Post by Trajan Helion on Mar 21, 2006 16:21:26 GMT -5
ooc: This is sort of a short story in its own right. Invite Only.
It was a rainy day in Drakborough - one of the few in this area for a long time. It was a symbol that Spring was passing through. Though Joker's Bar was a popular hangout for students in the area, even the old folks and the adults had taken a liking to the establishment. Three men were sitting around together talking in low voices at a small table near the entrance way. Two women sat together opposite them, chatting with a suave looking gentleman, who on occassion gave anxious looks toward the three men. Scattered hither thither were more friends and families, some of whom seemed just as suspicious as the three men and some of whom seemed just as friendly as the gentleman and the ladies.
The Bar itself was relatively empty. There was a Spanish man, which was surprisingly strange in these parts considering Drakborough's relatively "British Wizard Refugee Town" history. Next to him was a very classy and outrageously beautiful Spanish woman, who seemed to accompany him. It could've been his wife or his sister, but they were relatively the same age. Also at the table was a silent and solitary grizzly old man. His grey hair was like a mane, stretching down to his elbows and covering his face. He wore an eyepatch, and half of his teeth were either not there or filled with golden ones. He was a stereotypical 'rump raider' character. Judging by his strange form of clothing, it could be taken for granted that he was a Wizard, however. He sipped his ale calmly, and most other people in the building seemed to both acknowledge his presence and avoid it.
The door to the Bar creaked open, and the dashing gentleman and the two ladies turned round to look. All the others were either too busy to look, or remained bent and suspicious. Standing in the doorway was a tall and overbearing gentleman. His hair was blond and long, falling around his shoulders. It looked as if it had been washed recently, but had not been combed in years. He wore a long khaki-colored trenchcoat, a black T-shirt beneath, and khaki pants as well. His eyes were sky blue, and he had a reasonable amount of stubble over and under his lips, and covering his cheeks.
The man looked to be about forty, but instead of stout the man was very much muscular and in shape. Every single muscle in his body seemed to be well exercised and strengthened. One such as he would be expected to be all brawn and no brains, but his sky blue eyes flashed with incredibly deep intelligence. Seeing him enter, the two ladies ignored the suave gentleman and looked at one another with smiles flashing. The suave fellow took this as an insult, apparently, because he got up and left the table. Both ladies then began to frown, and ran off after him. The gentleman in the doorway seemed to neither notice nor care about this. Those same sky blue eyes which flashed with intelligence seemed to hold indifference to all the world.
He strode forward, destroying his picturesque image in the doorway, and stepped up to the bar. His black leather boots made hard sounds as they moved across the wooden floor. Reaching a seat next to the old man, he remained silent for a few moments. "Well?" said the old man, his growl, "What'dja want, stranger? Tell the man." The blond haired gentleman looked up at the young boy sitting behind the bar, and said in a very deep contrabaritone voice, "Where's the man called Joker?" The young boy told the man that Joker did not work today. The blond haired man turned his eyes back to the bar and said again in a monotone, "Get me a firewhisky, if you would."
The boy rushed to the side and within moments the firewhisky was before him. The man did not say "Thank you", but instead threw a large bag of galleons at the boy. "Sir, I'm afraid you've overpa-" The blond haired man looked up and said "You want it, don't you? Take the money." The young boy looked at the money and a great smile appeared on his face. "Thank you sir!" He said, and rushed into the back room. There was silence at the bar for a few moments, as the blond haired man drank his alcohol in peace. "Eh, got the wrong idea about you." The old man said. "I can generally see through people who come into these bars. I thought yeh were one of them...folks. Like those boys in the back." The blond haired man, though indifferent, turned to look and saw that the old man was referencing the three men.
"Am I not?" the blond haired man said in a monotone. "No, yeh not. Not if yeh randomly give yeh cash to boys for no reason." The blond haired man did not smile, or show any form of facial expression. He simply took another sip of his drink. "Yeh just another bad-ass, aren't yeh boy? Actin' all tough, when yeh nothin' but an old softie." The blond haired man put his glass down, and a great sigh swept from him. "Maybe."
To this, the old man burst out in a great hearty laugh. "So the boy finally shows some sign of living. Means I don't have to introduce myself to a wall. Name's O'Reilly, Kenneth O'Reilly." There was a great silence that lasted as many moments as the old man cared to wait without a response. "Eh, shouldn't eh even bothehed." O'Reilly turned back to his drink, and only then did the blank faced man say softly, "Trajan Helion."
O'Reilly turned back to face him, and said back, "What'dja say?" Trajan looked up again and said in a louder, less distant voice, "My name is Trajan Helion." O'Reilly, surprisingly, seemed to mimic the man and did not smile or laugh or any hearty thing as he had done previously. Instead he turned back to his own drink and said "Mighty strange name yeh got there. Not from 'round here, are yeh?"
Trajan laughed. This surprised O'Reilly even more. "Ironically," Trajan said, his distant personality seeming to drain away, "I was born here. Ran away from home at 11. This is the first time I've been home in who knows how many years." As he looked at O'Reilly's facial features, he felt some form of liking for the old man spring up. It was something that had grown on Trajan in the past nine years. A strange thought had occured to him.
'If I had never gone through that whole process, I'd be as old as he is now, if not close.' A chill passed up Trajan's spine as he thought this. O'Reilly seemed filled with long days and broken dreams - the very personification of a withered old man. Trajan would be the very same way. But he had played a gamble which could've cost him eternal peace, in exchange for this suspended age he lived in.
"Ah, run away were yeh? Yeh, I know how yeh are. I was born in old Eire, long time 'go. Run away before yeh though - 9 years old. Don't even have the accent anymer." Trajan turned to look at him with shock. "Ireland? My mother was born there. She used to tell me how much she loved it...before she met my Father..." A dark shadow passed over his face. "Bad Da?" said O'Reilly in response. "She loved him. A lot. And...she died." O'Reilly knew this was where to stop.
"I'm sorreh about yer mum. Long time 'go it was then, wouldn't it? If yeh run away at 11." Trajan nodded. Indeed, it had been his Mother's death that had grieved him so much. It was his Mother's death which made him run away from home, have no family, and have only his magic. If his Mother had never died, there was a chance that so many things never would've happened...
Trajan and O'Reilly spoke for about a half hour, until all returned back to both men and their alcohol. "So then," said O'Reilly, having learned a great deal about the man. "I haven't learned nothin' that would prove yeh any bad-ass. What was with the attitude earli -" But he never finished his question, for just then one great bellowing voice rose throughout the bar.
"O'Reilly!" yelled the voice. "I needeh word with yeh, gramps!" Trajan turned to see who had spoken, but O'Reilly remained quiet and stared straight out in front of him. "Gramps!" The three men who were sitting suspiciously had apparently come to some form of agreement, because they were all standing up, with fires in their eyes, facing the old man at the bar.
"What do yeh want, Charlie?" O'Reilly spoke. "O'Reilly, yeh old bastard! You come here far too many times for this!" O'Reilly stood up, looked over at Trajan, and said "Hold on a second, lad." He turned to face the big man. "Yeh dirty bastard, Charlie. I told yeh I didn't do it." Charlie growled and removed his wand, and said "Say that in spells!"
Before O'Reilly or Charlie did anything, however, a great sound shot throughout the room, and the next moment Charlie was aflame, brilliant and burning like a faggot in a stove. "GAHHHH!!!! YEH BASTARD!!!!" Charlie shrieked, and ran from the bar screaming. His two accomplices, who saw this, charged toward O'Reilly - they must've been Squibs.
They too, however, met the fate of the great soundwave, but this time they were both struck across the ribcage by what appeared to be a bird's talon and fell to the ground bleeding profusely. Trajan turned from his chair, his eyes alight with fire, and pulled from his trenchcoat a finely crafted wand. He stepped up to the two bleeding men, and said in a dark voice, "This is repentance for messing with an ally of Trajan Helion. Now suffer. Spiriti Memoriarum." The two men, already screaming, started to scream even louder, and their eyes took on the appearance of having their eyes popping out of their head.
Then they collapsed. Silent and bleeding, Trajan looked around at the bar. Both women were burying their faces into the Gentleman's chest, who seemed to be shaking in his boots. O'Reilly was stunned. The boy was not there. Charlie was probably screaming and burning to death, and the two accomplices were now in a far off distant dream world, endlessly suffering for what they had done. Taking their blood in his hands, he painted on the wall in the best way he could two large words.
"Read it!" Trajan roared at them. "READ IT! What does it say?" and O'Reilly stammered the words, "Angel of Death." Trajan smiled, and said in one word the two words that would make everything better. "Spiriti Memoriarum." Then one of the women, the suave gentleman, and O'Reilly all began to scream, and finally fall to the ground. All in a distant dream world.
So Trajan was left in the room, alone, with two swiftly dying men, his suffering friend, the gentleman and lady, and a frightened woman. Who else had survived his curse of sleep?
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It was a rainy day in Drakborough - one of the few in this area for a long time. It was a symbol that Spring was passing through. Though Joker's Bar was a popular hangout for students in the area, even the old folks and the adults had taken a liking to the establishment. Three men were sitting around together talking in low voices at a small table near the entrance way. Two women sat together opposite them, chatting with a suave looking gentleman, who on occassion gave anxious looks toward the three men. Scattered hither thither were more friends and families, some of whom seemed just as suspicious as the three men and some of whom seemed just as friendly as the gentleman and the ladies.
The Bar itself was relatively empty. There was a Spanish man, which was surprisingly strange in these parts considering Drakborough's relatively "British Wizard Refugee Town" history. Next to him was a very classy and outrageously beautiful Spanish woman, who seemed to accompany him. It could've been his wife or his sister, but they were relatively the same age. Also at the table was a silent and solitary grizzly old man. His grey hair was like a mane, stretching down to his elbows and covering his face. He wore an eyepatch, and half of his teeth were either not there or filled with golden ones. He was a stereotypical 'rump raider' character. Judging by his strange form of clothing, it could be taken for granted that he was a Wizard, however. He sipped his ale calmly, and most other people in the building seemed to both acknowledge his presence and avoid it.
The door to the Bar creaked open, and the dashing gentleman and the two ladies turned round to look. All the others were either too busy to look, or remained bent and suspicious. Standing in the doorway was a tall and overbearing gentleman. His hair was blond and long, falling around his shoulders. It looked as if it had been washed recently, but had not been combed in years. He wore a long khaki-colored trenchcoat, a black T-shirt beneath, and khaki pants as well. His eyes were sky blue, and he had a reasonable amount of stubble over and under his lips, and covering his cheeks.
The man looked to be about forty, but instead of stout the man was very much muscular and in shape. Every single muscle in his body seemed to be well exercised and strengthened. One such as he would be expected to be all brawn and no brains, but his sky blue eyes flashed with incredibly deep intelligence. Seeing him enter, the two ladies ignored the suave gentleman and looked at one another with smiles flashing. The suave fellow took this as an insult, apparently, because he got up and left the table. Both ladies then began to frown, and ran off after him. The gentleman in the doorway seemed to neither notice nor care about this. Those same sky blue eyes which flashed with intelligence seemed to hold indifference to all the world.
He strode forward, destroying his picturesque image in the doorway, and stepped up to the bar. His black leather boots made hard sounds as they moved across the wooden floor. Reaching a seat next to the old man, he remained silent for a few moments. "Well?" said the old man, his growl, "What'dja want, stranger? Tell the man." The blond haired gentleman looked up at the young boy sitting behind the bar, and said in a very deep contrabaritone voice, "Where's the man called Joker?" The young boy told the man that Joker did not work today. The blond haired man turned his eyes back to the bar and said again in a monotone, "Get me a firewhisky, if you would."
The boy rushed to the side and within moments the firewhisky was before him. The man did not say "Thank you", but instead threw a large bag of galleons at the boy. "Sir, I'm afraid you've overpa-" The blond haired man looked up and said "You want it, don't you? Take the money." The young boy looked at the money and a great smile appeared on his face. "Thank you sir!" He said, and rushed into the back room. There was silence at the bar for a few moments, as the blond haired man drank his alcohol in peace. "Eh, got the wrong idea about you." The old man said. "I can generally see through people who come into these bars. I thought yeh were one of them...folks. Like those boys in the back." The blond haired man, though indifferent, turned to look and saw that the old man was referencing the three men.
"Am I not?" the blond haired man said in a monotone. "No, yeh not. Not if yeh randomly give yeh cash to boys for no reason." The blond haired man did not smile, or show any form of facial expression. He simply took another sip of his drink. "Yeh just another bad-ass, aren't yeh boy? Actin' all tough, when yeh nothin' but an old softie." The blond haired man put his glass down, and a great sigh swept from him. "Maybe."
To this, the old man burst out in a great hearty laugh. "So the boy finally shows some sign of living. Means I don't have to introduce myself to a wall. Name's O'Reilly, Kenneth O'Reilly." There was a great silence that lasted as many moments as the old man cared to wait without a response. "Eh, shouldn't eh even bothehed." O'Reilly turned back to his drink, and only then did the blank faced man say softly, "Trajan Helion."
O'Reilly turned back to face him, and said back, "What'dja say?" Trajan looked up again and said in a louder, less distant voice, "My name is Trajan Helion." O'Reilly, surprisingly, seemed to mimic the man and did not smile or laugh or any hearty thing as he had done previously. Instead he turned back to his own drink and said "Mighty strange name yeh got there. Not from 'round here, are yeh?"
Trajan laughed. This surprised O'Reilly even more. "Ironically," Trajan said, his distant personality seeming to drain away, "I was born here. Ran away from home at 11. This is the first time I've been home in who knows how many years." As he looked at O'Reilly's facial features, he felt some form of liking for the old man spring up. It was something that had grown on Trajan in the past nine years. A strange thought had occured to him.
'If I had never gone through that whole process, I'd be as old as he is now, if not close.' A chill passed up Trajan's spine as he thought this. O'Reilly seemed filled with long days and broken dreams - the very personification of a withered old man. Trajan would be the very same way. But he had played a gamble which could've cost him eternal peace, in exchange for this suspended age he lived in.
"Ah, run away were yeh? Yeh, I know how yeh are. I was born in old Eire, long time 'go. Run away before yeh though - 9 years old. Don't even have the accent anymer." Trajan turned to look at him with shock. "Ireland? My mother was born there. She used to tell me how much she loved it...before she met my Father..." A dark shadow passed over his face. "Bad Da?" said O'Reilly in response. "She loved him. A lot. And...she died." O'Reilly knew this was where to stop.
"I'm sorreh about yer mum. Long time 'go it was then, wouldn't it? If yeh run away at 11." Trajan nodded. Indeed, it had been his Mother's death that had grieved him so much. It was his Mother's death which made him run away from home, have no family, and have only his magic. If his Mother had never died, there was a chance that so many things never would've happened...
Trajan and O'Reilly spoke for about a half hour, until all returned back to both men and their alcohol. "So then," said O'Reilly, having learned a great deal about the man. "I haven't learned nothin' that would prove yeh any bad-ass. What was with the attitude earli -" But he never finished his question, for just then one great bellowing voice rose throughout the bar.
"O'Reilly!" yelled the voice. "I needeh word with yeh, gramps!" Trajan turned to see who had spoken, but O'Reilly remained quiet and stared straight out in front of him. "Gramps!" The three men who were sitting suspiciously had apparently come to some form of agreement, because they were all standing up, with fires in their eyes, facing the old man at the bar.
"What do yeh want, Charlie?" O'Reilly spoke. "O'Reilly, yeh old bastard! You come here far too many times for this!" O'Reilly stood up, looked over at Trajan, and said "Hold on a second, lad." He turned to face the big man. "Yeh dirty bastard, Charlie. I told yeh I didn't do it." Charlie growled and removed his wand, and said "Say that in spells!"
Before O'Reilly or Charlie did anything, however, a great sound shot throughout the room, and the next moment Charlie was aflame, brilliant and burning like a faggot in a stove. "GAHHHH!!!! YEH BASTARD!!!!" Charlie shrieked, and ran from the bar screaming. His two accomplices, who saw this, charged toward O'Reilly - they must've been Squibs.
They too, however, met the fate of the great soundwave, but this time they were both struck across the ribcage by what appeared to be a bird's talon and fell to the ground bleeding profusely. Trajan turned from his chair, his eyes alight with fire, and pulled from his trenchcoat a finely crafted wand. He stepped up to the two bleeding men, and said in a dark voice, "This is repentance for messing with an ally of Trajan Helion. Now suffer. Spiriti Memoriarum." The two men, already screaming, started to scream even louder, and their eyes took on the appearance of having their eyes popping out of their head.
Then they collapsed. Silent and bleeding, Trajan looked around at the bar. Both women were burying their faces into the Gentleman's chest, who seemed to be shaking in his boots. O'Reilly was stunned. The boy was not there. Charlie was probably screaming and burning to death, and the two accomplices were now in a far off distant dream world, endlessly suffering for what they had done. Taking their blood in his hands, he painted on the wall in the best way he could two large words.
A N G E L U S M O R T I
"Read it!" Trajan roared at them. "READ IT! What does it say?" and O'Reilly stammered the words, "Angel of Death." Trajan smiled, and said in one word the two words that would make everything better. "Spiriti Memoriarum." Then one of the women, the suave gentleman, and O'Reilly all began to scream, and finally fall to the ground. All in a distant dream world.
So Trajan was left in the room, alone, with two swiftly dying men, his suffering friend, the gentleman and lady, and a frightened woman. Who else had survived his curse of sleep?
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