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 The Damned

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Join date : 2009-11-09

The Damned Empty
PostSubject: The Damned   The Damned EmptySat Nov 14, 2009 10:52 pm

Algea stood on the roof of the fortress, five stories up, her feet balanced precariously on the highest ledge. Above her, moonlight seeped red and yellow from the sky, blood mixed with fickle gold, dark mixed with light, wounds freshly cut in the endless expanse of black velvet. She gazed down at the gloomy, waiting void beneath her, the taunting ground opening its arms as if begging to embrace her. "Thousands of years, and I’m still reduced to this." She muttered to herself. Frigid wind blustered, ruffling her hair in every direction, tickling her face and neck, and she remembers the blood splattered there. Not her blood, though. No, not hers. Every stroke of hair against that phantom evidence of life and death was like kindling thrown into the fire of her blazing guilt. So many times she’d come here, wishing for things that could never be. So many times she’d prayed for absolution, relief from her daily torment and the demon inside her responsible. . . relief from her utter dependence on self-mutilation. Her prayers had never been answered. Would never be answered. This was what she was, what she would always be. And her agony would only increase. Once an immortal warrior to the gods, she was now a Lord of the Underworld, possessed by one of the many spirits once locked inside Pandoras Box. From favor to dishonor, beloved to despised. From happiness to constant misery. She ground her teeth. Mortals knew Pandora’s Box as a distant memory in their history, so far back it was no longer fact anymore; she knew it as the source of her eternal downfall. Algea and her friends had defiantly opened it all those centuries ago; now she and her friends were the box, each holding a demon inside themselves.
Jump, her demon beseeched.
Her demon: Pain. Her constant companion. The tempting whisper in the back of her mind, the dark entity that craved unspeakable evil. The supernatural force she battled every damned minute of every damned day.
"Not yet." A few more seconds of anticipation, of knowing most of her bones would shatter on contact. She grinned at the thought. The razor-sharp bone shards would cut her injured, swollen organs and those organs would burst like water balloons; her skin would rip from the excess fluid, and this time the lifeblood that drained would be her own. Agony, such blissful agony, would consume her.

For a little while, anyway.

Slowly her smile faded. Within days -- hours, if she failed to hurt herself badly enough -- her body would heal itself, totally and completely. She would wake up, whole again, Pain once more a commanding force inside her mind, too loud to be denied. But oh, for those few blessed ticks of the clock before her bones began to realign, before her organs began to weave back together and her skin to reconnect, before blood once more pumped through her veins, she would experience nirvana. The ultimate paradise. Rapture of the sweetest kind. She would writhe in the exquisite pleasure the pain brought with it -- her only source of pleasure. The demon would purr with utter contentment, so drunk on the sensation it was unable to speak, and Algea would experience such blissful peace.

For a little while. Always, only, a little while.

"I do not need another reminder about how fleeting my peace is," she muttered to drown the depressing thought. She knew how quickly time passed. A year sometimes felt like nothing more than a day. A day sometimes felt like nothing more than a minute. And yet, both were sometimes infinite to her. Just one of the many contradictions of life as a Lord of the Underworld.
Jump, Pain said. Then, more insistently, Jump! Jump!
"I told you. Just a few seconds more." Once again Algea glanced at the ground. Jagged rocks winked in that bleeding moonlight, the clear puddles surrounding them rippling in the wind. Mist rose like ghostly fingers, summoning her closer, wonderfully closer. "Plunging a blade into your enemy’s throat kills him, yes," she told the demon, "but then it’s over, done, and you have nothing left to anticipate."
Jump! A snarled command, impatient and needy, a child throwing a tantrum.
Yes, sometimes demons really were like whiny human children. Algea shoved a hand through her tangled hair, a few strands ripping from her scalp. She knew of only one way to shut her other half up. Obedience. Why she’d even tried to resist and savor the moment, she didn’t know.
"Maybe this time you’ll be sent back to hell," she muttered. A woman could wish, anyway. Finally, she splayed her arms. Closed her eyes. Leaned . . .
Oh the joy from leaning alone. Already Pain whimpered from excitement. She stayed in this precarious position for what seemed like an age, taking advantage of the Demons distraction to gather her thoughts enough to remember how annoyed the others will be when they see her fly past the window. She knows they understand, but even after all this time the sight of a young woman falling to her death is a little agitating to them, she will just have to serve her apology in a couple of hours when she regains consciousness.

The Demon, growing impatient, starts to hiss. Algea sighs and slowly tips forward into the abyss, smiling as she falls.
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Location : Engand, GB, UK

The Damned Empty
PostSubject: Danté, The Lord of Death.   The Damned EmptySun Nov 22, 2009 8:30 am

This was always how it was, the screams of the damned echoing down the corridors of nowhere. He arose from the slumber of the dead and widened his
eyes. The harsh winds battering the dry liquid encasing them. A few blinks though, as his eyes refocused and he could see once again. He was Danté. The
Lord of Death. He spend everyday, finding the damned dead and taking their souls to the abyss. Then every night, he spent not asleep, but in a spiritual form
while his body is still, his mind is wandering the spiritual realm, calming the dead and transporting the damned to the Devil's Abyss.. Some call him the Grim Reaper,
other people know him simply as, Death.

Now he was awake, touching the floor once again from his restless walk. He stood alone in the vast empty desert and with a blink of an eye, he was gone. He now
stood above a dead man, his wrists slit by the bloody knife in his left hand. Danté shook his head slowly watching the blood seep from the now empty corpse. He
knelt down clenched his fist. With one swift movement he punched down into the mans head, several screams leapt from the body only heard by Danté. He started
to pull his arm out, along with it came the man soul, smoky and white in it's translucence. Danté stood back up holding the soul at shoulder height. "You
have been classed as Damned. Your soul now belongs to me."
And with that, it disappeared into his mind. Forever screaming. Forever restless.

Being the Lord of Death was difficult. He was huge, standing above everyone it is not easy getting around unnoticed. He had to stick to the shadows, watch from the
distance. He waited for a few moments until he was sent a signal and with that, he vanished again.

His home was built by him. A simple room, made from stones and mud. Set in the middle of a forest out of the way from any life. He reappeared in the center of the
room, a small bug dead on the floor along with several others. He moves to his desk and sits. Watching the wall silently. He was lonely. He couldn't be near anyone. He
couldn't touch anyone. He was destined to be alone. Wandering this world for all of time. But this was his choice. So he had to deal with it.

Danté received a strange signal and his head shot up. Someone was about to die. No. This was strange. He stood up and tried to find to closest death in that area but
couldn't find one. He was so confused, this couldn't be right. Unless, it was another demon. Possibly. He hadn't seen another one in so long. He had to find him or her.

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The Damned Empty
PostSubject: Re: The Damned   The Damned EmptySun Nov 22, 2009 5:06 pm

There was no light in the room, no shadows, only a hell remained after that day. Every light source was destroyed, shards of glass littered the floor while the pungent stench of fumes filled the air. For years the carpet been the quiet color of peach; now it was a reflection of the crimson blood it had been drenched in. Except for one small piece, near the center of the room. By overturned tables and chairs there was a spot no bigger than a mans fist that still retained the old color, and it was the only hint the authorities could pull from the place.

When they first arrived the ceiling was still dripping with blood, a heavy stench of death hung in the air and many of the officers were taken over by spasms of nausea. Corpses, most of which could barely be identified among the food and each other, were lain about. Some were cut, others broken and the rst fell somewhere inbetween the two. It was archaic, seen only as a symbol of terror and fear by every single person that heard of the incident. Of course not every detail was divulged to the media, but then again no one really wanted to know anything about this murder. However, no one could have fathomed it was the work of one man, or that he'd waited patiently at the scene of the crime, standing upright, watching the carpet turn into a crimson masterpiece while outside red and blue lights falshed and sirens roared.

What was published however far from the truth. The police did a good job covering up the truth behind a veil of lies; lies that claimed it was an act of terror blamed because of the countries international relationships. At the time, and even now made it Zeia laugh, despite it happening nearly three years ago.

- -

Blood splattered the floor, corpses added a macabre and equally horrifying appeal to the once quaint family restaurant. Minutes ago a man that seemed to be in thirties and a few thousand years behind the current era walked into the restaurant. His clothing barely covered his goods and what might have been described by the survivors, were there any, as a paddle with sharp edges was held firmly in one darkly tanned hand. This mysterious man said nothing, let alone move. He simply stared blankly at everyone inside the restaurant before ambling towards a table hosting a small get together of a family brought together days ago. The underdressed man had seen them a few days ago and had stalked them endlessly until now. As he approached the table of four people, presumably the couple and one sides parents, Zeia stretched out a hand pressing it against the nape of one of the senior women.

The men jumped up in disapproval and he shot them a malicious glare while the elderly woman beside him began to mumble inaudibly. The dull knife she had in her hand gleamed and shone from the grease that clung to it and shimmered when blood coated its edges. A bloodcurdling scream escaped from the gaping mouth of the youngest woman as she tried to pull away the crazed woman, perhaps her mother while blood spilled from the hole in her stomach. When the men changed their focus, Zeia burst into laughter, punching one of them in the face, sending him to the ground with a spin, and touching the other lightly as he walked past them. Instantly they exploded at one another, their wives and new relatives. Without even touching his club- his macuahuitl- Zeia had sentenced four people to death at the hands of their loved ones and had no thought of stopping.

More! More! A voice screamed. Kill them all! They should all be dead! Every one of them! KILL THEM ALL!

"Shut up!" Zeia had shouted in retort, his language more than a milennium old that none could begin to comprehend.


"I am!" Zeia shouted, followed by a monstrous roar to try and drone out the voice of his demon; it was lost within seconds as he gave into what both he and the demon willed.

He didn't need his demon to tell him what to do, how to kill or who to kill. He embraced it allowing the power his demon gave him to overflow while it slowly corrupted his husk of a body and turned him into the true demon he aspired to be. What happened after the conversation with his demon was a massacre. People were chopped in half, tables crushed them, fists that felt like a train broke their bones, throats were split, and blood flowed like springs of water. Men, woman, children; none were spared from the fate of death by the hands of a mans hatred. An ecstatic feeling of blood lust engrossed Zeia; then everything was eerily silent, even the demon that dwelt within Zeia as it had apparently been satisfied by the carnage. Casting a final glance around the room Zeia stood in the middle, a smile smeared onto his bloody face; his demon silent, but his hatred still unsatisfied.

- -

The memory was a fond one and Zeia ensured to embrace every moment of it and ensure that such an event was an ordinary occurance. His hatred was like a drug and like a drug it consumed him, propelled him, and unlike a drug, it gave his life meaning.
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PostSubject: Re: The Damned   The Damned Empty

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