Post by kroenen on Jan 1, 2008 1:35:00 GMT -5
((Merely an introductory post of sorts to situate myself in the present plotline. Not entirely sure what has transpired since last I was up to date on Firefox lore, so Scorps and Syrus will have to fill me in.))
It was a serene night in Ilam, Nepal; wintry mountain peaks stood obsidian and tall in the darkling distance and a brisk chill was thick upon the air, blanketing the crude streets with frost and strangling the orange warmth from the quivering lamplights into an uninviting blue haze. It had just begun to snow.
Navavarsha, the Nepalese New Year, was upon Ilam. It was very late, near midnight, and many of the local families were retiring to their homes to await the dawning of the new year peacefully in their chairs and beds. Dusk descended, steadily, softly.
The gentle sounds of chimes and bells hung by the indigenous peoples from their humble dwelling places chided defiantly against the gloom, penetrating the tranquility with most welcome familiarity and life. Silence reigned between each chime, choking the air with suspense, till alas each quaint chirp and soothing rumble abated, leaving naught save the deadly quiet...and one remaining sound. Unlike its forebears, the noise bore with it no thoughts of hearth and home, nor children playing in the streets; instead it was a herald of the dusk that had befallen the tiny town of Ilam, and with it there came the caricatures of fear and death.
Footsteps. Precise; purposeful; slow, painfully so. Each made a robust crunch as strong, leatherclad feet left their imprint in the sandy pebbles which littered the cobblestoned road. This was the road upon which a faceless figure trod, foul and fleet. His shadow, elongated into an inhuman shape by the dwindling lamplight which danced over his visage, cast itself like a sleek, black tendril over the street before him. His silhouette stood baneful against the dying embers of dusk. With every sickening crunch, he approached. His destination was made evident: a small clearing at the end of the road where there stood a looming statue of a bearded, wizened man.
The figure stopped before it. As he stepped beneath the glow of a lamp, his visage emerged into full view. He was clad in a poorly stitched, ragged robe of petty substance, brown in color and serrated with errant threads pried loose from their weavings by age and wear, which hung low to his very feet. A hood obscured his face and all its features save for glimpses of a metallic red or shimmering black whenever a bit of light penetrated his shroud; it was obvious that the fleshy face of a man could not have shone in such odd colors. He was as silent and stoic as the snowcapped mountains in the horizon. The only sounds traceable to his person were a rasped series of wheezing breaths.
The glint of metal glistened beneath a pallid moon, freshly risen, protruding from the billowing drapes of his sleeve. It was a blade, long and slender, curved down the entirety of its length. The smooth steel was slick with a dark, bubbling fluid which ran down to the hilt and drizzled off upon the ground in vibrant crimson droplets, leaving a bloody trail behind the man who stood so motionless, a chill more gnawing than the frost-bitten air around him.
The figure swung his other arm upward and tossed the severed head of a Tibetan man, still bearing the vacant expression he wore just prior to his demise, at the rectangular base of the statue. There it rebounded with a muffled thud off a chipped corner and rolled off onto the street. From the shadows beneath the statue, a streamlined arm stretched forth to pluck the bleeding husk from the road by its filthy, matted hair. The arm was garbed in fine silk, glimmering with a golden hue and stitched elegantly with silver thread; from its sleeves there blossomed a frilly plume, encompassing pale, slender fingers, effeminately tipped with polished, pointed nails. Both arm and head promptly receded back into darkness and disappeared from sight.
"Très bien, mon vieil ami." The voice was drenched with sardonic guile; an elegant voice which billowed like a satin shawl in a gentle draft. "Did zis one struggle?"
The figure beneath the statue solemnly shook his head.
"I imagine not," mused the voice with a subtle tinge of pleasure, " 'ee looks like 'ee was caught by surprise, oui?"
The cloaked figure responded with nary a twitch or quiver but merely stood. Motionless.
A long pause followed. At last the silence was broken by a shocking intrusion: the figure's voice, a horrid growl. Barely discernible. A deterrent to any man's ears. The sound of rusted gears grinding against one another in the belly of some dilapidated machine.
"Scorpius. Where." It was not a request for information, but a demand. Nor was it a question. It was a statement. The owner of that effeminate voice would relay the location of this Scorpius, or new blood would stain his blade's flawless sheen.
"Walk wiss me, Kroenen; zere is much zat needs discussing."
And so they passed on into the shadow of Ilam, Nepal, together...to discuss.
No blood was found upon the streets the next morning. It was as if they had never been there.
It was a serene night in Ilam, Nepal; wintry mountain peaks stood obsidian and tall in the darkling distance and a brisk chill was thick upon the air, blanketing the crude streets with frost and strangling the orange warmth from the quivering lamplights into an uninviting blue haze. It had just begun to snow.
Navavarsha, the Nepalese New Year, was upon Ilam. It was very late, near midnight, and many of the local families were retiring to their homes to await the dawning of the new year peacefully in their chairs and beds. Dusk descended, steadily, softly.
The gentle sounds of chimes and bells hung by the indigenous peoples from their humble dwelling places chided defiantly against the gloom, penetrating the tranquility with most welcome familiarity and life. Silence reigned between each chime, choking the air with suspense, till alas each quaint chirp and soothing rumble abated, leaving naught save the deadly quiet...and one remaining sound. Unlike its forebears, the noise bore with it no thoughts of hearth and home, nor children playing in the streets; instead it was a herald of the dusk that had befallen the tiny town of Ilam, and with it there came the caricatures of fear and death.
Footsteps. Precise; purposeful; slow, painfully so. Each made a robust crunch as strong, leatherclad feet left their imprint in the sandy pebbles which littered the cobblestoned road. This was the road upon which a faceless figure trod, foul and fleet. His shadow, elongated into an inhuman shape by the dwindling lamplight which danced over his visage, cast itself like a sleek, black tendril over the street before him. His silhouette stood baneful against the dying embers of dusk. With every sickening crunch, he approached. His destination was made evident: a small clearing at the end of the road where there stood a looming statue of a bearded, wizened man.
The figure stopped before it. As he stepped beneath the glow of a lamp, his visage emerged into full view. He was clad in a poorly stitched, ragged robe of petty substance, brown in color and serrated with errant threads pried loose from their weavings by age and wear, which hung low to his very feet. A hood obscured his face and all its features save for glimpses of a metallic red or shimmering black whenever a bit of light penetrated his shroud; it was obvious that the fleshy face of a man could not have shone in such odd colors. He was as silent and stoic as the snowcapped mountains in the horizon. The only sounds traceable to his person were a rasped series of wheezing breaths.
The glint of metal glistened beneath a pallid moon, freshly risen, protruding from the billowing drapes of his sleeve. It was a blade, long and slender, curved down the entirety of its length. The smooth steel was slick with a dark, bubbling fluid which ran down to the hilt and drizzled off upon the ground in vibrant crimson droplets, leaving a bloody trail behind the man who stood so motionless, a chill more gnawing than the frost-bitten air around him.
The figure swung his other arm upward and tossed the severed head of a Tibetan man, still bearing the vacant expression he wore just prior to his demise, at the rectangular base of the statue. There it rebounded with a muffled thud off a chipped corner and rolled off onto the street. From the shadows beneath the statue, a streamlined arm stretched forth to pluck the bleeding husk from the road by its filthy, matted hair. The arm was garbed in fine silk, glimmering with a golden hue and stitched elegantly with silver thread; from its sleeves there blossomed a frilly plume, encompassing pale, slender fingers, effeminately tipped with polished, pointed nails. Both arm and head promptly receded back into darkness and disappeared from sight.
"Très bien, mon vieil ami." The voice was drenched with sardonic guile; an elegant voice which billowed like a satin shawl in a gentle draft. "Did zis one struggle?"
The figure beneath the statue solemnly shook his head.
"I imagine not," mused the voice with a subtle tinge of pleasure, " 'ee looks like 'ee was caught by surprise, oui?"
The cloaked figure responded with nary a twitch or quiver but merely stood. Motionless.
A long pause followed. At last the silence was broken by a shocking intrusion: the figure's voice, a horrid growl. Barely discernible. A deterrent to any man's ears. The sound of rusted gears grinding against one another in the belly of some dilapidated machine.
"Scorpius. Where." It was not a request for information, but a demand. Nor was it a question. It was a statement. The owner of that effeminate voice would relay the location of this Scorpius, or new blood would stain his blade's flawless sheen.
"Walk wiss me, Kroenen; zere is much zat needs discussing."
And so they passed on into the shadow of Ilam, Nepal, together...to discuss.
No blood was found upon the streets the next morning. It was as if they had never been there.