatch, the corners of an ugly, painful looking scar jutting out from either side, and beside him was a young man, hair in long curls, a sash about his waist and tears streaming down his face.
“-and now the bloody bastards have won,” the younger man moaned.
“Every day of the week, Reg,” Stoneface replied, absently, peering across the street, eyes focused. Either they had both been in battle prior to this, or made a hobby of rolling around in dirt; his hands were stained with grime, and dust had settled in the creases of his face. Remnants of blood stains clung to the scraps of cloth that were visible through the battered breastplate.
Men armed with crossbows spread out on the other side of the barricade. One was holding up a cart, and the others were staring up at the top of the barricade where Reg had sprung on it, clinging onto his flag as if it were a lost lifeline and waving it in the air. Face screwed up in a mixture of defiance and hopelessness, he screamed, “You can take our lives, but you’ll never take our freedom!”
A man at the front of their opponents, supposedly the leader, raised his crossbow, eyes smiling. “Wrong!”
Five heavy bolts thudded into Reg’s chest so that he was suspended in midair for a moment before his knees crumpled beneath him. Then he raised his head and silently, got back to his feet. Three more arrows hit him, but he took a step forward, then another. A man drew his sword and ran at him and Reg threw his arm out in front of him, sending the man down with the heavy arm of quite literal death. This was just a distraction in the grand scheme of things, though, because across the street, something was brewing…
Stoneface adjusted the lilac tucked safely in his helmet and sprang over the barricade with a far more reasonable battlecry than Reg’s: “Get them!”
Men poured out of the cart, lilacs a bright plume on top of their helmets, led by an old soldier. It wasn’t the most organized looking group in the world, all shapes and sizes handling their weapons with varying degrees of professionalism, but their enthusiasm couldn’t be denied. Their ages ranged from their leader, a veteran, to a dirty looking kid hiding in the middle of their ranks. The men on the other sides soon found that crossbows weren’t the most useful of weapons when suddenly surrounded by very sharp and very angry swords.
In a moment, battle raged. Stoneface grabbed a sword from a fallen enemy and with a sword in each hand, a wild scream of soundless defiance escaping his mouth, he charged. He flew at the closest enemy. He went down headless. The men charged, and fought, but Stoneface didn’t fight, he reacted, fighting like a possessed man and showed no mercy, because the Beast knew none. Blocking strikes he couldn’t possibly see, ducking, diving, hacking, working off of the primal instincts that never quite went away. A man with a pushed in nose crumpled onto the ground - dead - and Stoneface caught the attacker in a windmill of blades, the quickest, most vicious form of revenge. A man, practically a boy, bearing a disturbing resemblance to Stoneface, barely missed death as Stoneface brought a sword down on his arm.
He moved quickly, and efficiently, a force in his own might and was soon within the center of the swarm of men who had yet fallen or fled. Face contorted in rage, Stoneface glared around the quickly dispersing circle, only to see that the leader of the opposition had retreated to the other side of the street. There were far fewer of them around, now, but fewer of his men too. The old man that led the charge was down, and for anybody who knew what a dead body looked like, was most definitely dead. The kid who had streamed out along with the other men, covered in coats of grime upon grime upon grime was down too, and another man, a fat one, was on his knees throwing up. The scent of the lilacs above them was permeated by the sickening smell of blood and bile, and more than one man was seen sniffing his own plume deeply.
Reg, still sitting on the barricade, stared at the mass of arrows in his skinny chest. Slowly, he fell forward.
Was it over? From the expression on Stoneface’s face, no longer bestial but merely angry, staring about the street, it wasn’t. The young man with the resemblance to Stoneface walked up to him, trembling and wiping stray traces of vomit from off his face. “What’s happening now, sarge?” The boy’s face was pale, but earnest, his eyes wide with what looked as if it could have been idealism before the battle. He was a lanky, skinny thing, with entirely too much adam’s apple and his slightly oversized armour hung about him like a shroud.
Stoneface slipped a hand in his pocket. “That depends on what happens over there,” he said, nodding towards the street. He promptly… fell asleep, as the sergeant liked to say, which was to say, he walloped him one with the cosh in his pocket.
Another man, noticeably without a lilac in his helmet, stared at Stoneface. He was in the melee as well and made quite a little dent of his own.
“Whose side are you on, Ned?” Stoneface asked, wiping blood from off his face.
“What did you hit the kid for?”
“So he’s out of it. You got anything to say?”
Ned grinned. “Not much, sarge. We’re all learning a lot today, ain’t we?”
“True enough.”
“There’s even bigger bastards than you, for a start.”
Stoneface grinned this time, a pathetic expression underneath the stench of battle and the metal lacing his sides. “But I try harder, Ned.”
“You know Carcer?”
“He’s a murderer. And just about everything else, too. A stone-cold killer. With brains.”
“This is going to go the distance?”
“Yep. It’s got to. We’ve got to stop this, Ned. This is the only chance. It stops here or not at all. Can you imagine him loose now he’s pally with Snapcase?”
“Yes. I can. Just as well I wasn’t planning anything this evening, eh? But you can tell me one thing, sarge. How do you know all this?”
“I’m from this city. But oh, there was a-“
The scene froze for a moment, holding it in time. One man with a lilac, one without, an old man and a young man. Ned was hardly clean, but he was positively shining next to Stoneface, face, boots and armour drenched in blood with a sword hanging limply at his side, the second having been long since forgotten in the rubble of city gone battlefield.
And then it was gone.
Date/Time: September 21st-24th
Location: The elevator
Rating: PG-13 for probable strong language and violence.
Summary: Everybody gets to witness Stoneface's memory.
It was and wasn’t a battlefield. The barricade made of sturdy household objects built up high said that it was. The homes and doors and alleyways said that it wasn’t. The copper, being one Stoneface, dressed in uniform - three stripes with a crown above it, which meant sergeant-at-arms, thank you very much - said that it was, indeed, a battlefield, but not a warzone. One of his eyes was covered in an eyepatch, the corners of an ugly, painful looking scar jutting out from either side, and beside him was a young man, hair in long curls, a sash about his waist and tears streaming down his face.
“-and now the bloody bastards have won,” the younger man moaned.
“Every day of the week, Reg,” Stoneface replied, absently, peering across the street, eyes focused. Either they had both been in battle prior to this, or made a hobby of rolling around in dirt; his hands were stained with grime, and dust had settled in the creases of his face. Remnants of blood stains clung to the scraps of cloth that were visible through the battered breastplate.
Men armed with crossbows spread out on the other side of the barricade. One was holding up a cart, and the others were staring up at the top of the barricade where Reg had sprung on it, clinging onto his flag as if it were a lost lifeline and waving it in the air. Face screwed up in a mixture of defiance and hopelessness, he screamed, “You can take our lives, but you’ll never take our freedom!”
A man at the front of their opponents, supposedly the leader, raised his crossbow, eyes smiling. “Wrong!”
Five heavy bolts thudded into Reg’s chest so that he was suspended in midair for a moment before his knees crumpled beneath him. Then he raised his head and silently, got back to his feet. Three more arrows hit him, but he took a step forward, then another. A man drew his sword and ran at him and Reg threw his arm out in front of him, sending the man down with the heavy arm of quite literal death. This was just a distraction in the grand scheme of things, though, because across the street, something was brewing…
Stoneface adjusted the lilac tucked safely in his helmet and sprang over the barricade with a far more reasonable battlecry than Reg’s: “Get them!”
Men poured out of the cart, lilacs a bright plume on top of their helmets, led by an old soldier. It wasn’t the most organized looking group in the world, all shapes and sizes handling their weapons with varying degrees of professionalism, but their enthusiasm couldn’t be denied. Their ages ranged from their leader, a veteran, to a dirty looking kid hiding in the middle of their ranks. The men on the other sides soon found that crossbows weren’t the most useful of weapons when suddenly surrounded by very sharp and very angry swords.
In a moment, battle raged. Stoneface grabbed a sword from a fallen enemy and with a sword in each hand, a wild scream of soundless defiance escaping his mouth, he charged. He flew at the closest enemy. He went down headless. The men charged, and fought, but Stoneface didn’t fight, he reacted, fighting like a possessed man and showed no mercy, because the Beast knew none. Blocking strikes he couldn’t possibly see, ducking, diving, hacking, working off of the primal instincts that never quite went away. A man with a pushed in nose crumpled onto the ground - dead - and Stoneface caught the attacker in a windmill of blades, the quickest, most vicious form of revenge. A man, practically a boy, bearing a disturbing resemblance to Stoneface, barely missed death as Stoneface brought a sword down on his arm.
He moved quickly, and efficiently, a force in his own might and was soon within the center of the swarm of men who had yet fallen or fled. Face contorted in rage, Stoneface glared around the quickly dispersing circle, only to see that the leader of the opposition had retreated to the other side of the street. There were far fewer of them around, now, but fewer of his men too. The old man that led the charge was down, and for anybody who knew what a dead body looked like, was most definitely dead. The kid who had streamed out along with the other men, covered in coats of grime upon grime upon grime was down too, and another man, a fat one, was on his knees throwing up. The scent of the lilacs above them was permeated by the sickening smell of blood and bile, and more than one man was seen sniffing his own plume deeply.
Reg, still sitting on the barricade, stared at the mass of arrows in his skinny chest. Slowly, he fell forward.
Was it over? From the expression on Stoneface’s face, no longer bestial but merely angry, staring about the street, it wasn’t. The young man with the resemblance to Stoneface walked up to him, trembling and wiping stray traces of vomit from off his face. “What’s happening now, sarge?” The boy’s face was pale, but earnest, his eyes wide with what looked as if it could have been idealism before the battle. He was a lanky, skinny thing, with entirely too much adam’s apple and his slightly oversized armour hung about him like a shroud.
Stoneface slipped a hand in his pocket. “That depends on what happens over there,” he said, nodding towards the street. He promptly… fell asleep, as the sergeant liked to say, which was to say, he walloped him one with the cosh in his pocket.
Another man, noticeably without a lilac in his helmet, stared at Stoneface. He was in the melee as well and made quite a little dent of his own.
“Whose side are you on, Ned?” Stoneface asked, wiping blood from off his face.
“What did you hit the kid for?”
“So he’s out of it. You got anything to say?”
Ned grinned. “Not much, sarge. We’re all learning a lot today, ain’t we?”
“True enough.”
“There’s even bigger bastards than you, for a start.”
Stoneface grinned this time, a pathetic expression underneath the stench of battle and the metal lacing his sides. “But I try harder, Ned.”
“You know Carcer?”
“He’s a murderer. And just about everything else, too. A stone-cold killer. With brains.”
“This is going to go the distance?”
“Yep. It’s got to. We’ve got to stop this, Ned. This is the only chance. It stops here or not at all. Can you imagine him loose now he’s pally with Snapcase?”
“Yes. I can. Just as well I wasn’t planning anything this evening, eh? But you can tell me one thing, sarge. How do you know all this?”
“I’m from this city. But oh, there was a-“
The scene froze for a moment, holding it in time. One man with a lilac, one without, an old man and a young man. Ned was hardly clean, but he was positively shining next to Stoneface, face, boots and armour drenched in blood with a sword hanging limply at his side, the second having been long since forgotten in the rubble of city gone battlefield.
And then it was gone.