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stuntie_jedThe body was smaller than he is used to, but seemed well put together, adequate. The place is harder. The light, there is so much light. Even the stars, which he hates for what they represent, even the stars are veiled by the light.
And the air, the darkness sniffs, trying to orient himself. But the air is dead, tells him nothing. But more than dead . . . it is poisoned. A smile twitches his lips.
He had answered a call, half heard, half felt. Not from his lord, but from his lord’s lord. Duty nonetheless, and allegiance owed. Power to be had, to be taken.
He reaches out for his brothers, for together they are a force that not many can withstand. But he cannot find them, no echo of their spirits, no rumour of their passing in shadows on the living. So he is alone.
But there is strength in him still and he will do what is required of him.
But the light is difficult. There is no obscuring darkness, not even in the depths of the night. And he feels weak, shaky within the brightness. He clothes himself in outlandish garments, some with a cover, a cowl almost. It feels familiar, perhaps, but like so much in this world, it is not the same.
And he wonders why he was summoned, for this world is so far removed from the one he remembers, it is neither the hot and dry world where he was born, nor the green and soft world that he tried to conquer. And it seems that the devices of his lord have triumphed in this world. But yet, the call was insistent and undeniable. This world is not yet subjugated.
Many people still walk the streets of this city that the machines rule. But though he is hidden behind the form of this body, somehow they know and no one dares approach him. He is unassailed as he walks.
He works his way from the brighter parts of the city to the darker, where it is not only the rats that slink in the shadows. He finds an establishment where the lights are low, but the place is full of the stink and pulse of humanity. He does what is necessary to remain unnoticed, finding a corner to observe.
What he sees convinces him that the world of Men has changed little in the thousands of years that he has been drifting. They are still raucous braggadocios with no deep thoughts in their heads. He does not understand why it had been so difficult in the past to conquer them.
But he can make no open move against them until he is joined by his brothers. The power of his ring is present even now, but on his own, he is not strong enough for any but a subtle campaign. He smiles with sinister amusement.
I will find another whose mind is vulnerable and twist it into despair. Just like the first one, the little one. His fear while I violated his soul was beautiful.
And there had been another one, who smelled of horses . . . and the open plains. His mind had been weakened by seeing the little one lying in his blood. And the darkness had howled with glee that day, for the death of that one would have been a great victory indeed. He was guarded, though, by another who smelled of Middle Earth, of deep waters, and the darkness could not find him alone until the next morning. But somehow during the night, the horselord had found his strength and his mind was barred against the dark thing’s meddling.
The darkness scowls, remembering, and the waitress goes around him uneasily, avoiding something she doesn’t understand. The darkness knows that the Númenórean must be removed . . . found and eliminated. His mind was strong, but he was no stranger to hopelessness either.
But the dark thing had slept again, waiting for a better chance to kill his Master’s enemies. And now he sits in this place where drink and other drugging spirits weaken men’s will. But he can find none who can be tempted into choosing death over the bleak despair the clings to him like a cloud of misery. Unlike the little one whose mind he had split open like a ripe fruit and whose tiny little spirit had been so weak while the dark thing invaded the man’s thoughts. However, the minds in this place are frail in other ways, full of arrogance and temper, yet still offering possibilities.
Making his way to the serving bar, he softly nudges between two men whom his muted mental survey tell him are good friends. He gestures for another drink, accidentally bumping the arm of one of the men, at the same time sending out a small tendril of discord. He mumbles an apology, careful that the otherworldly sound of his voice is masked.
The men ignore him and the one he touched shakes his head and mutters, “I can’t do this.” But then he pokes a finger into his friend’s chest. “You faggot, what the fuck was that for?”
“What the fuck’re you on about?”
“You felt me up! I’ll fucking kill you!” And he swings a fist full speed into the other man’s belly. His friend buckles over and he lands another blow on the man’s exposed ribs. A frenzy takes him then and he becomes like a machine, landing punch after punch, and when his friend collapses to the floor, he begins kicking him, while their other friends try to pull him away, but his rage gives him strength and he connects a few more times before they succeed.
“For God’s sake, Mick, you’ve been best friends with Rog since fifth form. What the fuck’s your problem?” This man aides the wounded Rog and the bartender calls emergency services.
Two men hold Mick’s arms back and he stares at his blood stained hands in horror, crying softly with remorse.
The dark thing watches all with perverse satisfaction while the police arrest Mick for attempted manslaughter and the paramedics try to stabilise Rog. Small ripples perhaps, but any dissension among these Men will only further the desires of his new Master.
And the air, the darkness sniffs, trying to orient himself. But the air is dead, tells him nothing. But more than dead . . . it is poisoned. A smile twitches his lips.
He had answered a call, half heard, half felt. Not from his lord, but from his lord’s lord. Duty nonetheless, and allegiance owed. Power to be had, to be taken.
He reaches out for his brothers, for together they are a force that not many can withstand. But he cannot find them, no echo of their spirits, no rumour of their passing in shadows on the living. So he is alone.
But there is strength in him still and he will do what is required of him.
But the light is difficult. There is no obscuring darkness, not even in the depths of the night. And he feels weak, shaky within the brightness. He clothes himself in outlandish garments, some with a cover, a cowl almost. It feels familiar, perhaps, but like so much in this world, it is not the same.
And he wonders why he was summoned, for this world is so far removed from the one he remembers, it is neither the hot and dry world where he was born, nor the green and soft world that he tried to conquer. And it seems that the devices of his lord have triumphed in this world. But yet, the call was insistent and undeniable. This world is not yet subjugated.
Many people still walk the streets of this city that the machines rule. But though he is hidden behind the form of this body, somehow they know and no one dares approach him. He is unassailed as he walks.
He works his way from the brighter parts of the city to the darker, where it is not only the rats that slink in the shadows. He finds an establishment where the lights are low, but the place is full of the stink and pulse of humanity. He does what is necessary to remain unnoticed, finding a corner to observe.
What he sees convinces him that the world of Men has changed little in the thousands of years that he has been drifting. They are still raucous braggadocios with no deep thoughts in their heads. He does not understand why it had been so difficult in the past to conquer them.
But he can make no open move against them until he is joined by his brothers. The power of his ring is present even now, but on his own, he is not strong enough for any but a subtle campaign. He smiles with sinister amusement.
I will find another whose mind is vulnerable and twist it into despair. Just like the first one, the little one. His fear while I violated his soul was beautiful.
And there had been another one, who smelled of horses . . . and the open plains. His mind had been weakened by seeing the little one lying in his blood. And the darkness had howled with glee that day, for the death of that one would have been a great victory indeed. He was guarded, though, by another who smelled of Middle Earth, of deep waters, and the darkness could not find him alone until the next morning. But somehow during the night, the horselord had found his strength and his mind was barred against the dark thing’s meddling.
The darkness scowls, remembering, and the waitress goes around him uneasily, avoiding something she doesn’t understand. The darkness knows that the Númenórean must be removed . . . found and eliminated. His mind was strong, but he was no stranger to hopelessness either.
But the dark thing had slept again, waiting for a better chance to kill his Master’s enemies. And now he sits in this place where drink and other drugging spirits weaken men’s will. But he can find none who can be tempted into choosing death over the bleak despair the clings to him like a cloud of misery. Unlike the little one whose mind he had split open like a ripe fruit and whose tiny little spirit had been so weak while the dark thing invaded the man’s thoughts. However, the minds in this place are frail in other ways, full of arrogance and temper, yet still offering possibilities.
Making his way to the serving bar, he softly nudges between two men whom his muted mental survey tell him are good friends. He gestures for another drink, accidentally bumping the arm of one of the men, at the same time sending out a small tendril of discord. He mumbles an apology, careful that the otherworldly sound of his voice is masked.
The men ignore him and the one he touched shakes his head and mutters, “I can’t do this.” But then he pokes a finger into his friend’s chest. “You faggot, what the fuck was that for?”
“What the fuck’re you on about?”
“You felt me up! I’ll fucking kill you!” And he swings a fist full speed into the other man’s belly. His friend buckles over and he lands another blow on the man’s exposed ribs. A frenzy takes him then and he becomes like a machine, landing punch after punch, and when his friend collapses to the floor, he begins kicking him, while their other friends try to pull him away, but his rage gives him strength and he connects a few more times before they succeed.
“For God’s sake, Mick, you’ve been best friends with Rog since fifth form. What the fuck’s your problem?” This man aides the wounded Rog and the bartender calls emergency services.
Two men hold Mick’s arms back and he stares at his blood stained hands in horror, crying softly with remorse.
The dark thing watches all with perverse satisfaction while the police arrest Mick for attempted manslaughter and the paramedics try to stabilise Rog. Small ripples perhaps, but any dissension among these Men will only further the desires of his new Master.
