06-10-2009, 01:25 AM
OOC: My apologies for my reply before...it wasn't edited very well, lots of repeated words and other things that interrupted flow, not very inspired >< I'll try to make this one better. Last one of the night, for me, but I look forward to continuing tomorrow!
IC:
"Pestilence is not my enemy," it said simply, pausing itself. It desired to know more about the creature that opposed it. It did not assign special relevance to her eyes, merely assuming that--like itself--she did not see in color. "Lycanthropy destroyed the life of my creator. His morals were strong, as strong as his resolve to take vengeance against the sickness that destroyed his life. His mind broke. I am the shard that will take vengeance, that will erase lycanthropy. Expunging it from my own flesh is beyond my ability, but even were it not, the sickness is good at destroying itself. This body could not execute my aims without the sickness." It voice was void of emotion, mechanical, as dead as the rest. The creature may well have seemed-wraithlike, save for the dread strength in those long, grotesque arms. What was worse was the speed with which their claws could remove life. A great deal of experience had been necessary for that comfort and alacrity with murder.
"Besides," it intoned. "I have already killed them, before." A brief flash of the fallen father, and crushed children, appeared in a puddle at their feet, run-off from a summer storm. A glimmer of a past that was a future here, a past that--outside of the dream--was very real. "And many others." Slowly, a progression of images shown through the water, like disjointed images from a projector, slowly at first, but becoming faster. Brutality, murder, impassive, uncaring, pointless killing. Countless bodies. Tiny reflections of those images began to show across the filmy surface of the monster's eyes.
"Our meeting will be a violent one," it warned, its voice a dry echo of someone living. Even in life, it had sounded so...a shard was all it was, a fragment of a whole, all the pieces for a killer, divorced from all passion and reason behind the killings. A perfect machine, with no off-switch. A demonstration in futility, a rage that could never be satisfied, given life of its own in the form of this perfect killer. Ironic, that the machine designed to carry out the creator's rage, should have none of its own. "Will you stand against me, regardless?"
IC:
"Pestilence is not my enemy," it said simply, pausing itself. It desired to know more about the creature that opposed it. It did not assign special relevance to her eyes, merely assuming that--like itself--she did not see in color. "Lycanthropy destroyed the life of my creator. His morals were strong, as strong as his resolve to take vengeance against the sickness that destroyed his life. His mind broke. I am the shard that will take vengeance, that will erase lycanthropy. Expunging it from my own flesh is beyond my ability, but even were it not, the sickness is good at destroying itself. This body could not execute my aims without the sickness." It voice was void of emotion, mechanical, as dead as the rest. The creature may well have seemed-wraithlike, save for the dread strength in those long, grotesque arms. What was worse was the speed with which their claws could remove life. A great deal of experience had been necessary for that comfort and alacrity with murder.
"Besides," it intoned. "I have already killed them, before." A brief flash of the fallen father, and crushed children, appeared in a puddle at their feet, run-off from a summer storm. A glimmer of a past that was a future here, a past that--outside of the dream--was very real. "And many others." Slowly, a progression of images shown through the water, like disjointed images from a projector, slowly at first, but becoming faster. Brutality, murder, impassive, uncaring, pointless killing. Countless bodies. Tiny reflections of those images began to show across the filmy surface of the monster's eyes.
"Our meeting will be a violent one," it warned, its voice a dry echo of someone living. Even in life, it had sounded so...a shard was all it was, a fragment of a whole, all the pieces for a killer, divorced from all passion and reason behind the killings. A perfect machine, with no off-switch. A demonstration in futility, a rage that could never be satisfied, given life of its own in the form of this perfect killer. Ironic, that the machine designed to carry out the creator's rage, should have none of its own. "Will you stand against me, regardless?"