Post by cresian on Apr 23, 2007 23:28:01 GMT -5
Name: Cresian
Age: 17
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Occupation: Proffesional Assassin and Demon Hunter
Residence: Demon World
Physical Appearance: Aside from Cresian's obsession with expensive clothing and the black silk cloth he wears across his useless eyes, there is very little that sets him aside from a usual private school student. He is tall and handsome, with black hair and olive skin that obviously has seen its share of the sun. Beneath his silk and fine linen clothing he is as slender as the blades he carries, and his bones are covered with layers of tightly corded muscles, lending him strength and speed that belies his size and apparent blindness. His face is reminiscent of a hawks, with a sharp nose, tight mouth, and a narrow face that seems carved from stone. On his back is the Orphnages rune, Penance, tattooed in a deep black, purple, green, blue, and red inks.
Tattoo:
Personality: Cresian is an incredibly sharp and perceptive individual. He is hopelessly curious and suspicious and very slow to trust anyone, but even onc e his trust is gained he is still very wary of you. Cresian is a genius with an impassive attitude, a cutting tounge, and an unphazeable confidence that quickly gets him under most common people's skin. When in the company of others, he usually says only what needs to be said, dispensing with all the proper niceties and cutting directly to the heart of the mattter with a tone that says he will brook no nonsense from his client. When discussing buisness or researching he is brutally efficient and coldly insensitive about the details.
Class: Human/Brawler (?)
Realm: Hell
Weapon Skills/Abilites/Magic:
None
(My apologies for the length, I started writing and couldn't stop
)
History: Cresian was born in a small backwater part of southern greece to a poor single mother. Born with no pupils on his eyes he was doomed to pull his mother down in the small fishing village in which they lived, so when a man claiming to be from an "orphanage" came with the prospect of taking her son to a place where he could live with people "like" himself, his mother was overjoyed. The man explained that the lack of pupils was due to a flaw in the gene sequencing process and that if he came to the orphanage he would be taken care of with the highest standard of living. So, as a toddler, he was taken by the man from the village in which he had lived. Blind as he was at the time, he had no idea how long he sat in the luxurious car used to transport him. Days, he thought since there was no way for him to tell the night from the day and no way to tell a minute from an hour. The car never stopped the entire journey, and almost as soon as the car had reached its destination, the door to his left opened. Strong arms gripped his shoulders and he was raised out of the car delicately but firmly. He was led into the "Orphanage" with sounds of clashing steel to greet him.
His bare feet stumbled across the moss covered stone ground as he was taken wordlessly to his destination. Whispers stood out in between the clashes of metal on metal, and for the first time, Francis understood the words they had been saying. "Whats up with his eyes..." "Why?" "What good is..." "Will he help?" "is that a joke?"
At his age he didn't connect the words with himself. But he still felt a sense of oppresion here, of unwelcomeness.
Finally his bare feet met warm carved marble, and a sound like a flamingo guitar slowed its playing ahead of him. A hand came from behind him and he stopped before it touched him. He could feel its presence before it had journeyed an inch from the man’s side “Welcome brother. Welcome to The Orphanage.” Was all a middle baritone voice said before the guitar began playing again. “Laz?” the man in front of him, obviously the one playing the guitar, asked as the man behind him answered, “Yes Reinhauld?”
“What is it that this brother does?” the guitar played a melodious and complex orchestration despite the words.
“I just did the blood test. He came up positive for the mutation, but there was a mix up in the gene sequencing… Almost like a mutation on the mutation. As of yet it hasn’t manifested itself, but I expect that’s going to change.”
“What’s the physical mutation right now?”
“He’s…. Blind sir…”
The guitar stopped. “Blind?”
With obvious strain the man behind Cresian replied, “Yes sir, he has no pupils, no cones or rods inside his eye.”
The guitar started up again, but the man waited before speaking again. “I hope his potential makes up for this… For your sake Laz.”
Years passed by as Cresian’s "mutation" stayed dormant, unassuming. But that was not to say that he did nothing. The Orphanage, was a training ground in addition to a home for Cresian and his class, and he was taught everything from nuclear physics, to philosophy, to martial arts, to espionage, to swordsmanship, to near anything needed for their teachers professions. The Orphanage, was training new recruits for their organization, an underground assassination circuit that was known and feared in the continent of Europe.
Despite being unable to learn many of the needed computer hacking skills, he learned incredibly fast. Mastering many of the subjects that took years to learn normally in a handful of months. The survival training, the majority of his training by far by far, meant to kill off the 'weak prospects' only made Cresian more devious and ruthless; and the weapons trainers scratched their heads in wonder when a blind boy defeated students twice his age with only a nine inch blade of wickidly sharp steel. Aside from this, he spent all the time usually allotted for computer training on the wepons training floor, learning his signature weapon. The wrist knife. His sense of touch and hearing was second to no one in The Orphanage, and in one on one fights he never lost. And that was the way he grew up. Occasionally going out with a teacher and a group of his fellow students to fulfill a contract demand, and never really doing anything on those missions. He was mocked when he was not feared on the training floor, and he spent every contract mission sitting holed up at a communications consul that he barely knew how to use.
As he grew older, his skills increased in time with the sensitivity of his senses. And by the time he was 14 he was the youngest blades trainer at the Orphanage. Not all the students at the orphanage were mutants of course. Some of them were just humans that displayed a hig aptitude for pain and a willing detachment to guilt. But regardless, whenever an orphan chose to pick on another, they were punished by an hour of "The Blind Guy", Cresian, kicking them around the ring effortlessly and without a blow landing on him. He became a favorite among the faculty for his unstoppable work ethic and despite his lack of vision, and when he reached the age of 15 he was deemed a "Master Assassin" by the organization.
For a year, he made a name for himself along with some of his newly graduated colleagues. "The Prophet of The Black Sunrise" he was called on the European market as he rose to prominence as one of the most deadly deathdealers in the world. In less then a year, he had made The Orphanages swiss bank "coffers" overflow with cash. There was something in a "Blind Assassin" that the underworld in Britain seemed to love to rub into their opponents faces. The dishonor and disgrace of being killed by someone that many people thought was fumbling around blindly for his targets. So as Cresian's services became more popular, so did the Orphanage. The Ninth Circle of Hell, as it was called by its many clients. But as Cresian turned 16, a new market began to appeal to the now greedy Reinhauld.
Drug Smuggling.
Cresian, the youngest but most respected voice in the syndicate, argued against the now fattening leaders wishes. Claiming that by exposing themselves to a new market, they were making themselves easier to detect by the currently clueless authorities. Besides, they had never dealt in this filthy buisness before, why would they want to even begin to dip into the filthy tainted world of drug dealing? Within a year the entire organization would of lost its purpose, and despite their normal abstinence they would lose many enforcers to lazy drug induced addiction, he argued. But for every point Cresian made, he was brushed aside by the narcississtic fool for hopes of more riches. Power... That was what the Orphanage had always desired but now its glorious dream was being corrupted by dreams of grandeur.
After the final meeting had adjourned and Cresian had been nearly stripped of his position as High Seat, he simply walked to his rooms and began packing his bags. Students and friends walking by slowly started to clog the hallway as Cresian emerged fully clad in his white and blood red suede leather Master Assassin rank jacket and a pair of simple blue jeans. A rolex watch and a white steel cross around his neck. With a simple stuffed gym bag, he walked from his room to the front door without saying a word. Students gave up and expected he was just aggravated, but the teachers and other High Seats stayed with him till he reached the massive wooden doors. They argued that the cause was lost without him. That he was the only person that Reinhauld would listen to aside from the High Seats that agreed with his mad plan. "The cause was lost the day I stepped onto these moss covered paving stones... I'm sorry everyone..." Was all he said before leaving the men and women behind him.
Thoughts swirled in his mind as he walked down the dirt road alone and lost. Peach trees lined the sides of the road and swayed gently in the breeze as the twilight died and night assumed the reins of power. 'I just walked away from my life...' he suddenly thought as he stopped dead. But it was not the thought that stopped him. A motorcycle pulled up beside him on the road a moment later, and as he closed his blind eyes ready to argue half-heartedly that he would not return, a gloved hand... A womans hands touched his own.
"Cresian?" 'Chorus...'
"Cresian? You arent coming back are you?" The voice was unmistakable this time as she spoke again with an air of motherliness that belied her young age. In her mid twenties, many of the teachers from the orphanage whispered behind folded hands that they wouldn't mind an hour or two alone with her. But that kind of talk had ended naturally... As having one's tounge removed by Cresian quite naturally makes it difficult to say anything at all.
Abruptly he said, "No, this is my fault... If I leave it will be a blow to the Orphanage, but nothing it can't recover from with time... Besides, Reinhauld will be too focused making money our "usual" way he won't have the resources or the time to destroy the Orphanage thew way he plans."
A long silence greeted him as he felt her shift uncomfortably. His plan was completely illogical, hopeless almost to an extreme, but it was the only thing he had thought of that had even the slightest chance of working.
"I'll go too." She said suddenly as he sensed a smile cross her face.
Amusedly, Cresian waved his hand in a dismissing manner. "And what makes you think I'll let you come along?"
"What makes you think I'll let you leave me behind?"
Cresian sighed deeply at the response. Chorus had a reputation for not giving up once she dug her heels in, and there were jokes always flying around that said she could teach bedrock patience. "Fine. Have it your way."
A strangled gasp came from the bike as he swung his leg around behind her and sat down. "What, thats it? Your not going to try any harder than that? I thought..."
Abruptly her words were cut off as he reached forwords and pushed her elbow forwords, forcing the bike to accelerate.
Laughing while she screamed, Cresian finally let go as she struggled in front of him to turn and maneuver.
For days they traveled that way. Cresian riding on the back of the bike as they traveled up the western shores of Greece and into Italy. After a few weeks of riding that way, they finally made it to the central railway station in New Rome and purchased their tickets with the money they received from a small withdrawl from the Orphanages accounts.
The hustle and bustle of the city made Francis' head spin. Never had he been so close to so many people in the light of day with nothing but his own curiousity to guide him. Cars zoomed overhead as the bazaar writhed with a life of its own.
The tickets they had bought were for a train departing to Paris, and the train would be departing the next day, so for truly the first time in their odd lives. Cresian and Chorus melted unwillingly into the crowds. Sounds and smells and all sorts of fabrics and surfaces filled Cresian's senses as he let his situation go for the first time. For that short time, he didn't have a worry in the world.
Finally finding a room in a small but classy hotel, Cresian and Chorus retired for the evening. Cresian sleeping on a high backed sofa while Chorus took the huge white sheeted bed. Rain awoke Cresain several times during the night before he tried to stand and stretch his legs and found that he was unable to. 'Damn fatigue...' he thought as he drifted slowly off to sleep...
Nightmares sliced across his senses as his brain suddenly allowed him the illusion of vision while he slept. Men and women lined the streets, with mouths tightened and turned down in disgust as Cresian took a step down the black and white street in front of him. Colors did not register except for light and darkness, and as he walked, the black shadows crawling up the sides of the street became larger and consumed more of the men and women. But as he kept walking down that narrow path, the men and women began first to look neutrally upon him and then smile as more and more of them were swallowed up by the darkness. Grins turned to smiles as the shadow began to speed up, swallowing the remainder of the once vast crowd. He tried to look around but found that he was unable to, tried to turn away but found it immpossible... For years it seemed he walked. Through towns and country sides, past lakes and alongside rivers as the people that covered the sides of the path in every direction continued to smile toothy knowing grins and violent maniacal smiles.
But when the darkness had consumed everything, and he stared only at an endless sea of black surrounding the white paving of his path, a single figure remained, with his back to Francis, as the darkness slid silkily up to the side of the road like a wave once more. But as he continued his slugish glide forwords the man turned around... and he saw his own face. Laughing at him soundlessly as black blood fell from his eyes like tears. "no..." The soundless laughing continued as the face came closer, zooming in on his eyes which leeked blood down his cheeks like water running down glass. "No..." The eyes... The eyes... They came closer, and blood rushed all around him, a river of it filled his lungs as he drowned in the neverending darkness. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
Cresian shot up, hand flying forwords and clenching as he activated the wrist blades attack mechanism. He heard a gasp as he felt his hand brush hair and felt his blade sink solidly into wood.
For a milisecond time seemed to drag on for an eternity until he felt a hand brush his arm and seize it gently. "Relax, you have a temperature of 112. You need to relax."
His arm went limp at the touch and he felt his wickidly sharp blade retract into its mechanical sheith on his wrist. The sound of rail meeting wheel filled the air as Cresian abruptly realized he was on the train.
'Why am I... So tired...?
Sweat soaked his shirt, and a damp cloth lain over his eyes was in need of replacement soon. "How long have we been on...?"
Chorus paused before answering. "We're eight days into the train trip..."
A choke almost caught Cresian in the throat. 'Eight days?'
"We'll be in Paris by tonight. Rest up. We're getting you to a doctor once we get there..." Chorus said as the cloth over his eyes lifted and was almost immediately replaced by one soaked in cool water. A hand then descended down onto his chest and another grasped his left hand in a firm grip that said she would be there when he woke up.
Without his consent, he slipped out of his body and into the endless sea of sleep. This time, the hundreds of thousands of faces were all laughing, all their eyes bleeding as he suddenly noticed he was not on the path anymore. Hands reached out to him, claws, talons, to tear him to shreds.
Suddenly Cresian sat up straight again. His muscles ached as he swung his feet around and planted them on the floor and tried to stand. At first his legs felt like they were full of jelly, but he quickly marshaled he strength to stand. "Chorus?" His voice called out in a hoarse whisper that was not answered as he opened the door and ventured into the hallway. Suddenly gunshots burst out on the roof of the car. Lots of gunshots...
"Chorus!" he shouted in a coarse voice no louder then a violent cough. Stumbling down the hallway, he felt blindly for the doors handle before tearing the door open and walking out onto the train deck. Toes hanging over the edge, he felt his way to the ladder and climbed up sluggishly, muscles screaming in protest as he pulled his way up to the trains roof, still hearing gunfire erupt as he pulled himself over the top.
"Chorus?" suddenly he was lurched forwords as he flet a hand grab him by the shoulder.
"What are you doing out here!?!" He heard Chorus say as his back hit something solid. "Keep your head down!"
Suddenly Cresian felt her grip go loose as she said, "Oh shi..."
She wasn't able to finish, as suddenly the car beneath them shuddered and Chorus tore him from his feet and threw him over the edge of the car. Both of them flew over the gap to the next car, barely making it as the grenade behind them went off.
Shrapnel flew everywhere as they landed. A single razor sharp piece slashing across Cresian's eyes through the cloth.
Liquid agony ripped thorugh his entire body as he felt his muscles convulse and try to tear away from the bone, tried to separate tendon and ligament from nerve as blood flew everywere. Hitting the ground, he barely felt since he had already reached the limit of pain. Death would have been preferable to another milisecond of the torture.
Suddenly he noticed that he was... Looking at his hand... And the flames rising behind him... and the conductor and crew underneath the roof... and all manner of passengers as they screamed in terror...
And Chorus... Lying to the side of him, it appeared as though she had suffered worse than he had... Much worse. Slashes covered her neck and arms as blood flowed copiously from her severed veins.
Tearing off the cloth around his eyes, already soaked in his blood, he wrapped it around her neck mechanically, unthinkingly after the pain that still made his head ring...
Then suddenly... She spoke to him... "They came... for you..."
His head suddenly was empty of pain and suffering, his muscles pain and agony were washed away... By the utter and unconquerable fury that filled his senses...
"Cresian... Lets go... to another World... together... ok?" she said as she began to heave.
"Yes... we'll go..." he said, shuddering uncontrollably, "Together..." The last word spelled the start of a sob but he squashed it terrifyingly fast.
"Hey... I'll just... just..."
................. silence..............
The men on the other side of the flames laughed as they joked about what their targets last thoughts must have been when they had their brains thrown against the walls.
But as they watched the flames...
Cresian, eyes bleeding, hands twitiching with rage beyond imagination, and feet stepping through the flames, emerged from the flames like an executioner. Steady, unphazed, unstoppable... Bullets rang from their guns, but hit nothing but air as he suddenly leaped high into the air and slammed feet first into the first individual. His hands worked like crimson lightning, spraying blood everywhere as he stabbed twice into the mans lungs and once into his forhead, all before the man had even began to move backwards from Cresian's feet landing squarely on his chest. Time seemed to slow as the men turned to look at Cresian, eyes widening all too slowly. But adrenaline and the essence of hate ran in his veins more prevalently then blood did.
He saw them all with his new eyes as he leaped sideways and brought his already bloodsoaked hand forwords in an open handed blow just as the man fired a bullet with his cooper magnum. Steel collided with steel as Cresian's wrist dagger slid across the gun, slicing the barrel cleanly in two before tracing up the mans arm, severing the artery horizontally for the length of his arm before Cresian retracted his arm like a whip and lashed out again like a viper. One slice piercing both jugular veins horizontally as an open handed blow crushed his throat, and asecond slice across the mans chest severing his lungs from his already crushed trachea. The man hit his knees as Cresian slammed into his next target. The bullet from his magnum falling to the ground... sliced cleanly in two.
Bloodspray flew everywhere in a dance that opened arteries and bathed the upper deck of the train in a warm finish of lifeblood.
A single hitman was left standing as Cresian last target twisted and fell to the ground from his hands. Gun shaking and raised, he eyed Cresian with terror as he raised his 9 inch dagger to his lips and ran the blade along his tounge, licking off the blood as he stared the other man directly in the eyes, his own magot white bleeding eyes lifelessly staring at the man behind tan eyelids.
The man turned and ran, screaming at the top of his lungs before he felt his feet fly out from underneath him. Hitting his nose on the deck, the hitman shook uncontrollably as he felt his rifle be kicked from his hands as Cresian boot stomped down heavily. Screaming in absolute terror, he looked up, only to be seized by the throat and raised into the air by the hand without the arm blade deployed. Shaking and on the edge of going unconcious, Cresian raised him up to arms length. A boy of seventeen...
Staring at him in the eyes, the hitman pleaded through chokes and gags. But his cries for mercy fell on deaf ears. "Die..." Cresian said as he clenched his hand and threw him off the side of the train bodily.
Conciousness had fled long ago, but suddenly it returned... Feeling the fresh blood run across his skin Cresian's jaw dropped. "What..." But within a moment he returned wraithily to Chorus.
Immpossible...
His eyes saw her... But... A glow surrounded her now... Slices gone and a halo of pure light around her head.
"Cresian... Lets meet in the next life..." And with a brush of warm wind like a summer breeze across a filed of fragrant flowers, she was gone...
Cresian slid away from that train and found his way to the Demon World, stowed away on the EDF's 44th division cargo carrier, the Almasy. In the Demon World he has become a feared hunter, and with the seal of Penance on his back... He can do anything.
Age: 17
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Occupation: Proffesional Assassin and Demon Hunter
Residence: Demon World
Physical Appearance: Aside from Cresian's obsession with expensive clothing and the black silk cloth he wears across his useless eyes, there is very little that sets him aside from a usual private school student. He is tall and handsome, with black hair and olive skin that obviously has seen its share of the sun. Beneath his silk and fine linen clothing he is as slender as the blades he carries, and his bones are covered with layers of tightly corded muscles, lending him strength and speed that belies his size and apparent blindness. His face is reminiscent of a hawks, with a sharp nose, tight mouth, and a narrow face that seems carved from stone. On his back is the Orphnages rune, Penance, tattooed in a deep black, purple, green, blue, and red inks.
Tattoo:
Personality: Cresian is an incredibly sharp and perceptive individual. He is hopelessly curious and suspicious and very slow to trust anyone, but even onc e his trust is gained he is still very wary of you. Cresian is a genius with an impassive attitude, a cutting tounge, and an unphazeable confidence that quickly gets him under most common people's skin. When in the company of others, he usually says only what needs to be said, dispensing with all the proper niceties and cutting directly to the heart of the mattter with a tone that says he will brook no nonsense from his client. When discussing buisness or researching he is brutally efficient and coldly insensitive about the details.
Class: Human/Brawler (?)
Realm: Hell
Weapon Skills/Abilites/Magic:
None
(My apologies for the length, I started writing and couldn't stop
)History: Cresian was born in a small backwater part of southern greece to a poor single mother. Born with no pupils on his eyes he was doomed to pull his mother down in the small fishing village in which they lived, so when a man claiming to be from an "orphanage" came with the prospect of taking her son to a place where he could live with people "like" himself, his mother was overjoyed. The man explained that the lack of pupils was due to a flaw in the gene sequencing process and that if he came to the orphanage he would be taken care of with the highest standard of living. So, as a toddler, he was taken by the man from the village in which he had lived. Blind as he was at the time, he had no idea how long he sat in the luxurious car used to transport him. Days, he thought since there was no way for him to tell the night from the day and no way to tell a minute from an hour. The car never stopped the entire journey, and almost as soon as the car had reached its destination, the door to his left opened. Strong arms gripped his shoulders and he was raised out of the car delicately but firmly. He was led into the "Orphanage" with sounds of clashing steel to greet him.
His bare feet stumbled across the moss covered stone ground as he was taken wordlessly to his destination. Whispers stood out in between the clashes of metal on metal, and for the first time, Francis understood the words they had been saying. "Whats up with his eyes..." "Why?" "What good is..." "Will he help?" "is that a joke?"
At his age he didn't connect the words with himself. But he still felt a sense of oppresion here, of unwelcomeness.
Finally his bare feet met warm carved marble, and a sound like a flamingo guitar slowed its playing ahead of him. A hand came from behind him and he stopped before it touched him. He could feel its presence before it had journeyed an inch from the man’s side “Welcome brother. Welcome to The Orphanage.” Was all a middle baritone voice said before the guitar began playing again. “Laz?” the man in front of him, obviously the one playing the guitar, asked as the man behind him answered, “Yes Reinhauld?”
“What is it that this brother does?” the guitar played a melodious and complex orchestration despite the words.
“I just did the blood test. He came up positive for the mutation, but there was a mix up in the gene sequencing… Almost like a mutation on the mutation. As of yet it hasn’t manifested itself, but I expect that’s going to change.”
“What’s the physical mutation right now?”
“He’s…. Blind sir…”
The guitar stopped. “Blind?”
With obvious strain the man behind Cresian replied, “Yes sir, he has no pupils, no cones or rods inside his eye.”
The guitar started up again, but the man waited before speaking again. “I hope his potential makes up for this… For your sake Laz.”
Years passed by as Cresian’s "mutation" stayed dormant, unassuming. But that was not to say that he did nothing. The Orphanage, was a training ground in addition to a home for Cresian and his class, and he was taught everything from nuclear physics, to philosophy, to martial arts, to espionage, to swordsmanship, to near anything needed for their teachers professions. The Orphanage, was training new recruits for their organization, an underground assassination circuit that was known and feared in the continent of Europe.
Despite being unable to learn many of the needed computer hacking skills, he learned incredibly fast. Mastering many of the subjects that took years to learn normally in a handful of months. The survival training, the majority of his training by far by far, meant to kill off the 'weak prospects' only made Cresian more devious and ruthless; and the weapons trainers scratched their heads in wonder when a blind boy defeated students twice his age with only a nine inch blade of wickidly sharp steel. Aside from this, he spent all the time usually allotted for computer training on the wepons training floor, learning his signature weapon. The wrist knife. His sense of touch and hearing was second to no one in The Orphanage, and in one on one fights he never lost. And that was the way he grew up. Occasionally going out with a teacher and a group of his fellow students to fulfill a contract demand, and never really doing anything on those missions. He was mocked when he was not feared on the training floor, and he spent every contract mission sitting holed up at a communications consul that he barely knew how to use.
As he grew older, his skills increased in time with the sensitivity of his senses. And by the time he was 14 he was the youngest blades trainer at the Orphanage. Not all the students at the orphanage were mutants of course. Some of them were just humans that displayed a hig aptitude for pain and a willing detachment to guilt. But regardless, whenever an orphan chose to pick on another, they were punished by an hour of "The Blind Guy", Cresian, kicking them around the ring effortlessly and without a blow landing on him. He became a favorite among the faculty for his unstoppable work ethic and despite his lack of vision, and when he reached the age of 15 he was deemed a "Master Assassin" by the organization.
For a year, he made a name for himself along with some of his newly graduated colleagues. "The Prophet of The Black Sunrise" he was called on the European market as he rose to prominence as one of the most deadly deathdealers in the world. In less then a year, he had made The Orphanages swiss bank "coffers" overflow with cash. There was something in a "Blind Assassin" that the underworld in Britain seemed to love to rub into their opponents faces. The dishonor and disgrace of being killed by someone that many people thought was fumbling around blindly for his targets. So as Cresian's services became more popular, so did the Orphanage. The Ninth Circle of Hell, as it was called by its many clients. But as Cresian turned 16, a new market began to appeal to the now greedy Reinhauld.
Drug Smuggling.
Cresian, the youngest but most respected voice in the syndicate, argued against the now fattening leaders wishes. Claiming that by exposing themselves to a new market, they were making themselves easier to detect by the currently clueless authorities. Besides, they had never dealt in this filthy buisness before, why would they want to even begin to dip into the filthy tainted world of drug dealing? Within a year the entire organization would of lost its purpose, and despite their normal abstinence they would lose many enforcers to lazy drug induced addiction, he argued. But for every point Cresian made, he was brushed aside by the narcississtic fool for hopes of more riches. Power... That was what the Orphanage had always desired but now its glorious dream was being corrupted by dreams of grandeur.
After the final meeting had adjourned and Cresian had been nearly stripped of his position as High Seat, he simply walked to his rooms and began packing his bags. Students and friends walking by slowly started to clog the hallway as Cresian emerged fully clad in his white and blood red suede leather Master Assassin rank jacket and a pair of simple blue jeans. A rolex watch and a white steel cross around his neck. With a simple stuffed gym bag, he walked from his room to the front door without saying a word. Students gave up and expected he was just aggravated, but the teachers and other High Seats stayed with him till he reached the massive wooden doors. They argued that the cause was lost without him. That he was the only person that Reinhauld would listen to aside from the High Seats that agreed with his mad plan. "The cause was lost the day I stepped onto these moss covered paving stones... I'm sorry everyone..." Was all he said before leaving the men and women behind him.
Thoughts swirled in his mind as he walked down the dirt road alone and lost. Peach trees lined the sides of the road and swayed gently in the breeze as the twilight died and night assumed the reins of power. 'I just walked away from my life...' he suddenly thought as he stopped dead. But it was not the thought that stopped him. A motorcycle pulled up beside him on the road a moment later, and as he closed his blind eyes ready to argue half-heartedly that he would not return, a gloved hand... A womans hands touched his own.
"Cresian?" 'Chorus...'
"Cresian? You arent coming back are you?" The voice was unmistakable this time as she spoke again with an air of motherliness that belied her young age. In her mid twenties, many of the teachers from the orphanage whispered behind folded hands that they wouldn't mind an hour or two alone with her. But that kind of talk had ended naturally... As having one's tounge removed by Cresian quite naturally makes it difficult to say anything at all.
Abruptly he said, "No, this is my fault... If I leave it will be a blow to the Orphanage, but nothing it can't recover from with time... Besides, Reinhauld will be too focused making money our "usual" way he won't have the resources or the time to destroy the Orphanage thew way he plans."
A long silence greeted him as he felt her shift uncomfortably. His plan was completely illogical, hopeless almost to an extreme, but it was the only thing he had thought of that had even the slightest chance of working.
"I'll go too." She said suddenly as he sensed a smile cross her face.
Amusedly, Cresian waved his hand in a dismissing manner. "And what makes you think I'll let you come along?"
"What makes you think I'll let you leave me behind?"
Cresian sighed deeply at the response. Chorus had a reputation for not giving up once she dug her heels in, and there were jokes always flying around that said she could teach bedrock patience. "Fine. Have it your way."
A strangled gasp came from the bike as he swung his leg around behind her and sat down. "What, thats it? Your not going to try any harder than that? I thought..."
Abruptly her words were cut off as he reached forwords and pushed her elbow forwords, forcing the bike to accelerate.
Laughing while she screamed, Cresian finally let go as she struggled in front of him to turn and maneuver.
For days they traveled that way. Cresian riding on the back of the bike as they traveled up the western shores of Greece and into Italy. After a few weeks of riding that way, they finally made it to the central railway station in New Rome and purchased their tickets with the money they received from a small withdrawl from the Orphanages accounts.
The hustle and bustle of the city made Francis' head spin. Never had he been so close to so many people in the light of day with nothing but his own curiousity to guide him. Cars zoomed overhead as the bazaar writhed with a life of its own.
The tickets they had bought were for a train departing to Paris, and the train would be departing the next day, so for truly the first time in their odd lives. Cresian and Chorus melted unwillingly into the crowds. Sounds and smells and all sorts of fabrics and surfaces filled Cresian's senses as he let his situation go for the first time. For that short time, he didn't have a worry in the world.
Finally finding a room in a small but classy hotel, Cresian and Chorus retired for the evening. Cresian sleeping on a high backed sofa while Chorus took the huge white sheeted bed. Rain awoke Cresain several times during the night before he tried to stand and stretch his legs and found that he was unable to. 'Damn fatigue...' he thought as he drifted slowly off to sleep...
Nightmares sliced across his senses as his brain suddenly allowed him the illusion of vision while he slept. Men and women lined the streets, with mouths tightened and turned down in disgust as Cresian took a step down the black and white street in front of him. Colors did not register except for light and darkness, and as he walked, the black shadows crawling up the sides of the street became larger and consumed more of the men and women. But as he kept walking down that narrow path, the men and women began first to look neutrally upon him and then smile as more and more of them were swallowed up by the darkness. Grins turned to smiles as the shadow began to speed up, swallowing the remainder of the once vast crowd. He tried to look around but found that he was unable to, tried to turn away but found it immpossible... For years it seemed he walked. Through towns and country sides, past lakes and alongside rivers as the people that covered the sides of the path in every direction continued to smile toothy knowing grins and violent maniacal smiles.
But when the darkness had consumed everything, and he stared only at an endless sea of black surrounding the white paving of his path, a single figure remained, with his back to Francis, as the darkness slid silkily up to the side of the road like a wave once more. But as he continued his slugish glide forwords the man turned around... and he saw his own face. Laughing at him soundlessly as black blood fell from his eyes like tears. "no..." The soundless laughing continued as the face came closer, zooming in on his eyes which leeked blood down his cheeks like water running down glass. "No..." The eyes... The eyes... They came closer, and blood rushed all around him, a river of it filled his lungs as he drowned in the neverending darkness. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
Cresian shot up, hand flying forwords and clenching as he activated the wrist blades attack mechanism. He heard a gasp as he felt his hand brush hair and felt his blade sink solidly into wood.
For a milisecond time seemed to drag on for an eternity until he felt a hand brush his arm and seize it gently. "Relax, you have a temperature of 112. You need to relax."
His arm went limp at the touch and he felt his wickidly sharp blade retract into its mechanical sheith on his wrist. The sound of rail meeting wheel filled the air as Cresian abruptly realized he was on the train.
'Why am I... So tired...?
Sweat soaked his shirt, and a damp cloth lain over his eyes was in need of replacement soon. "How long have we been on...?"
Chorus paused before answering. "We're eight days into the train trip..."
A choke almost caught Cresian in the throat. 'Eight days?'
"We'll be in Paris by tonight. Rest up. We're getting you to a doctor once we get there..." Chorus said as the cloth over his eyes lifted and was almost immediately replaced by one soaked in cool water. A hand then descended down onto his chest and another grasped his left hand in a firm grip that said she would be there when he woke up.
Without his consent, he slipped out of his body and into the endless sea of sleep. This time, the hundreds of thousands of faces were all laughing, all their eyes bleeding as he suddenly noticed he was not on the path anymore. Hands reached out to him, claws, talons, to tear him to shreds.
Suddenly Cresian sat up straight again. His muscles ached as he swung his feet around and planted them on the floor and tried to stand. At first his legs felt like they were full of jelly, but he quickly marshaled he strength to stand. "Chorus?" His voice called out in a hoarse whisper that was not answered as he opened the door and ventured into the hallway. Suddenly gunshots burst out on the roof of the car. Lots of gunshots...
"Chorus!" he shouted in a coarse voice no louder then a violent cough. Stumbling down the hallway, he felt blindly for the doors handle before tearing the door open and walking out onto the train deck. Toes hanging over the edge, he felt his way to the ladder and climbed up sluggishly, muscles screaming in protest as he pulled his way up to the trains roof, still hearing gunfire erupt as he pulled himself over the top.
"Chorus?" suddenly he was lurched forwords as he flet a hand grab him by the shoulder.
"What are you doing out here!?!" He heard Chorus say as his back hit something solid. "Keep your head down!"
Suddenly Cresian felt her grip go loose as she said, "Oh shi..."
She wasn't able to finish, as suddenly the car beneath them shuddered and Chorus tore him from his feet and threw him over the edge of the car. Both of them flew over the gap to the next car, barely making it as the grenade behind them went off.
Shrapnel flew everywhere as they landed. A single razor sharp piece slashing across Cresian's eyes through the cloth.
Liquid agony ripped thorugh his entire body as he felt his muscles convulse and try to tear away from the bone, tried to separate tendon and ligament from nerve as blood flew everywere. Hitting the ground, he barely felt since he had already reached the limit of pain. Death would have been preferable to another milisecond of the torture.
Suddenly he noticed that he was... Looking at his hand... And the flames rising behind him... and the conductor and crew underneath the roof... and all manner of passengers as they screamed in terror...
And Chorus... Lying to the side of him, it appeared as though she had suffered worse than he had... Much worse. Slashes covered her neck and arms as blood flowed copiously from her severed veins.
Tearing off the cloth around his eyes, already soaked in his blood, he wrapped it around her neck mechanically, unthinkingly after the pain that still made his head ring...
Then suddenly... She spoke to him... "They came... for you..."
His head suddenly was empty of pain and suffering, his muscles pain and agony were washed away... By the utter and unconquerable fury that filled his senses...
"Cresian... Lets go... to another World... together... ok?" she said as she began to heave.
"Yes... we'll go..." he said, shuddering uncontrollably, "Together..." The last word spelled the start of a sob but he squashed it terrifyingly fast.
"Hey... I'll just... just..."
................. silence..............
The men on the other side of the flames laughed as they joked about what their targets last thoughts must have been when they had their brains thrown against the walls.
But as they watched the flames...
Cresian, eyes bleeding, hands twitiching with rage beyond imagination, and feet stepping through the flames, emerged from the flames like an executioner. Steady, unphazed, unstoppable... Bullets rang from their guns, but hit nothing but air as he suddenly leaped high into the air and slammed feet first into the first individual. His hands worked like crimson lightning, spraying blood everywhere as he stabbed twice into the mans lungs and once into his forhead, all before the man had even began to move backwards from Cresian's feet landing squarely on his chest. Time seemed to slow as the men turned to look at Cresian, eyes widening all too slowly. But adrenaline and the essence of hate ran in his veins more prevalently then blood did.
He saw them all with his new eyes as he leaped sideways and brought his already bloodsoaked hand forwords in an open handed blow just as the man fired a bullet with his cooper magnum. Steel collided with steel as Cresian's wrist dagger slid across the gun, slicing the barrel cleanly in two before tracing up the mans arm, severing the artery horizontally for the length of his arm before Cresian retracted his arm like a whip and lashed out again like a viper. One slice piercing both jugular veins horizontally as an open handed blow crushed his throat, and asecond slice across the mans chest severing his lungs from his already crushed trachea. The man hit his knees as Cresian slammed into his next target. The bullet from his magnum falling to the ground... sliced cleanly in two.
Bloodspray flew everywhere in a dance that opened arteries and bathed the upper deck of the train in a warm finish of lifeblood.
A single hitman was left standing as Cresian last target twisted and fell to the ground from his hands. Gun shaking and raised, he eyed Cresian with terror as he raised his 9 inch dagger to his lips and ran the blade along his tounge, licking off the blood as he stared the other man directly in the eyes, his own magot white bleeding eyes lifelessly staring at the man behind tan eyelids.
The man turned and ran, screaming at the top of his lungs before he felt his feet fly out from underneath him. Hitting his nose on the deck, the hitman shook uncontrollably as he felt his rifle be kicked from his hands as Cresian boot stomped down heavily. Screaming in absolute terror, he looked up, only to be seized by the throat and raised into the air by the hand without the arm blade deployed. Shaking and on the edge of going unconcious, Cresian raised him up to arms length. A boy of seventeen...
Staring at him in the eyes, the hitman pleaded through chokes and gags. But his cries for mercy fell on deaf ears. "Die..." Cresian said as he clenched his hand and threw him off the side of the train bodily.
Conciousness had fled long ago, but suddenly it returned... Feeling the fresh blood run across his skin Cresian's jaw dropped. "What..." But within a moment he returned wraithily to Chorus.
Immpossible...
His eyes saw her... But... A glow surrounded her now... Slices gone and a halo of pure light around her head.
"Cresian... Lets meet in the next life..." And with a brush of warm wind like a summer breeze across a filed of fragrant flowers, she was gone...
Cresian slid away from that train and found his way to the Demon World, stowed away on the EDF's 44th division cargo carrier, the Almasy. In the Demon World he has become a feared hunter, and with the seal of Penance on his back... He can do anything.