The grand halls of St. Joseph's School were bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun as it drifted lazily through arching windows and Greek pillars. The students who traversed those halls seemed as equally lazy, warm, and contented as the rays of sunshine that lounged across the thick carpets and up the wood paneled walls. For once, in the shining city of heroes, all was well.
It was a Saturday and most of the students who hadn't already gone out were to be found embroiled in various activities within their rooms, loud music played, girls laughed and giggles, boys wrestled in the courtyard, and two sweethearts snuck away to the library for some quiet time….Sister Salvation didn't work Saturdays.
Everything seemed as it should, nothing out of place…all except for one thing. So small and out of the way it was hardly noticeable, the small white envelope sat tucked in the crease of a dorm room door adorned only with five words inked in red in a scrawling hand....
Hello Misericorde, I've Missed You.
Hello Misericorde...I've Missed You
Moderator: Student Council
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
He hardly paid attention in English Lit. He kept opening the note and closing it, tucked away into his textbook; reading the scrawl over and over again.
His jaw worked, and his eyes were stern; the other kids could feel it, a palpable thing that coiled low in his spine like an icy hand squeezing the life right out of him. The teacher offered him only a half-hearted smile and a tentative pat on the shoulder as the bell rang and he moved out the door; most of the staff didn't want to go near him, especially the ones with Powers. The faculty had all been briefed on his...sordid...past, he was sure.
He was avoided in the courtyard, after class. Good for them; he figured she wouldn't try to make her way too close so long as he stayed in public. Of course, the longer he stayed in the common areas, the greater the chance she'd do something to get his attention...
He wasn't ready for this, and so soon after losing contact with Minerva?
He eventually ended up back at his dorm room; he had no room-mates yet, for which he was grateful. Just holding that note placed him dangerously close to battle-fugue, and so he secreted it away inside his shirt.
Mis wasn't sure who to ask for help, and to be honest, he wasn't sure he wanted to. This was...personal. That was the difference between Misericorde and that...girl...it had never been personal with him.
He drew his knees up to his chest, after settling upon the bed.
"Son of a bitch."
His jaw worked, and his eyes were stern; the other kids could feel it, a palpable thing that coiled low in his spine like an icy hand squeezing the life right out of him. The teacher offered him only a half-hearted smile and a tentative pat on the shoulder as the bell rang and he moved out the door; most of the staff didn't want to go near him, especially the ones with Powers. The faculty had all been briefed on his...sordid...past, he was sure.
He was avoided in the courtyard, after class. Good for them; he figured she wouldn't try to make her way too close so long as he stayed in public. Of course, the longer he stayed in the common areas, the greater the chance she'd do something to get his attention...
He wasn't ready for this, and so soon after losing contact with Minerva?
He eventually ended up back at his dorm room; he had no room-mates yet, for which he was grateful. Just holding that note placed him dangerously close to battle-fugue, and so he secreted it away inside his shirt.
Mis wasn't sure who to ask for help, and to be honest, he wasn't sure he wanted to. This was...personal. That was the difference between Misericorde and that...girl...it had never been personal with him.
He drew his knees up to his chest, after settling upon the bed.
"Son of a bitch."
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
Days had passed since the ominous note was left at the quad room door. The world of St. Joe’s had not noticed, and the hustle and bustle of classes and students continued day after day as it always had. Of the mysterious sender, there was nothing. No indication that anything at all unusual had happened.
Classes felt particularly long that day. The sky had turned cool and grey as tiny spatters of rain tapped out a depressed rhythm against the streaked window panes. By noon, the sky’s maw had opened up and a heavy rain drove any loiterers inside.
In the shadows of the fading light a small manila envelope lay abandoned on the floor of Misericorde’s quad, the stamp of the Paragon Speedy Package Delivery Service was barely readable through the drying raindrops that had dripped over the paper. Inside lay a yellowed, tattered scrap of brittle newspaper…
The Paragon Times
Wednesday March 22, 2002
The ongoing Paroulis Church scandal ended in tragedy yesterday when authorities discovered the remains of 16 year old Ava Paroulis in the basement of her parent's Steel Canyon apartment building. Authorities stated that Ms. Paroulis had been undergoing a ritual exorcism to remove a spiritual presence that was reportedly causing the girl to behave violently and to speak in tongues. Father Marshall Quinn, the priest allegedly in charge of the Paroulis family, was arrested and removed to Paragon City Police Headquarters where he was detained for questioning. The last thing he shouted before his removal was "Stop, she isn't dead, she isn't dead, Scythian will not rest…not rest!".
At 10pm later that evening Ava Paroulis' body vanished from the city morgue. Anyone with knowledge as to her whereabouts or to the whereabouts of any of the priests of St. Benedict's Community is encouraged to contact Paragon Crimestoppers at 555-2831.
Across the bottom in that same red ink, in the same scrawling hand….And now, for my first trick….
Classes felt particularly long that day. The sky had turned cool and grey as tiny spatters of rain tapped out a depressed rhythm against the streaked window panes. By noon, the sky’s maw had opened up and a heavy rain drove any loiterers inside.
In the shadows of the fading light a small manila envelope lay abandoned on the floor of Misericorde’s quad, the stamp of the Paragon Speedy Package Delivery Service was barely readable through the drying raindrops that had dripped over the paper. Inside lay a yellowed, tattered scrap of brittle newspaper…
The Paragon Times
Wednesday March 22, 2002
The ongoing Paroulis Church scandal ended in tragedy yesterday when authorities discovered the remains of 16 year old Ava Paroulis in the basement of her parent's Steel Canyon apartment building. Authorities stated that Ms. Paroulis had been undergoing a ritual exorcism to remove a spiritual presence that was reportedly causing the girl to behave violently and to speak in tongues. Father Marshall Quinn, the priest allegedly in charge of the Paroulis family, was arrested and removed to Paragon City Police Headquarters where he was detained for questioning. The last thing he shouted before his removal was "Stop, she isn't dead, she isn't dead, Scythian will not rest…not rest!".
At 10pm later that evening Ava Paroulis' body vanished from the city morgue. Anyone with knowledge as to her whereabouts or to the whereabouts of any of the priests of St. Benedict's Community is encouraged to contact Paragon Crimestoppers at 555-2831.
Across the bottom in that same red ink, in the same scrawling hand….And now, for my first trick….
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
Michael Corde sat slumped in the seat of the tram, riding around and around Paragon, an endless ouroboros. His face pressed to the cool glass of the window; the endless staccato of the heavy rain driving against the pane like the fabled deluge, trying to wash away mankind's sins.
He remembers.
Father Marshall Quinn...a lacklustre priest, a sloppy Hood agent, and an all around rotten waste of a human being. He'd looked the part of the guiding hand, sure enough; and truth be told, he was a damn fine exorcist. There had been a time, once when even MAGI had called on him to assist with some of the worst possessions of our days; even the Thorns had feared him. However, he'd started hitting "the sauce," and the weight of his actions drove him into the shadows he struggled to hold back.
That was where the Hood had found him, gathered him up and gave him a new purpose, and a new outlook on his faith. Father Quinn, now working in the shadows cast by the Vatican, and he had garnered a neat one-hundred percent success rate on his exorcisms...over half of whom had actually been possessed.
That night, Misericorde had simply been there as an observer for Brother Hood, nothing but one of the few trusted Red Hoods who were to report on the status of each "exorcism." Misericorde had attended enough exorcisms to know that one performed by the Hood typically ended in the last rites for the possessed...as well as potential witnesses. The Red Hoods were simply there to observe, report, and chase down runners. Some of these exorcisms actually did involve demons, now and again.
Like Ava Paroulis....also known as Scythian. She'd done everything the news had said this new serial murderer/supervillain had done, of that he was sure. Half the magical heroes in the city and MAGI was looking for her, but the Hood had found her first.
The air was thick; it smelled like a burnt saucepan, down in this dank basement. A cloying odor that stung his nose and lingered there. The air was moist, and the mold in the air down here tickled the back of his throat.
The girl was under heavy guard, collared and cuffed at ankle and wrist; she cried, cried with the pitiful sounds of a fourteen year old girl who was hurt, confused, afraid and betrayed. Her fingernails were broken; ragged; sharp. She was filthy, and her clothes were torn and matted with...something...as was her hair. She appeared every inch the broken girl she probably was, but they'd seen fit to restrain her anyway; the girl was supposedly one of the unlucky ones who had actually been possessed.
Michael..no..Misericorde... didn't see her parents. That probably meant that the other Hood agents in the room had already sanctioned them, to ensure they could find eternal rest before the demonic taint bustled them off to hell.
The girl looked at Misericorde as he walked in. He'd only just turned thirteen, and been flogged mercilessly for it; a year of daily torture to remind the children of Hood how close they were to the Devil himself at such an age. He felt a kinship with her, an electric connection that made him pause mid-step. The moment passed between them, and for a moment, he was a scared kid, just as lost and confused as she was. She was driven to murder as he was, snapped up by forces beyond their control, and there was nothing he or she could do except what they were told Must be done. The bastard Father Quinn interrupted.
"Ah, the Observer has arrived. Let us hurry...I don't feel well."
Misericorde imagined he did not; the stale, sickly odor of alcohol clung to the robes of this drunken man of the cloth like a drowning man clings to his last breath. Misericorde approached the girl; this was his right as the Observer, to determine the identity of the possessed. Father Quinn considered an objection; most Observers did not approach the possessed, but Misericorde did things by the book.
It was her all right, although she now poorly resembled the laughing girl he'd seen in the photo. The life was almost gone from this one, and he permitted himself a small amount of solace that she would still be with the Lord in His Heaven. He pulled the cover from his mouth, and leaned in close to her. He opened his mouth to say her name, but she spoke first.
"Are they going to kill me?" she asked, her dark, dark eyes level with his. So quiet, he doubted anyone could hear her but him.
Michael's nose itched, and his eyes suddenly felt too big for his face. A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed quickly, but would not do her the diesservice of looking away. His reply was even, and without the remorse he felt, though the possessed deserved no pity - so spoke Brother Hood. "Yes."
She looked for a second as though she would cry, but she spoke again, in that same, soft tone. "Will it hurt?"
He repeated the answer he'd given before, but added an afterthought. "It will, and...I'm so sorry." Michael...Misericorde, he was Misericorde...felt like crying, and it deeply disturbed him. He'd been to many exorcisms, but this one, he wanted to flee, to get outside...his panic response nearly flung him into battle fugue, and so he stepped back, replacing his mask quickly. Father Quinn began the ritual, his voice thick with alcohol.
This was...wrong...all wrong.
Ava seemed oblivious to the ritual; she rocked in place, as Quinn swung the censer, and flung the water at her face, spittle falling from his lips as his voice rose and fell in latin. She stared at Misericorde during the ceremony, tears falling silently from her eyes. Her lips repeated the same three words over and over again. Ava continued those words for hours, searing them into Michael until the end of his days.
"I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you."
Then, she died.
And all hell broke loose.
He remembers.
Father Marshall Quinn...a lacklustre priest, a sloppy Hood agent, and an all around rotten waste of a human being. He'd looked the part of the guiding hand, sure enough; and truth be told, he was a damn fine exorcist. There had been a time, once when even MAGI had called on him to assist with some of the worst possessions of our days; even the Thorns had feared him. However, he'd started hitting "the sauce," and the weight of his actions drove him into the shadows he struggled to hold back.
That was where the Hood had found him, gathered him up and gave him a new purpose, and a new outlook on his faith. Father Quinn, now working in the shadows cast by the Vatican, and he had garnered a neat one-hundred percent success rate on his exorcisms...over half of whom had actually been possessed.
That night, Misericorde had simply been there as an observer for Brother Hood, nothing but one of the few trusted Red Hoods who were to report on the status of each "exorcism." Misericorde had attended enough exorcisms to know that one performed by the Hood typically ended in the last rites for the possessed...as well as potential witnesses. The Red Hoods were simply there to observe, report, and chase down runners. Some of these exorcisms actually did involve demons, now and again.
Like Ava Paroulis....also known as Scythian. She'd done everything the news had said this new serial murderer/supervillain had done, of that he was sure. Half the magical heroes in the city and MAGI was looking for her, but the Hood had found her first.
The air was thick; it smelled like a burnt saucepan, down in this dank basement. A cloying odor that stung his nose and lingered there. The air was moist, and the mold in the air down here tickled the back of his throat.
The girl was under heavy guard, collared and cuffed at ankle and wrist; she cried, cried with the pitiful sounds of a fourteen year old girl who was hurt, confused, afraid and betrayed. Her fingernails were broken; ragged; sharp. She was filthy, and her clothes were torn and matted with...something...as was her hair. She appeared every inch the broken girl she probably was, but they'd seen fit to restrain her anyway; the girl was supposedly one of the unlucky ones who had actually been possessed.
Michael..no..Misericorde... didn't see her parents. That probably meant that the other Hood agents in the room had already sanctioned them, to ensure they could find eternal rest before the demonic taint bustled them off to hell.
The girl looked at Misericorde as he walked in. He'd only just turned thirteen, and been flogged mercilessly for it; a year of daily torture to remind the children of Hood how close they were to the Devil himself at such an age. He felt a kinship with her, an electric connection that made him pause mid-step. The moment passed between them, and for a moment, he was a scared kid, just as lost and confused as she was. She was driven to murder as he was, snapped up by forces beyond their control, and there was nothing he or she could do except what they were told Must be done. The bastard Father Quinn interrupted.
"Ah, the Observer has arrived. Let us hurry...I don't feel well."
Misericorde imagined he did not; the stale, sickly odor of alcohol clung to the robes of this drunken man of the cloth like a drowning man clings to his last breath. Misericorde approached the girl; this was his right as the Observer, to determine the identity of the possessed. Father Quinn considered an objection; most Observers did not approach the possessed, but Misericorde did things by the book.
It was her all right, although she now poorly resembled the laughing girl he'd seen in the photo. The life was almost gone from this one, and he permitted himself a small amount of solace that she would still be with the Lord in His Heaven. He pulled the cover from his mouth, and leaned in close to her. He opened his mouth to say her name, but she spoke first.
"Are they going to kill me?" she asked, her dark, dark eyes level with his. So quiet, he doubted anyone could hear her but him.
Michael's nose itched, and his eyes suddenly felt too big for his face. A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed quickly, but would not do her the diesservice of looking away. His reply was even, and without the remorse he felt, though the possessed deserved no pity - so spoke Brother Hood. "Yes."
She looked for a second as though she would cry, but she spoke again, in that same, soft tone. "Will it hurt?"
He repeated the answer he'd given before, but added an afterthought. "It will, and...I'm so sorry." Michael...Misericorde, he was Misericorde...felt like crying, and it deeply disturbed him. He'd been to many exorcisms, but this one, he wanted to flee, to get outside...his panic response nearly flung him into battle fugue, and so he stepped back, replacing his mask quickly. Father Quinn began the ritual, his voice thick with alcohol.
This was...wrong...all wrong.
Ava seemed oblivious to the ritual; she rocked in place, as Quinn swung the censer, and flung the water at her face, spittle falling from his lips as his voice rose and fell in latin. She stared at Misericorde during the ceremony, tears falling silently from her eyes. Her lips repeated the same three words over and over again. Ava continued those words for hours, searing them into Michael until the end of his days.
"I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you."
Then, she died.
And all hell broke loose.
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
….the body of the girl hung limp from the bonds secured to each corner of the bed. Her breathing had gone from ragged to barely a whisper, but was drowned out by the endless strings of meaningless Latin words and harsh lamentations.
“I forgive….I forgive you….” It was barely heard. “I forgive…I for…for….”
The inebriated priest droned on, nearly oblivious to all but the blurry words in front of his eyes. He waved his holy sprinkler without direction, dribbling water across the blankets and over the stilled form of Ava Paroulis.
“I forgive nothing.” The voice was soft and strange, throaty without slipping into a rasp.
Father Marshall’s voice rose up into a dramatic crescendo as he denounced the possession of the girl and cursed the creature for its tricks. His mad waving almost appeared as though he was conducting an orchestra…conducting the symphony of Hell.
“I forgive only the Hessian, who goes to war.”
A few of the other’s present began to appear uncomfortable and looked quickly from girl to priest. They had heard something, something that made the hair on their necks rise and their hearts beat faster.
“I forgive the Cymir who slays his enemy in vengeance,
I forgive only the Scythian, who stalks in the night.”
By now, the room was growing colder. The mist in the air could only have been the breaths of those still living as their lungs clung to the primal act of survival. A mist that did not come from the lips of Ava Paroulis.
“I forgive, I forget, my dear and my regret…my darling, my darling, my love and my debt…”
Father Marshall’s assistant, Johnathan Pritchard, leapt to his feet and shouted a warning to the old man, but it was far too late. The girl snapped her head up with a sharp crack, her once sparkling eyes dull and cloudy, and she smiled….malicious and cruel.
The room exploded. A great tide of wind tore through the tiny confines scattering papers, tearing objects from the walls, and clutching at clothing with thousands of tiny fingers, the noise was deafening. Screams could be heard echoing off the walls as they crumbled and shook. The lights went out and the chaos was plunged into darkness.
Misericorde could hear the terrified screams of those around him, many were abruptly cut off amid hysterical, maniacal laughter that transcended the wind and rose above the din. Something warm and slick splattered across his face and arms and everything around him became unbearably hot. Someone slammed into him knocking him against a wall, he scrambled back to his feet, the other man did not.
The room was still dark and that damned wind refused to die down. The door was that way…only a little farther. A hand shot out of the darkness and locked onto his throat with a vise grip. He was lifted from the floor as a tendril of light smeared across the visage of Ava Paroulis. But this couldn’t be Ava, she was dead. But her dead face floated before him, her dead eyes seared into his, and her cold dead hand never wavered from his throat.
“Hello Misericorde.” The voice rattled in the girl’s chest, flat, cold.
He felt the grip tighten, he could hear the creak of the bones as muscles far too powerful for the small frame coiled around them, forcing them into action. The face drifted closer, now only a mere breath separated them when the smile returned to the still face.
“Such a boy…” the voice now took on a tone of taunting. “so innocent of the things for which he is punished.”
Misericorde felt something move against his shoulder and then slide down his body. It took only a moment to realize it was the creature’s hand. He froze as she pressed against him and began to laugh, his mind threatening to black out.
Her lips twitched as she leaned forward and drug her tongue down his cheek arching closer for what may have been a kiss….he wouldn’t know, Fugue struck first.
“I forgive….I forgive you….” It was barely heard. “I forgive…I for…for….”
The inebriated priest droned on, nearly oblivious to all but the blurry words in front of his eyes. He waved his holy sprinkler without direction, dribbling water across the blankets and over the stilled form of Ava Paroulis.
“I forgive nothing.” The voice was soft and strange, throaty without slipping into a rasp.
Father Marshall’s voice rose up into a dramatic crescendo as he denounced the possession of the girl and cursed the creature for its tricks. His mad waving almost appeared as though he was conducting an orchestra…conducting the symphony of Hell.
“I forgive only the Hessian, who goes to war.”
A few of the other’s present began to appear uncomfortable and looked quickly from girl to priest. They had heard something, something that made the hair on their necks rise and their hearts beat faster.
“I forgive the Cymir who slays his enemy in vengeance,
I forgive only the Scythian, who stalks in the night.”
By now, the room was growing colder. The mist in the air could only have been the breaths of those still living as their lungs clung to the primal act of survival. A mist that did not come from the lips of Ava Paroulis.
“I forgive, I forget, my dear and my regret…my darling, my darling, my love and my debt…”
Father Marshall’s assistant, Johnathan Pritchard, leapt to his feet and shouted a warning to the old man, but it was far too late. The girl snapped her head up with a sharp crack, her once sparkling eyes dull and cloudy, and she smiled….malicious and cruel.
The room exploded. A great tide of wind tore through the tiny confines scattering papers, tearing objects from the walls, and clutching at clothing with thousands of tiny fingers, the noise was deafening. Screams could be heard echoing off the walls as they crumbled and shook. The lights went out and the chaos was plunged into darkness.
Misericorde could hear the terrified screams of those around him, many were abruptly cut off amid hysterical, maniacal laughter that transcended the wind and rose above the din. Something warm and slick splattered across his face and arms and everything around him became unbearably hot. Someone slammed into him knocking him against a wall, he scrambled back to his feet, the other man did not.
The room was still dark and that damned wind refused to die down. The door was that way…only a little farther. A hand shot out of the darkness and locked onto his throat with a vise grip. He was lifted from the floor as a tendril of light smeared across the visage of Ava Paroulis. But this couldn’t be Ava, she was dead. But her dead face floated before him, her dead eyes seared into his, and her cold dead hand never wavered from his throat.
“Hello Misericorde.” The voice rattled in the girl’s chest, flat, cold.
He felt the grip tighten, he could hear the creak of the bones as muscles far too powerful for the small frame coiled around them, forcing them into action. The face drifted closer, now only a mere breath separated them when the smile returned to the still face.
“Such a boy…” the voice now took on a tone of taunting. “so innocent of the things for which he is punished.”
Misericorde felt something move against his shoulder and then slide down his body. It took only a moment to realize it was the creature’s hand. He froze as she pressed against him and began to laugh, his mind threatening to black out.
Her lips twitched as she leaned forward and drug her tongue down his cheek arching closer for what may have been a kiss….he wouldn’t know, Fugue struck first.
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
Misericorde grew still, motionless, lifeless, suspended in the air by that merciless grip as though he dangled from the hangman's noose.
His panic vanished in a wash of adrenaline analogs, causing his face to flush. He wondered if the demon thought he was blushing.
He wondered if the demon realized that being so close to Misericorde was probably the last thing any man, woman or beast Above, Below, or on Earth would want.
In a motion so fluid it was almost lazy, he arched his hips forward, locking the slender, powerful muscles of his thighs about her waist. Scythian smiled wantonly. He wondered what she was thinking now, even as he suddenly arched his back away from her, arms extended above his head, back, back, impossibly backwards, pulling her with him up, over...
Claws sliding easily from his forearms, not unpleasant, finding purchase in the floor, providing him with the remaining leverage he needed to bring them to the ground.
He thought he detected surprise upon the demon's features as she hit the ground hard, flat upon her back, Misericorde kneeling astride her. He brought one hand from the floor, snatching that implacable grasp from his neck; he was slick with blood, and difficult to maintain a grip upon, despite her infernal strength.
His eyes...as cold and lifeless as those of his foe. An empty soul as implacable as any spirit from Hell.
The world exploded against his head; or rather, her free hand did. He slid across the floor several feet from the force of the blow. He landed low, like a cat, sliding across the slick surface, raised upon fingertips and toes upon the floor...or the abattoir it had become.
She slid slowly to her feet, a sensual movement somehow rendered obscene by its very motion. Her eyes widened slightly, and her nostrils flared.
He wondered what she was thinking.
He was at the door, the only exit from the room.
Misericorde rose to his feet, arms hanging loosely at his sides. Blades slowly eased from his arms; a sharp, pure note as they locked into place.
He wondered why she had grabbed him...to prevent his escape? Had she known? Had she known his motive for moving to the doorway? Sirens sounded in the hall outside as the smoke reached the detectors in the hall. Soon, the building would be empty of tenants. She realized it now, as he stood with his back to freedom; licking her stolen lips in anticipation.
Misericorde had never intended to get out; he planned to keep her in.
His panic vanished in a wash of adrenaline analogs, causing his face to flush. He wondered if the demon thought he was blushing.
He wondered if the demon realized that being so close to Misericorde was probably the last thing any man, woman or beast Above, Below, or on Earth would want.
In a motion so fluid it was almost lazy, he arched his hips forward, locking the slender, powerful muscles of his thighs about her waist. Scythian smiled wantonly. He wondered what she was thinking now, even as he suddenly arched his back away from her, arms extended above his head, back, back, impossibly backwards, pulling her with him up, over...
Claws sliding easily from his forearms, not unpleasant, finding purchase in the floor, providing him with the remaining leverage he needed to bring them to the ground.
He thought he detected surprise upon the demon's features as she hit the ground hard, flat upon her back, Misericorde kneeling astride her. He brought one hand from the floor, snatching that implacable grasp from his neck; he was slick with blood, and difficult to maintain a grip upon, despite her infernal strength.
His eyes...as cold and lifeless as those of his foe. An empty soul as implacable as any spirit from Hell.
The world exploded against his head; or rather, her free hand did. He slid across the floor several feet from the force of the blow. He landed low, like a cat, sliding across the slick surface, raised upon fingertips and toes upon the floor...or the abattoir it had become.
She slid slowly to her feet, a sensual movement somehow rendered obscene by its very motion. Her eyes widened slightly, and her nostrils flared.
He wondered what she was thinking.
He was at the door, the only exit from the room.
Misericorde rose to his feet, arms hanging loosely at his sides. Blades slowly eased from his arms; a sharp, pure note as they locked into place.
He wondered why she had grabbed him...to prevent his escape? Had she known? Had she known his motive for moving to the doorway? Sirens sounded in the hall outside as the smoke reached the detectors in the hall. Soon, the building would be empty of tenants. She realized it now, as he stood with his back to freedom; licking her stolen lips in anticipation.
Misericorde had never intended to get out; he planned to keep her in.
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
“Tell me, Misericorde” her voice dropped into a hiss, “Will you still hear my voice when you wake in the night, too warm with sweat damp sheets, or will you feel me only in your resting dreams?”
A sudden gurgling noise in the corner signaled that Father Marshall still lived and was slowly coming back into the world. The old priest’s voice was thick with pain and fear, “Don’t listen, boy! You must not hear the demons words!” He reached his wrinkled hand out blindly towards the door.
Scythian arched her body and stretched languidly, rolling her head on her loose neck. “Can you feel it, boy! Rushing through your blood, clouding your head,” Her low laugh resounded with the sounds of inhuman madness.
In a second Scythian pounced, curling into the air in a strange pirouette, knees bent and arms raised over her head, as she came down fast and vicious. Misericorde found himself vaulted backwards into the door which threatened to give with a loud crack, splinters showered down around them. He turned quickly but Scythian was already back across the room, ‘damn she was fast’. It was then that he realized that the creature held Father Marshall by the back of the head and she brutally pulled him forward, holding him before Misericorde and door. The sounds of footsteps and shouting could be heard far down the hallway and the wail of siren’s was near deafening.
Her mouth twisted in a cruel gesture as she gazed into Misericorde’s eyes, “Into your hands I commit my spirit…”
The old priest was helpless, mouth agape, eyes wide with mindless terror. Scythian held him in one hand, forcefully keeping him kneeling before her as she raised her other hand into the air. The wind that rushed through the room coalesced in one, driving gust and it was then that Misericorde saw it. It was not wind that Scythian held, but a blade made of air and energy, fear and hate.
“I think that I shall not forget you, boy!” She shouted out above the sound of tempestuous wind, “I think that one day, I shall have you!”
The red mark on her chest was now visibly swollen and made the perfect shape of a man’s hand. It would seem that the hand of the priest that held down the weeping Ava Paroulis was forever burnt into the flesh of the unwilling puppet.
Her muscles tensed, her body almost seemed to be fading in and out with the gasps of the wind, her eyes locked onto Misericorde, and her hand descended towards the priest.
A sudden gurgling noise in the corner signaled that Father Marshall still lived and was slowly coming back into the world. The old priest’s voice was thick with pain and fear, “Don’t listen, boy! You must not hear the demons words!” He reached his wrinkled hand out blindly towards the door.
Scythian arched her body and stretched languidly, rolling her head on her loose neck. “Can you feel it, boy! Rushing through your blood, clouding your head,” Her low laugh resounded with the sounds of inhuman madness.
In a second Scythian pounced, curling into the air in a strange pirouette, knees bent and arms raised over her head, as she came down fast and vicious. Misericorde found himself vaulted backwards into the door which threatened to give with a loud crack, splinters showered down around them. He turned quickly but Scythian was already back across the room, ‘damn she was fast’. It was then that he realized that the creature held Father Marshall by the back of the head and she brutally pulled him forward, holding him before Misericorde and door. The sounds of footsteps and shouting could be heard far down the hallway and the wail of siren’s was near deafening.
Her mouth twisted in a cruel gesture as she gazed into Misericorde’s eyes, “Into your hands I commit my spirit…”
The old priest was helpless, mouth agape, eyes wide with mindless terror. Scythian held him in one hand, forcefully keeping him kneeling before her as she raised her other hand into the air. The wind that rushed through the room coalesced in one, driving gust and it was then that Misericorde saw it. It was not wind that Scythian held, but a blade made of air and energy, fear and hate.
“I think that I shall not forget you, boy!” She shouted out above the sound of tempestuous wind, “I think that one day, I shall have you!”
The red mark on her chest was now visibly swollen and made the perfect shape of a man’s hand. It would seem that the hand of the priest that held down the weeping Ava Paroulis was forever burnt into the flesh of the unwilling puppet.
Her muscles tensed, her body almost seemed to be fading in and out with the gasps of the wind, her eyes locked onto Misericorde, and her hand descended towards the priest.
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
She was fast, and somewhere inside his warrior mind, there was a respect for that...an admiration. It would be a lie to say there was no response to her invitation, that he did not feel some stirring at the core of him at her words. The combat always brought out something...primal in him. He was, after all, only human, and a boy at that.
Only human, yet so much more; his very veins flowing with human reason itself; human science, human strength, human will, human faith, human hope.
She was fast, so fast; and yet, so was he.
His body took on a faint green phosphoresence, illuminating the emotionless mask of his angelic face and signalling a dreadful intent. One moment, he was reeling from the force of the blow; the next, he was across the room, impossibly close. She had never taken his eyes off of him.
To the casual observer, they may have appeared to be two lovers, captured for a moment in a tender embrace. The only sound was the harsh, panicked breathing of Father Marshall, undeserving of each breath though he was. The "priest" sank mercifully into unconciousness.
They stood together, for a moment, locked together more intimately even, than the lovers they resembled.Her blade buried in his heart; his blades in hers. Her blade was cold buried so deep inside his heart as it was. Despite the fugue, he felt it there, burning away at his very self, at his life, as he had known it. Showing him how little he had lived; that he was a slave to others, to Brother Hood, to his desire, to his own abilities. What a cruel, wicked thing this was. How cruel of her to show him the truth.
Misericorde proved himself the crueler of the two, as he twisted his own baleful knives still deeper into her frame. She sagged, and the sword of her vengeance began to dissipate.
"I think perhaps, one day you may have me, demon," the terrible wound she had inflicted upon his breast made his voice ragged, hoarse, deep.
"Perhaps," he said, as he laid her gently to the ground. Her eyes caught his and held them, as she grew still. "Perhaps, but not today." He closed her eyes with his fingers, and crossed himself quickly, head bowed.
He made his escape, before Paragon SWAT arrived.
Only human, yet so much more; his very veins flowing with human reason itself; human science, human strength, human will, human faith, human hope.
She was fast, so fast; and yet, so was he.
His body took on a faint green phosphoresence, illuminating the emotionless mask of his angelic face and signalling a dreadful intent. One moment, he was reeling from the force of the blow; the next, he was across the room, impossibly close. She had never taken his eyes off of him.
To the casual observer, they may have appeared to be two lovers, captured for a moment in a tender embrace. The only sound was the harsh, panicked breathing of Father Marshall, undeserving of each breath though he was. The "priest" sank mercifully into unconciousness.
They stood together, for a moment, locked together more intimately even, than the lovers they resembled.Her blade buried in his heart; his blades in hers. Her blade was cold buried so deep inside his heart as it was. Despite the fugue, he felt it there, burning away at his very self, at his life, as he had known it. Showing him how little he had lived; that he was a slave to others, to Brother Hood, to his desire, to his own abilities. What a cruel, wicked thing this was. How cruel of her to show him the truth.
Misericorde proved himself the crueler of the two, as he twisted his own baleful knives still deeper into her frame. She sagged, and the sword of her vengeance began to dissipate.
"I think perhaps, one day you may have me, demon," the terrible wound she had inflicted upon his breast made his voice ragged, hoarse, deep.
"Perhaps," he said, as he laid her gently to the ground. Her eyes caught his and held them, as she grew still. "Perhaps, but not today." He closed her eyes with his fingers, and crossed himself quickly, head bowed.
He made his escape, before Paragon SWAT arrived.
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
PRESENT DAY
Michael lay, curled upon his bunk, arms clasped to his knees. A song played upon the radio. "Dedicated to my favorite boy, Michael," she'd said. "I've missed you so." He'd known, then, without a doubt, that his fears were justified.
You won't admit you love me
And so
How am I ever
To know
You only tell me
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
A million times I ask you
And then
I ask you over
Again
You only answer
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
If you can't make your mind up
We'll never get started
And I don't wanna' wind up
Being parted, broken hearted
So if you really love me
Say yes
But if you don't, dear,
Confess
And please don't tell me
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
If you can't make your mind up
We'll never get started
And I don't wanna' wind up
Being parted, broken hearted
So if you really love me
Say yes
But if you don't, dear,
Confess
And please don't tell me
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
END PROLOGUE
Michael lay, curled upon his bunk, arms clasped to his knees. A song played upon the radio. "Dedicated to my favorite boy, Michael," she'd said. "I've missed you so." He'd known, then, without a doubt, that his fears were justified.
You won't admit you love me
And so
How am I ever
To know
You only tell me
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
A million times I ask you
And then
I ask you over
Again
You only answer
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
If you can't make your mind up
We'll never get started
And I don't wanna' wind up
Being parted, broken hearted
So if you really love me
Say yes
But if you don't, dear,
Confess
And please don't tell me
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
If you can't make your mind up
We'll never get started
And I don't wanna' wind up
Being parted, broken hearted
So if you really love me
Say yes
But if you don't, dear,
Confess
And please don't tell me
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
END PROLOGUE
Last edited by Misericorde on Wed Apr 05, 2006 1:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
As the rain began to fall it washed away the blood from her face in tiny crimson rivulets, down her neck and arms, across the stained blade in her hands, and out onto the street. The last of the protectors that had surrounded Father Marshall, confounding her every effort, now lay lifeless in the ruins of the old brownstone. Nearly two weeks of endless hunting had finally netted her a prize, a Longbow Agent. Agent Severin had, indeed, been an impressive man, the epitome of everything Longbow had cultivated in their finest agents. He had taken eight days to give up the location of the aging priest, and ten days to die. Impressive indeed.
Father Marshall sat quietly shaking on a pile of stones near the destroyed epicenter of the battle. His mouth formed a wrinkled pout as he mumbled unheard words and his clothing was stained with mud, rain, and blood.
Scythian approached. He would not look up. He could not, could not see the face of the young girl who had been so violently taken from this world at his hands, he could not see it as it was now. The face of Ava Paroulis was barely recognizable. The eyes had turned almost completely white, her flesh was darkening in spots and paling in others, and a large portion of her jaw, her cheek, and her neck was simply missing. The body was falling away without its soul to bind it into life. This demon walked in a corpse.
Scythian smiled at the old man’s obvious response to her, an action that her flesh was both hard pressed to accomplish and yet made gruesome by it.
“Hello Father,” her dry voice was ever the same, “I’ve been thinking about you, and I can see, you’ve thought ever so much of me.”
“I have nothing to say to you, demon.” He was coughed and glanced up at her. “Nothing here for you now. I’m all that’s left. So be done with it and then off with you.”
She slid closer to him and the blade slid from her side. Her other hand lightly brushed across the red handprint deeply embedded in her chest. She leaned in to his ear.
“Oh I’m afraid you have it all wrong, my old fool. There is something here I want very much and I have no need to kill you to get it.”
He looked up, confusion and fear etched into the lines of his face.
She chuckled, a horrid bone-chilling sound. “No, no, no,” she mused. “I am simply here to claim something I seem to have missed.”
In the arch of a blade and a shrill scream, Scythian held aloft the right hand of the priest and then pressed it to her body with a sadistic cry of joy. She left the old man there, mumbling insanely in the mud and rain and she walked off serenely, back into the Isles…she had a new gift to send.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Father Marshall lay still for several moments before the closeness of the bodies of his protectors spurred him into movement. He trembled as he slowly pulled himself to his feet, cradling his truncated arm. He shuffled slowly through the darkened streets praying he would attract no attention. The music of a nearby radio crackled its way out into the night and the melody of CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” nearly made him sick with irony. He staggered to a pay phone, brutally shoved in two coins and pounded the dial with his knuckles.
Scythian could only want one thing, something he had hoped she had forgotten or left behind in her madness. He didn’t know where the boy was now, but he knew who to call to try and find out….
Father Marshall sat quietly shaking on a pile of stones near the destroyed epicenter of the battle. His mouth formed a wrinkled pout as he mumbled unheard words and his clothing was stained with mud, rain, and blood.
Scythian approached. He would not look up. He could not, could not see the face of the young girl who had been so violently taken from this world at his hands, he could not see it as it was now. The face of Ava Paroulis was barely recognizable. The eyes had turned almost completely white, her flesh was darkening in spots and paling in others, and a large portion of her jaw, her cheek, and her neck was simply missing. The body was falling away without its soul to bind it into life. This demon walked in a corpse.
Scythian smiled at the old man’s obvious response to her, an action that her flesh was both hard pressed to accomplish and yet made gruesome by it.
“Hello Father,” her dry voice was ever the same, “I’ve been thinking about you, and I can see, you’ve thought ever so much of me.”
“I have nothing to say to you, demon.” He was coughed and glanced up at her. “Nothing here for you now. I’m all that’s left. So be done with it and then off with you.”
She slid closer to him and the blade slid from her side. Her other hand lightly brushed across the red handprint deeply embedded in her chest. She leaned in to his ear.
“Oh I’m afraid you have it all wrong, my old fool. There is something here I want very much and I have no need to kill you to get it.”
He looked up, confusion and fear etched into the lines of his face.
She chuckled, a horrid bone-chilling sound. “No, no, no,” she mused. “I am simply here to claim something I seem to have missed.”
In the arch of a blade and a shrill scream, Scythian held aloft the right hand of the priest and then pressed it to her body with a sadistic cry of joy. She left the old man there, mumbling insanely in the mud and rain and she walked off serenely, back into the Isles…she had a new gift to send.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Father Marshall lay still for several moments before the closeness of the bodies of his protectors spurred him into movement. He trembled as he slowly pulled himself to his feet, cradling his truncated arm. He shuffled slowly through the darkened streets praying he would attract no attention. The music of a nearby radio crackled its way out into the night and the melody of CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” nearly made him sick with irony. He staggered to a pay phone, brutally shoved in two coins and pounded the dial with his knuckles.
Scythian could only want one thing, something he had hoped she had forgotten or left behind in her madness. He didn’t know where the boy was now, but he knew who to call to try and find out….
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
Ok, so...it was a hand.
Michael sat beneath the "Wingra Tree," even though he disliked, distrusted, and even downright despised the idea of the tree itself. He couldn't place a finger on why, it just seemed...false, somehow. Still, it was nice outside, and for now, the Wingra Tree was just a tree, and he sat with the package cradled on his lap. He didn't have to worry too much about curious eyes: most of the kids avoided him anyway.
Michael was used to it.
Well, his enemy had really gone out of her way on this one. The way she'd wrapped the gift really had been quite nice, and even though the unsaid promise was that something gruesome lay inside, his only real reason for hesitation was that he hated to ruin something she'd put so much care into. Obviously, he still "needed to get some priorities straight," as Conrads had suggested.
Having moved into the Quad with Jai and Simon had definitely complicated matters, and a part of him regretted it now. Michael had focused most of that energy into schoolwork and nightly patrols...and some of the other kids had noticed. He had only been around a month, hell, he was still a freshman, and already pushing Security Level 30.
Still, everything was going according to plan.
It had taken him some time to establish a pattern of behavior by which he could be tracked. Mis no longer had the resources of the Hood to track down Scythian...nor did he have access to those of Longbow, with Minerva missing in action.
It was only a matter of time before Scythian showed herself once more; he had set the trap,and baited it. All that was needed now was for each of the players to begin their moves. Something told him that the return of Scythian, Minerva's disappearance, the Hood attack on his previous school...these were not mere misfortune.
Misericorde needed to know who sat in the shadows at the other side of the board.
His cell phone rang; carefully, the package was placed inside his satchel. Longbow secure line...apparently he still had some friends inside. A warning, relayed from the old priest himself; could they meet discretely, at the church in Steel Canyon tonight?
"Well, at least I know whose hand this is." He chuckled. Father Marshall, on the other side of the line, was silent. Probably not amused. Mis wondered if Marshall knew that having his hand severed by Scythian was "getting off light." Conrads had told Mis not to worry about his morbid sense of humor. As serious as Michael was, Conrads encouraged any humor he could muster.
"Yes, I'll be there."
He headed for the Green Line.
Michael sat beneath the "Wingra Tree," even though he disliked, distrusted, and even downright despised the idea of the tree itself. He couldn't place a finger on why, it just seemed...false, somehow. Still, it was nice outside, and for now, the Wingra Tree was just a tree, and he sat with the package cradled on his lap. He didn't have to worry too much about curious eyes: most of the kids avoided him anyway.
Michael was used to it.
Well, his enemy had really gone out of her way on this one. The way she'd wrapped the gift really had been quite nice, and even though the unsaid promise was that something gruesome lay inside, his only real reason for hesitation was that he hated to ruin something she'd put so much care into. Obviously, he still "needed to get some priorities straight," as Conrads had suggested.
Having moved into the Quad with Jai and Simon had definitely complicated matters, and a part of him regretted it now. Michael had focused most of that energy into schoolwork and nightly patrols...and some of the other kids had noticed. He had only been around a month, hell, he was still a freshman, and already pushing Security Level 30.
Still, everything was going according to plan.
It had taken him some time to establish a pattern of behavior by which he could be tracked. Mis no longer had the resources of the Hood to track down Scythian...nor did he have access to those of Longbow, with Minerva missing in action.
It was only a matter of time before Scythian showed herself once more; he had set the trap,and baited it. All that was needed now was for each of the players to begin their moves. Something told him that the return of Scythian, Minerva's disappearance, the Hood attack on his previous school...these were not mere misfortune.
Misericorde needed to know who sat in the shadows at the other side of the board.
His cell phone rang; carefully, the package was placed inside his satchel. Longbow secure line...apparently he still had some friends inside. A warning, relayed from the old priest himself; could they meet discretely, at the church in Steel Canyon tonight?
"Well, at least I know whose hand this is." He chuckled. Father Marshall, on the other side of the line, was silent. Probably not amused. Mis wondered if Marshall knew that having his hand severed by Scythian was "getting off light." Conrads had told Mis not to worry about his morbid sense of humor. As serious as Michael was, Conrads encouraged any humor he could muster.
"Yes, I'll be there."
He headed for the Green Line.
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
She lay in wait high above the stillness. The dust of the rafters, only momentarily disturbed by her passing, now settled on her face and arms and coated her eyelashes and hands in a mist of filth. Prayer beads, like the clicking of small feet, echoed up from the large narthex and drifted to her ears in minute patterns. The small crucifixes were the only sounds that broke the candle-lit silence in the depths of the old church. Old it was, indeed. Bullet holes and rat holes riddled the plaster walls, speeding their decay, but only to reveal the stout stone pillars and heavy timber supports of a building once intended to last for eternity. The church itself now sat hunched and exhausted on its own moorings, a warrior too weary from a battle waged too long.
Scythian moved silently across the upper most rafter and then stilled. Her face was passive, her limbs taut but unmoving. She bore the serenity only managed by those who are dead. Father Marshall sat in the middle pew nearly thirty-five feet below her, his lone hand shaking as he lit a prayer candle and set it aside. He looked ill as he waited, his pensiveness and fear showing through his cracking exterior. Scythian knew he would come to this place but more importantly he would draw him, to this place.
She smiled, a cruel gesture. Misericorde had entered through the far doors without notice. Already, she could see, he knew her to be there. His body was tense but only subtly so, and his eyes scanned the room without response from his quickly walking form. It had been so very long, it felt, since last she had seen him and how he had grown since then. Misericorde was nearly a man now and Scythian’s smile etched farther into her twisted face.
What would he expect? A trap, most certainly, but that was by far too simple. It was not Misericorde’s death she sought tonight, but an act far more in line with the arcs of her plan, and for that, he must live….he must live…and bear witness.
What would he expect?
She barely moved as the small satchel at her side dropped into her hand. The priest was speaking now and Misericorde looked irritated…or perhaps anxious. The small tinders fell from the bag into her out stretched palm….tonight…a new cross would be burning…
Scythian moved silently across the upper most rafter and then stilled. Her face was passive, her limbs taut but unmoving. She bore the serenity only managed by those who are dead. Father Marshall sat in the middle pew nearly thirty-five feet below her, his lone hand shaking as he lit a prayer candle and set it aside. He looked ill as he waited, his pensiveness and fear showing through his cracking exterior. Scythian knew he would come to this place but more importantly he would draw him, to this place.
She smiled, a cruel gesture. Misericorde had entered through the far doors without notice. Already, she could see, he knew her to be there. His body was tense but only subtly so, and his eyes scanned the room without response from his quickly walking form. It had been so very long, it felt, since last she had seen him and how he had grown since then. Misericorde was nearly a man now and Scythian’s smile etched farther into her twisted face.
What would he expect? A trap, most certainly, but that was by far too simple. It was not Misericorde’s death she sought tonight, but an act far more in line with the arcs of her plan, and for that, he must live….he must live…and bear witness.
What would he expect?
She barely moved as the small satchel at her side dropped into her hand. The priest was speaking now and Misericorde looked irritated…or perhaps anxious. The small tinders fell from the bag into her out stretched palm….tonight…a new cross would be burning…
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
Marshall stumbled to his feet as Misericorde entered the chapel.
Dusty, dry, the entire structure smelled of mold, rotten timbers, and powdered stone. A faint aroma of incense pervaded even this old, rotten place.
Misericorde had grown up...but Marshall recognized him, even in jeans and t-shirt, without the accoutrements of the Hood. Almost a man...so different from the stoic little boy that had faced Scythian on that most terrible of nights. Father Marshall coughed phlegmatically, reached out to the boy as he walked close.
Misericorde grabbed him roughly with both hands, Marshall's cassock balled tightly in the rough grip of those fists. "You old fool," the boy hissed through clenched teeth. "Where is she?" The old priest blinked in confusion.
"What...what do you mean?"
Misericorde shoved him backwards, his face slipping into the impartial mask so familiar to Marshall now. The old man stumbled backwards, knocking over several pews as he fell. As Misericorde advanced, he clumsily crabwalked up the steps to the pulpit, beneath the cross.
"You know exactly what...and who I mean, you miserable old drunk."
Misericorde leaned in close, as the old man bumped into the tinder-dry cross. The boy extends one finger, punctuating each syllable with a gentle prod.
"Where. Is. Scythian?"
Misericorde heard it then, a brief creak from the rafters above. A shifting of weight. "Stay down!" he yelled at the old man, and then he was gone, standing atop the rafters, a hundred feet away at the source of the sound. Too fast to even note his passing.
Nothing. Where? He spun, as a satchel hit Father Marshall square in the chest, from where Misericorde had been standing a moment before. The priest made a dry sound, as the timer connected to the incendiary ticked to zero silently. He exploded into flames with the soft whump of the oxygen being sucked from around him.
Misericorde took a step backwards upon the beam, high above the floor, as the old man and crucifix disappeared in flame. Slender arms encircled his chest lightly, as Scythian embraced him from behind. She smelled of vanilla, laced with dry decay. She hadn't made a sound, as she pulled him slightly off-balance.
Enough to let him know a slight push would throw him to the stone floor below.
That malevolent blade she summoned whispered into existence at his throat, causing tiny eddies in the dust. "You're so...big...now, Misericorde. So fast..." her voice a dry rattle in his ear. "Such a darling boy, you deserve...a gift." She clucked her tongue lightly. "Of...understanding."
No time, no time. Misericorde grabbed her slight arms and fell to his back upon the rafter, slipping from her grasp and rocking his hips backwards, scissoring her between his legs and sending her tumbling head over heels towards the opposite beam with a strong kick of both legs.
She rebounded from that beam with a petite stamp of both feet, and executed a perfect backflip; arms extended as though she were crucified in midair, disappearing from view as she laughed like a debutante at a summer party.
Then the secondary devices went off.
Misericorde was falling, the old cathedral having finally given up the ghost in an inferno fit to rival Dante's own. The last thing he heard, before the flames enveloped him, were sirens...
Dusty, dry, the entire structure smelled of mold, rotten timbers, and powdered stone. A faint aroma of incense pervaded even this old, rotten place.
Misericorde had grown up...but Marshall recognized him, even in jeans and t-shirt, without the accoutrements of the Hood. Almost a man...so different from the stoic little boy that had faced Scythian on that most terrible of nights. Father Marshall coughed phlegmatically, reached out to the boy as he walked close.
Misericorde grabbed him roughly with both hands, Marshall's cassock balled tightly in the rough grip of those fists. "You old fool," the boy hissed through clenched teeth. "Where is she?" The old priest blinked in confusion.
"What...what do you mean?"
Misericorde shoved him backwards, his face slipping into the impartial mask so familiar to Marshall now. The old man stumbled backwards, knocking over several pews as he fell. As Misericorde advanced, he clumsily crabwalked up the steps to the pulpit, beneath the cross.
"You know exactly what...and who I mean, you miserable old drunk."
Misericorde leaned in close, as the old man bumped into the tinder-dry cross. The boy extends one finger, punctuating each syllable with a gentle prod.
"Where. Is. Scythian?"
Misericorde heard it then, a brief creak from the rafters above. A shifting of weight. "Stay down!" he yelled at the old man, and then he was gone, standing atop the rafters, a hundred feet away at the source of the sound. Too fast to even note his passing.
Nothing. Where? He spun, as a satchel hit Father Marshall square in the chest, from where Misericorde had been standing a moment before. The priest made a dry sound, as the timer connected to the incendiary ticked to zero silently. He exploded into flames with the soft whump of the oxygen being sucked from around him.
Misericorde took a step backwards upon the beam, high above the floor, as the old man and crucifix disappeared in flame. Slender arms encircled his chest lightly, as Scythian embraced him from behind. She smelled of vanilla, laced with dry decay. She hadn't made a sound, as she pulled him slightly off-balance.
Enough to let him know a slight push would throw him to the stone floor below.
That malevolent blade she summoned whispered into existence at his throat, causing tiny eddies in the dust. "You're so...big...now, Misericorde. So fast..." her voice a dry rattle in his ear. "Such a darling boy, you deserve...a gift." She clucked her tongue lightly. "Of...understanding."
No time, no time. Misericorde grabbed her slight arms and fell to his back upon the rafter, slipping from her grasp and rocking his hips backwards, scissoring her between his legs and sending her tumbling head over heels towards the opposite beam with a strong kick of both legs.
She rebounded from that beam with a petite stamp of both feet, and executed a perfect backflip; arms extended as though she were crucified in midair, disappearing from view as she laughed like a debutante at a summer party.
Then the secondary devices went off.
Misericorde was falling, the old cathedral having finally given up the ghost in an inferno fit to rival Dante's own. The last thing he heard, before the flames enveloped him, were sirens...
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
The first thing that registered, was the screaming.
Misericorde backed away from the terrified man in the labcoat and clear plastic face shield, across the cold linoleum floor. He hit some stretchers in his confusion, a tray of surgical instruments clattered to to the floor.
The room...so cold...
The man still had some sharp-looking surgical equipment in one hand, bright red blood gleaming on the blade. Looking down down at himself now, the bright green phosphorescence of his body repairing the "Y" shaped incision made into his torso. Blackened skin was sloughing from him like dry snakeskin. He was also stark naked. Great.
Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs...or soot, he wasn't sure which...he saw words on the glass entrance to the room...
EUGROM YTIC NOGARAP
Paragon City Morgue.
The coroner backed away into the corner, towards the phone. He held the surgical blad in front of him as he backed away. Misericorde held up a hand to stop him, as he brushed the last of the dead skin from his body, and the incision closed. "I won't harm you."
The coroner paused for moment, lowering the blade, and cocking his head to the side. "You're a cape."
Misericorde nodded. "Yeah, Misericorde, Security Level Thirty-One. She dropped a damn church on me..." The coroner breathed a sigh of relief. "Well," the doctor said "We only found one other body. That one a super too?"
Misericorde shakes his head. "Na, he was just super unlucky. I need you to contact your Longbow Liason for the M.E.'s office. And...uh...some pants."
The coroner nodded and dialed the phone, argued with someone on the other end. Misericorde covered his front with both hands, leaning against the glass with a sigh. Regen kicked in a little late this time.
He glanced over his shoulder, out the windows of the Office. Two young female staff members walked by, saw him standing by the windows, and started giggling. He flushed, and grabbed a sheet from a cart nearby, covering himself with it.
"Misericorde," the doctor said. "Longbow Agent Glickman told me to tell you that it's time to come in, and that you'd know where and what he meant."
Misericorde nodded.
"Ok. Now..about those pants...."
Misericorde backed away from the terrified man in the labcoat and clear plastic face shield, across the cold linoleum floor. He hit some stretchers in his confusion, a tray of surgical instruments clattered to to the floor.
The room...so cold...
The man still had some sharp-looking surgical equipment in one hand, bright red blood gleaming on the blade. Looking down down at himself now, the bright green phosphorescence of his body repairing the "Y" shaped incision made into his torso. Blackened skin was sloughing from him like dry snakeskin. He was also stark naked. Great.
Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs...or soot, he wasn't sure which...he saw words on the glass entrance to the room...
EUGROM YTIC NOGARAP
Paragon City Morgue.
The coroner backed away into the corner, towards the phone. He held the surgical blad in front of him as he backed away. Misericorde held up a hand to stop him, as he brushed the last of the dead skin from his body, and the incision closed. "I won't harm you."
The coroner paused for moment, lowering the blade, and cocking his head to the side. "You're a cape."
Misericorde nodded. "Yeah, Misericorde, Security Level Thirty-One. She dropped a damn church on me..." The coroner breathed a sigh of relief. "Well," the doctor said "We only found one other body. That one a super too?"
Misericorde shakes his head. "Na, he was just super unlucky. I need you to contact your Longbow Liason for the M.E.'s office. And...uh...some pants."
The coroner nodded and dialed the phone, argued with someone on the other end. Misericorde covered his front with both hands, leaning against the glass with a sigh. Regen kicked in a little late this time.
He glanced over his shoulder, out the windows of the Office. Two young female staff members walked by, saw him standing by the windows, and started giggling. He flushed, and grabbed a sheet from a cart nearby, covering himself with it.
"Misericorde," the doctor said. "Longbow Agent Glickman told me to tell you that it's time to come in, and that you'd know where and what he meant."
Misericorde nodded.
"Ok. Now..about those pants...."
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
The Medical Examiner paused and tilted his head slightly.
"The only other body in the church was that of a young woman, I'm afraid. Was there someone else with you?"
The room was deathly cold and silent, only the dim creak of un-oiled metal hinges against a concrete floor filled the neon-lit room. Slowly, the eyes of both men swept across the empty gurney to the one beyond it, where a single, black, body bag lay unopened.
"Don't move.." Misericorde said quickly, his eyes darting back and forth across several small trays of metal tools. His mind quickly supplied the possibilities that would inevitably satisfy Scythian's curiosity.
The Medical Examiner shivered. A trill of fear danced up his spine at the change in Misericorde's voice. He swallowed, "What...What is it?"
But the next movement answered all questions. The black bag was simply pulled aside. No twitching, no suspenseful shifting back and forth, only the simple gesture that revealed the twisted visage of something that both belonged in this morgue and yet must be cast from it....for a second time.
The dry voice echoed in the room sending chills through all that heard it.
"Why Doctor," She smiled, "I thought you'd be happy to see me again."
The Medical Examiner fainted, crashing into the table behind him and falling to the floor with a dull thud.
Misericorde balled his fists up, tensed his shoulders, and prepared to fight. This was not a good time, not a good place, but he vowed he would not fall here. But Scythian did something strange..if anything she did could ever be called normal...she sat up on the gurney, she drew up her knees, rested her chin on them, and bit her lower lip as she smiled.
It was then, that Misericorde realized, yet again, that he was naked.
"The only other body in the church was that of a young woman, I'm afraid. Was there someone else with you?"
The room was deathly cold and silent, only the dim creak of un-oiled metal hinges against a concrete floor filled the neon-lit room. Slowly, the eyes of both men swept across the empty gurney to the one beyond it, where a single, black, body bag lay unopened.
"Don't move.." Misericorde said quickly, his eyes darting back and forth across several small trays of metal tools. His mind quickly supplied the possibilities that would inevitably satisfy Scythian's curiosity.
The Medical Examiner shivered. A trill of fear danced up his spine at the change in Misericorde's voice. He swallowed, "What...What is it?"
But the next movement answered all questions. The black bag was simply pulled aside. No twitching, no suspenseful shifting back and forth, only the simple gesture that revealed the twisted visage of something that both belonged in this morgue and yet must be cast from it....for a second time.
The dry voice echoed in the room sending chills through all that heard it.
"Why Doctor," She smiled, "I thought you'd be happy to see me again."
The Medical Examiner fainted, crashing into the table behind him and falling to the floor with a dull thud.
Misericorde balled his fists up, tensed his shoulders, and prepared to fight. This was not a good time, not a good place, but he vowed he would not fall here. But Scythian did something strange..if anything she did could ever be called normal...she sat up on the gurney, she drew up her knees, rested her chin on them, and bit her lower lip as she smiled.
It was then, that Misericorde realized, yet again, that he was naked.