For a single moment, it looked like Time was actually going to be able to convince the insanity to subside.
Of course, in Time's perception, a single moment was a tremendous thing, something worth exploiting, something that held more information than just the status as it was at that moment. It was in that moment that she realized her downfall was going to be far more painful than the merciful execution she had planned for Shaen. Though Time was not gifted with future scribing, or anything so useful, the way time itself was wrapped around her center allowed her to sense outcomes in the crudest sense.
As she was crouching on the edge of the towering skyscraper, peering over the ledge to see if Shaen would manage to stop her fall before it wrecked this body, she knew it was hopeless.
But Time was a super heroine, and hopelessness was not an excuse to give up. Fingers wrapped around the ledge for milliseconds, she understood what she would have to do to force Shaen into using some of the energy that the other woman seemed to force herself to reserve. Time winced, white hair blowing into her face, bleached that way by time's flow through her regrettably human body. Just like the Misshapen, she was marked for her interference with the way things should be. Unlike the Misshapen, the latex-attired vixen seemed to cognate at super speed due to the abnormal flow of time around her.
Nanoseconds had passed as minutes as she contemplated the fact that what she was about to do was as close to suicide as one could get without actually slicing a blade from wrist to elbow. Pressing her fingers against her eyes ever so gently, she rocked forward, pushing time around her to slow further.
Her descent felt incredible, and terrifying, and she could not deny that it was everything and more than she actually had dreamed. Time was flying down the face of the building, though time itself moved so slowly that she had perfect control of her body. Her sneakers, seemingly out of place with her flashy costume, were targeted for the back of Shaen's head as she rose from the dent in the ground. It would not kill the demon, but it would cause her to plunge into her reserves to shield herself, or at least, Time thought so. No one really knew that much about the torturer of the city.
No matter what she did from here on out, she was going to fail. At least this way, she would make a ripple before time itself stole her from the reality she had so clung to with such frailty.
12.22.2007
12.21.2007
2.0: Unlike Time
Time moves swiftly when she is dead. It creeps when she lives sometimes, and it has crept on for months now. It is divided incredibly unevenly between three physical arenas: the lair, which occupies her least of all now, the Council Room, and the Arena, where the Misshapen have gathered and train and learn from her. The Arena is a former military base that Shaen had claimed before the City had been re-rebuilt. Those had been some rather glorious days, according to her now vivid recollections.
While time creeps in her living days, it is full of wonders and surprises, delightful memories and trips to destroy those that ought to have been destroyed the last time she had been skating this side of mortality.
Though, on the subject of those she ought to have already destroyed, Ritophe is strangely absent still...
that doesn't matter. The Council, in the time since Chael's last visit, has once more been overthrown. The Council is always being overthrown and made up differently. It is a little absurd sometimes, but Shaen doesn't mind. The last Elder died without any real fanfare, despite it being a proper assassination and all. Another had stepped up, and in the time since then, very little of the Council that Chael had spoken to over a year ago had anything to do with those that sat at the table now, listening to Shaen's status report.
Nodding complacently as she detailed the derailment of the last wave of Vigilante Justice Force attacks, the Scribe effortlessly typed away on his key-knuckles in shorthand, monitoring on his lenses the program that modified the shorthand to proper sentences. Tempted to let his mind wander down the path of natural language processing history, it took all of his efforts to focus on the failings of the VJF. Of course, there was some mirth at the discussion of the fall of the one who had called herself Time.
There had been plenty of quips at the petty thing's choice of pseudonym at previous Council meetings. When she had finally been crushed underneath Shaen's 'heel 'o death' as they'd taken to calling it with the number of 'heroes' they had disposed of, the jokes had erupted anew. The newspapers had taken a different approach to the situation, though the reporter had evidently had some Council-influence. The article about the last death due to the Council had been titled "Time Stopped by Woman," a rather pitiful attempt to play on the old adage "Time stops for no man." It had the right number of syllables. Shaen was relatively certain that that had been the purpose of the woman's choice of title anyway.
While time creeps in her living days, it is full of wonders and surprises, delightful memories and trips to destroy those that ought to have been destroyed the last time she had been skating this side of mortality.
Though, on the subject of those she ought to have already destroyed, Ritophe is strangely absent still...
that doesn't matter. The Council, in the time since Chael's last visit, has once more been overthrown. The Council is always being overthrown and made up differently. It is a little absurd sometimes, but Shaen doesn't mind. The last Elder died without any real fanfare, despite it being a proper assassination and all. Another had stepped up, and in the time since then, very little of the Council that Chael had spoken to over a year ago had anything to do with those that sat at the table now, listening to Shaen's status report.
Nodding complacently as she detailed the derailment of the last wave of Vigilante Justice Force attacks, the Scribe effortlessly typed away on his key-knuckles in shorthand, monitoring on his lenses the program that modified the shorthand to proper sentences. Tempted to let his mind wander down the path of natural language processing history, it took all of his efforts to focus on the failings of the VJF. Of course, there was some mirth at the discussion of the fall of the one who had called herself Time.
There had been plenty of quips at the petty thing's choice of pseudonym at previous Council meetings. When she had finally been crushed underneath Shaen's 'heel 'o death' as they'd taken to calling it with the number of 'heroes' they had disposed of, the jokes had erupted anew. The newspapers had taken a different approach to the situation, though the reporter had evidently had some Council-influence. The article about the last death due to the Council had been titled "Time Stopped by Woman," a rather pitiful attempt to play on the old adage "Time stops for no man." It had the right number of syllables. Shaen was relatively certain that that had been the purpose of the woman's choice of title anyway.
Break!
Sorry all, I'm sort of wonky right now as far as time to spend writing. I expect normal daily updates to resume with school(January Third). This is not to say I won't be updating in the meantime, just that it will likely be at the most random of times and not necessarily "daily". Sorry again...I didn't expect to be pulling this out of my hat, but the irregularity of my schedule right now is really killing me. -_-
12.19.2007
0.4: Between the Between
So I didn't mention that Chapter 1 concluded with 1.7...because I didn't realize it until just now. Silly me. But since chapter one is concluded(despite the numbering, it was over ten segments long, believe it or not. ^~) I'm going to side-story tonight since I almost forgot to write again and haven't wrapped my head around Chapter 2. So why all the idle chat? I just thought you might like to know that chapter one was completed.
There are those who really haven't gotten used to him after all of this time. Professor or not, there was still something about the lanky man with his strangely colored skin and hair, and those soul-baring eyes that ward many off. It is not his fault, and he does little to encourage the space that surrounds him at each meal. It wears on him sometimes, and his students see it in the days that he snaps, using a student as an example, regardless of the established rules. His wiry fingers snap and crackle with energy until it is resolved. But most of the time, Theo still forgets to care about his solitude.
For so many years, it is all he has known. Even when he was a student at this institution, he struggled to make loose associates friends. The most emotional relationship he had had been utterly volatile. Of course, that had mostly been on the part of the girl...she had found him repulsive and an altogether unsuitable suitor for her best friend. Theo never blames her for this attitude...though stealing her first kiss had been cruel of him, he admits to himself as the thought found him. But he had never intended to hold her captive to the marriage arranged by their parents. In reality, it is still difficult for the man to care about someone, or even imagine caring about an individual in a classically romantic light.
The closest had been a friend whose interest in him had been a matter of mutual respect, and there was nothing but friendship between them now. Hi heart aches for her as he dotes on her sometimes, sending her odd presents that come through the school in various ways. In some ways, she is the greatest love of his life, though that love is so restricted that he hardly recognizes it as such. It eats at him beneath the surface, but he fails to notice, possibly because his world would crumble if he ever thought about it too hard. The Professor settles within him as the student that lives within him still voices its concerns.
There are too few that call him Theo. In his mind, that is the only name he has, though always, he introduces himself as Theodore Nott. The students call him Professor Nott, of course. They could hardly be expected to call him anything else. The disrespect would cost them, if only because he had professionalism to maintain. The other professors...they avoid him still. There are few people on the staff that he would call friend, even now. Yes, they nod in the halls. The other alum from his group acknowledge him with more than that. But mostly, they gossip amongst themselves of their year mates, people who had likely tormented him in his youth. It is frustrating for him, to be continue the self-renewing cycle of loneliness, but he can't help it anymore.
There are those who really haven't gotten used to him after all of this time. Professor or not, there was still something about the lanky man with his strangely colored skin and hair, and those soul-baring eyes that ward many off. It is not his fault, and he does little to encourage the space that surrounds him at each meal. It wears on him sometimes, and his students see it in the days that he snaps, using a student as an example, regardless of the established rules. His wiry fingers snap and crackle with energy until it is resolved. But most of the time, Theo still forgets to care about his solitude.
For so many years, it is all he has known. Even when he was a student at this institution, he struggled to make loose associates friends. The most emotional relationship he had had been utterly volatile. Of course, that had mostly been on the part of the girl...she had found him repulsive and an altogether unsuitable suitor for her best friend. Theo never blames her for this attitude...though stealing her first kiss had been cruel of him, he admits to himself as the thought found him. But he had never intended to hold her captive to the marriage arranged by their parents. In reality, it is still difficult for the man to care about someone, or even imagine caring about an individual in a classically romantic light.
The closest had been a friend whose interest in him had been a matter of mutual respect, and there was nothing but friendship between them now. Hi heart aches for her as he dotes on her sometimes, sending her odd presents that come through the school in various ways. In some ways, she is the greatest love of his life, though that love is so restricted that he hardly recognizes it as such. It eats at him beneath the surface, but he fails to notice, possibly because his world would crumble if he ever thought about it too hard. The Professor settles within him as the student that lives within him still voices its concerns.
There are too few that call him Theo. In his mind, that is the only name he has, though always, he introduces himself as Theodore Nott. The students call him Professor Nott, of course. They could hardly be expected to call him anything else. The disrespect would cost them, if only because he had professionalism to maintain. The other professors...they avoid him still. There are few people on the staff that he would call friend, even now. Yes, they nod in the halls. The other alum from his group acknowledge him with more than that. But mostly, they gossip amongst themselves of their year mates, people who had likely tormented him in his youth. It is frustrating for him, to be continue the self-renewing cycle of loneliness, but he can't help it anymore.
12.18.2007
1.7 : The Message
Across the City, across the world, there was a shiver that originated at the spot where Shaen stood. Every being felt it, progressively moving further from the source until every single creature that still roamed the mangled Earth had felt it. It was a very limited number of those creatures that knew that the shiver contained a message, and even more limited was the number still willing to respond to the message. There were many who felt that the time had come to forsake the one that had forsaken them so many times over the years.
Silver crest feathers, all of them. Vanity might have a few of them casting the fashionable colors of youth over their feathers, but it did not disguise their age. True, to any human, they all looked like children with their small forms and ageless skin. But their kin knew better; a Misshapen's feathers were the true tell of age. Eventually, no matter how well kept or well fed one managed to keep one's self, the Misshapen's feathers would silver. Many of these remembered what it was like to serve under Her when she was at the peak of her powers. Those times of true glory still lived in those, which only served to fill them with terrible scorn that so often after that peak had she abandoned them.
Without the madness that drove her, without the complexity of her mind to grow off of, Misshapen were only the dregs of society. Their abilities dwindled, with the exception of her Chosen. And with the Chosen tiring of all things, it seemed, they had lost faith. Some silver crest feathers would answer the call, but most would not. This time, they would not face the disappointment, but remain in their own cities, their own tribes, far away from the City.
But then, there were the youth. And they were excited.
They had never felt the Call before. The last Call had been an entire generation before them...after all, the last time she had been about, she had been active for quite some time and thus, her servants were always aware of her awareness, as it was. So as the shiver rippled through the youth, they could not fathom anything but glory in responding to the Call. And as they dropped their current plans and began to make arrangements if they weren't already in the City, they dreamed of Honor. Those that felt the weariness of the medium for the Message knew there was something even greater than the plight of their parents in this Call.
Those still living with their parents found little resistance. Despite their own irritation with the woman, they knew the Call could not be explained away. The first time they had been Called, their elders had attempted to persuade them that it really wasn't the best of ideas and it hadn't worked then either. Sighing, the generation that had settled into a life of shadows, disillusioned by promises broken, sat by as their children, full of an ideal they no longer sympathized with, left.
As the youth traveled, they obeyed the other order embedded in the call. Bring one. Just one more, that was all that was asked. One to be purified, to be bettered, to be one of them. It did not matter the age, just that the one was willing. There would be time later to gather the unwilling, but her powers would need to be far greater for that. So for now, the youth seduced, persuaded and smiled their way into the hearts of the youth of the human generation who had never been subject to the Call before either. The youth of the Misshapen were finding the City quickly and understood why.
Their Goddess has returned to their people, and they were ready and willing to serve Shaen, Mistress of the Misshapen.
Silver crest feathers, all of them. Vanity might have a few of them casting the fashionable colors of youth over their feathers, but it did not disguise their age. True, to any human, they all looked like children with their small forms and ageless skin. But their kin knew better; a Misshapen's feathers were the true tell of age. Eventually, no matter how well kept or well fed one managed to keep one's self, the Misshapen's feathers would silver. Many of these remembered what it was like to serve under Her when she was at the peak of her powers. Those times of true glory still lived in those, which only served to fill them with terrible scorn that so often after that peak had she abandoned them.
Without the madness that drove her, without the complexity of her mind to grow off of, Misshapen were only the dregs of society. Their abilities dwindled, with the exception of her Chosen. And with the Chosen tiring of all things, it seemed, they had lost faith. Some silver crest feathers would answer the call, but most would not. This time, they would not face the disappointment, but remain in their own cities, their own tribes, far away from the City.
But then, there were the youth. And they were excited.
They had never felt the Call before. The last Call had been an entire generation before them...after all, the last time she had been about, she had been active for quite some time and thus, her servants were always aware of her awareness, as it was. So as the shiver rippled through the youth, they could not fathom anything but glory in responding to the Call. And as they dropped their current plans and began to make arrangements if they weren't already in the City, they dreamed of Honor. Those that felt the weariness of the medium for the Message knew there was something even greater than the plight of their parents in this Call.
Those still living with their parents found little resistance. Despite their own irritation with the woman, they knew the Call could not be explained away. The first time they had been Called, their elders had attempted to persuade them that it really wasn't the best of ideas and it hadn't worked then either. Sighing, the generation that had settled into a life of shadows, disillusioned by promises broken, sat by as their children, full of an ideal they no longer sympathized with, left.
As the youth traveled, they obeyed the other order embedded in the call. Bring one. Just one more, that was all that was asked. One to be purified, to be bettered, to be one of them. It did not matter the age, just that the one was willing. There would be time later to gather the unwilling, but her powers would need to be far greater for that. So for now, the youth seduced, persuaded and smiled their way into the hearts of the youth of the human generation who had never been subject to the Call before either. The youth of the Misshapen were finding the City quickly and understood why.
Their Goddess has returned to their people, and they were ready and willing to serve Shaen, Mistress of the Misshapen.
12.17.2007
1.6 : Mockery
It wasn't just the agitation with Chael's selective reveals that had driven Shaen past the moment of receptivity. The Misshapen had not protected his thoughts as well as he had thought, presuming that her failure of shields meant total failure of control. It was good to know that she had not lost her sense for people. Chael had a tendency to get rather arrogant in her absences...but that thought was almost too much. She had chosen him, not for any great loyalty, but more for his broadcasting ability. Now, again, she saw the fault in this, the deja vu of the situation giving her reason to believe that it wasn't the first time she had questioned her choice in Chael.
Staring at the Misshapen as the whirlwind of memories entered into her mental catalogs, transferring the files neatly into the binders that she had prepared while ripping the feather out of his skull. The debilitating pain he suffered from now was by design...after all, that she needed to aggressively persuade him at all spoke plenty of why the memory would have to be extracted by force. Her features clearly showed her disappointment as she reviewed the sections that he had highlighted, growling at each encounter with the Council.
Scorn fell from her lips, the temptation to dismiss him matching the force of her anger as she elaborated upon all the ways that he had been a poor choice in the first place. Her tirade lasted the entirety of his immobilization, as if by design as well, and ended with her dismissing the notion of punishment. There were no others with his ability, and though she could contact any Misshapen within the City, it was a costly process for her, while for him, it was something simple. If she had been thinking ahead at the time, she would've never only given the ability to one of them.
As the silver-crested male sat himself, she watched from the standing position she hardly recalled moving into. So absorbed in her anger, the minutes had passed without her noticing. "I am sorry Mistress. I will not think such thoughts again." The words were, of course, unnecessary. It was a lie, but it was one that placated her none the less. If he admitted to his failure, that was all that mattered. Composing the message for broadcast, the Mistress of the Misshapen began to dictate, pressing her fingers onto her knuckles absently.
When she had completed, Chael began the dance of sending, the words still fresh in the air around them. Between her vocalization of the call and the tapping across her fingers, they were easy enough to latch onto that this particular sending would take seconds rather than minutes. The steps were quiet on the luxurious wooden floor, but the words shifting from their normal form into the traveling form made the sound of warmth. It was the sound of sunlight, the whispers of the snow melting, the crush of autumn's remainder; the utterances became more than that and latched onto the claws of the creature, winding around them as they were spun.
The web of sound was inaudible to Shaen, to all humans. But to Chael it was a delicate thing that was crafted into perfection and sent along with winds that only his sibs would feel and hear. On the zephyr of emotions it would travel until all had heard and understood.
Mistress was back. It was Time.
Staring at the Misshapen as the whirlwind of memories entered into her mental catalogs, transferring the files neatly into the binders that she had prepared while ripping the feather out of his skull. The debilitating pain he suffered from now was by design...after all, that she needed to aggressively persuade him at all spoke plenty of why the memory would have to be extracted by force. Her features clearly showed her disappointment as she reviewed the sections that he had highlighted, growling at each encounter with the Council.
Scorn fell from her lips, the temptation to dismiss him matching the force of her anger as she elaborated upon all the ways that he had been a poor choice in the first place. Her tirade lasted the entirety of his immobilization, as if by design as well, and ended with her dismissing the notion of punishment. There were no others with his ability, and though she could contact any Misshapen within the City, it was a costly process for her, while for him, it was something simple. If she had been thinking ahead at the time, she would've never only given the ability to one of them.
As the silver-crested male sat himself, she watched from the standing position she hardly recalled moving into. So absorbed in her anger, the minutes had passed without her noticing. "I am sorry Mistress. I will not think such thoughts again." The words were, of course, unnecessary. It was a lie, but it was one that placated her none the less. If he admitted to his failure, that was all that mattered. Composing the message for broadcast, the Mistress of the Misshapen began to dictate, pressing her fingers onto her knuckles absently.
When she had completed, Chael began the dance of sending, the words still fresh in the air around them. Between her vocalization of the call and the tapping across her fingers, they were easy enough to latch onto that this particular sending would take seconds rather than minutes. The steps were quiet on the luxurious wooden floor, but the words shifting from their normal form into the traveling form made the sound of warmth. It was the sound of sunlight, the whispers of the snow melting, the crush of autumn's remainder; the utterances became more than that and latched onto the claws of the creature, winding around them as they were spun.
The web of sound was inaudible to Shaen, to all humans. But to Chael it was a delicate thing that was crafted into perfection and sent along with winds that only his sibs would feel and hear. On the zephyr of emotions it would travel until all had heard and understood.
Mistress was back. It was Time.
12.16.2007
1.5.4 : Return of the Acid
Though there are more memories that may have conveyed the next few months more quickly, the emotions are too much for me. Sharing them with my Mistress so intimately is almost unbearable while her shielding is still so child-like. All emotions are born open to me, and I can not bare another moment like that. Though I feel blessed that I am the one she Chose as her most trusted, the creature before my now is not the Mistress who did the Choosing. It will be a matter of time before my Mistress is herself again, and though my vow to her remains, for the time, it is I who must continue to plan for the future of my people.
Just as I have when she has left before. Just as I will when she leaves once more. It will then be, once more, as if she was never my Mistress at all.
I shake the thought loose, discarding the folders of memory that I had been thumbing through and turn to speak to her with words once more. I start, but she stops me, the look on her face paralyzing as the serpent's venom. I am trapped in the icy tombs that seem to be burning with rage as her fingers wrap themselves neatly around the feather at the very base of my neck. I know what is coming and can do nothing but prepare myself for the pain.
The force wrenches my head backwards, and I fall back onto the couch, the agony unbelievable. I can not move, can not talk to finish the report, can not do anything but watch as she calls forth her true nature. My feather, hovering just at the tips of her fingers, is radiating its inner light. My inner light. The tides of her emotions have poisoned her patience; it is clear to me, even now. My Mistress never was one to accept that I censor my reviews for her own good. This is not the first time I have been thankful that that particular feather grows back with a speed that is unmatched by its fellows.
While she extracts the experiences of the feather...my experiences, I let myself rest. It is the least I can allow myself after all of that exposition to be ruined instantaneously by her impatience.
Just as I have when she has left before. Just as I will when she leaves once more. It will then be, once more, as if she was never my Mistress at all.
I shake the thought loose, discarding the folders of memory that I had been thumbing through and turn to speak to her with words once more. I start, but she stops me, the look on her face paralyzing as the serpent's venom. I am trapped in the icy tombs that seem to be burning with rage as her fingers wrap themselves neatly around the feather at the very base of my neck. I know what is coming and can do nothing but prepare myself for the pain.
The force wrenches my head backwards, and I fall back onto the couch, the agony unbelievable. I can not move, can not talk to finish the report, can not do anything but watch as she calls forth her true nature. My feather, hovering just at the tips of her fingers, is radiating its inner light. My inner light. The tides of her emotions have poisoned her patience; it is clear to me, even now. My Mistress never was one to accept that I censor my reviews for her own good. This is not the first time I have been thankful that that particular feather grows back with a speed that is unmatched by its fellows.
While she extracts the experiences of the feather...my experiences, I let myself rest. It is the least I can allow myself after all of that exposition to be ruined instantaneously by her impatience.
Crest of Silver
Chael, as I managed to draw him. There was more to the picture, but I cropped it in frustration of dislike. Just really wanted to draw his plumage...at some point, the significance of the arrangement of his upper four earrings will be explained. Check back later for the thrilling conclusion to 1.5. Unless I wrap that post up and realize I'm not done, in which case, you're merely tuning in for...more 1.5? Something like that.
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