Post by Roxas on Jan 15, 2013 19:29:57 GMT -5
Ten years from now...
Dust blows around the outskirts of Urbadelphia, as a single figure approached the city from an in-going road. They take long, slow and considerate steps, the steps of someone who has all the time in the world to make their move, and plans on using it. They appear relaxed, shoulders slouched and hands in pockets. The wind picks up the coattails of the large black overcoat that they're wearing, and sends it fluttering to their right. The coat is sealed from the neck to the navel with buckles and zips, and is adorned with a number of pockets and bandolier-like straps. The collar of the coat covers the lower half of their face, yet contrasts with striking blue eyes that stand out from spiked blonde hair. Given the general appearance and shape, the figure appears to be a male, and he casually regards the city he is approaching, hands still plunged in his pockets. There seems to be no objective in that stare, no means nor any ends, it is the one thousand yard stare spoken of by soldiers, the stare of a man who has seen people die, and watched entire towns burn on a whim. The stare of a man who looked at peace and saw an illusion, an elaborate ruse that was only their temporarily, before war starts again. Indeed, Urbadelphia had known peace for a while now, and had somewhat prospered in the successes of its Network, but long periods of peace lead to long periods of conflict, and one of those conflicts was approaching swiftly. Urbadelphia was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Footsteps.
The mans gaze shifts slightly to a group of figures approaching him from the city, emerging from the dust like protective guardians, openly wielding all kinds of make shift weapons, knives, pipes, chains. None of them stand out particularly, not does there seem to be any cohesion in their movement. The only thing allowing them to stand out is the fact that each one wore a yellow scarf somewhere on his or her body. The last dregs of Urbadelphia's past, the final unwashe dirt of trouble was stood before the man. They appeared cautious, fully well knowing what one man was sometimes capable of, but they also had an air of arrogance and superiority surrounding them. They all knew what they could do, and were far from scared of using the powers blessed to them by the demons below. They stopped a fair few feet from the mysterious man and the stand-off began. He regarded them as if they were merely apparitions, ghosts, spirits incapable of bringing any harm to him. Yet they stood tense, make-shift weapons at the ready to tear this stranger limb from limb. They stared at one another for half a minute before one of the scarves stepped forwards and spoke.
"Who the hell are you?"
The harsh tones of a man who grew up on the street and has lived a hard life. The stranger smiles behind his collar, and makes no move forwards to meet this apparent emissary, no words break from his lips as he simply stares at the man with that cold, intimidating gaze. He has him entranced, locked in place with the intensity radiating from his eyes alone. Silence reigns for another half a minute before the harbinger of speech before him speaks again, this time with more aggression and ardour in his voice.
"You deaf? I asked who the hell are you?!"
It almost has a ring of authority within it. The stranger simply shakes his head to the initial question and simply stands there still. His gaze remains lingered on the man stood before him, who know unsheathed a flick-knife from his pocket and starts to move forwards. By all means, if the stranger was an ordinary man caught in this situation, harassed by local thugs, he would display a flicker of worry. His eyes would track the knife with a reek of fear for his own life. His legs would tremble, his palms wod sweat and his lip may even quiver. But this man was cut from stone, and shifted not even a millimetre as his harasser approached him. It would only take a few more steps.
The thug stopped, he was just out of reach. He pointed the knife across at the stranger with a sneer on his face, one that exhumed confidence but acted as a mask for his inherent worry. He had not garnered the response he had wanted, and was now wary of approaching this fearless man, who stood without even a trace of worry, this man who held his gaze despite the tool capable of taking life in his hand. No ordinary person held his gaze whilst his knife was drawn and he knew it. The thug sniffed once, twice. No scent of demon anywhere nearby, no signs of crossing... This man was not a demon, or was damn good at hiding it. The air smells almost sweet, safe, almost serene in its scent. In a lapse of judgement, the yellow scarf looks over his shoulder at his comrades, planning on asking for their suggestion, they are a group after all. The stranger exploits that group mentality.
The second he sees that he is just out of sight of the thugs peripheral vision, he steps forwards. He takes two steps before his right hand reaches out and grasps at the thugs knife-hand wrist. He twists to the right, the thug was halfway through the process and lets out a sharp cry, dropping the knife to the floor. The others shout and start to move forwards, but the stranger works quickly, and everything feels oh so slow and leisured for him. His left hand comes up and out of his pocket, the right releasing the thugs wrist and reaching down towards the left side of his waist. His hands cross as th me left moves up and grasps the wrist in the same space, the other scarves still nowhere near close enough to help. His right hand delves into the unsealed lower half of his coat, the left wrenches the twisted wrist up and to the left, exposing the flank of his foe. His right hand returns from the depths of the jacket, clutching the black and white hilt of a sword. The curved katana is snowy white, with the inlay of a black dragon snaking up its blade. It glints brightly in the dim sunlight and feels comfortable in the strangers palm. Unlike the thugs knife, it is not a tool, not a weapon. The blade is his friend and companion, his lover and his family, it means more to him than his own life, and the affection appears to be returned with provided skill. The blade slides easily against the clothing of the thug, biting through it and into the flesh. The sword draws a red line from the thugs lower-right, just above the pelvis, up and across his torso and chest, ending near his left collarbone. When it has traced it's path, the sword flicks down, held out to the side by its wielder, pointing to the floor and almost devoid of blood. The stranger releases the thugs wrist, and he falls to the floor, dead.
The others pause. Only now that their friend is dead do they see the sword, and they seem wary. One of them, a female, appears distraught and rushes forwards. Her hands erupt into flames as she jumps towards the stranger. He calmly steps to his left and pulls the blade up, the black and white hilt passes the girls face first, then the handguard, then the blade traces its deadly image across her neck. She crumples to the floor next to her friend and leader, dead before she even knew what was happening. The sword calmly lowers down to its wielders side, the other stare horrified at the swiftness of their comrades deaths. The cool stare of those icy-blue eyes lingers on the remaining three, requesting one of them to step forwards and fight. They look at one another and exchange words that they think the stranger doesn't hear, and then all charge forwards together. He stands in the exact same spot, not moving, his blade doesn't quiver once as he observes his opponents bull rush tactics. One holds an iron pipe, another a chain and the last has hands that have suddenly protruded bone-like spikes. Indeed, this would be interesting.
The tip of his sword touches the ground and flicks up. The original thugs flick knife flies through the air, and catches the chain-wielding thug in the eye, sendin him sprawling to the floor in order to die a painful death. The other two approach and swing in time, the pipe coming for the right side of his head, the spikes for the left. He down low, the pipe collides with the spikes and both thugs spare a moment to exchange a look of confusion as to where there opponent has gone. He spins smoothly on the ground, as if it were made of ice, slicing through the ankles of the two gang members, who fall to the floor in cries of agony, having suddenly lost their footing, so to speak. The stranger stands up to his full height, stood in the same spot in which he had originally stopped when he moved forwards to attack. The engagement had lasted less than a minute, but was fulfilling. His sword slipped back into his overcoat, and his hands returned into his pockets as two more similarly dressed figures step forth. Both wear the same black overcoat, although with minor differences, such as more or less buckles. One of them, a woman, with long, dark blue hair, steps forwards next to the stranger and thrusts downwards with a sword, similar to his own, killing one of the thugs at his feet. The second, a giant of a man, looms from the dust and grime and steps casually onto the neck of the other. He is dark skinned, and a short, black Mohawk covers his head. Rather than staring at the city, they both gaze at the man in between them, who only now speaks. His voice is cool, calm and collected. He is eloquent and well spoken, almost like nobility, and his voice rings with authority.
"He asked me whom I was." He said, his gaze not moving from the city before him. More figures emerge from the darkness behind him, the group increasing in size as he speaks again.
"I am the Archangel Azazel. And it is my duty to cleanse this city of evil."
With that, he casually started walking forwards as before, as the others fell in line behind him.
Heaven's protectors had reached Urbadelphia.
U liek?
I had an urge to write something for the sake of writing, and came up with this. I reeeeaaaally enjoyed writing it, may have to work on it some more.
Oh, and the ten years from now thing was just to avoid having to explain its uncanon.
Dust blows around the outskirts of Urbadelphia, as a single figure approached the city from an in-going road. They take long, slow and considerate steps, the steps of someone who has all the time in the world to make their move, and plans on using it. They appear relaxed, shoulders slouched and hands in pockets. The wind picks up the coattails of the large black overcoat that they're wearing, and sends it fluttering to their right. The coat is sealed from the neck to the navel with buckles and zips, and is adorned with a number of pockets and bandolier-like straps. The collar of the coat covers the lower half of their face, yet contrasts with striking blue eyes that stand out from spiked blonde hair. Given the general appearance and shape, the figure appears to be a male, and he casually regards the city he is approaching, hands still plunged in his pockets. There seems to be no objective in that stare, no means nor any ends, it is the one thousand yard stare spoken of by soldiers, the stare of a man who has seen people die, and watched entire towns burn on a whim. The stare of a man who looked at peace and saw an illusion, an elaborate ruse that was only their temporarily, before war starts again. Indeed, Urbadelphia had known peace for a while now, and had somewhat prospered in the successes of its Network, but long periods of peace lead to long periods of conflict, and one of those conflicts was approaching swiftly. Urbadelphia was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Footsteps.
The mans gaze shifts slightly to a group of figures approaching him from the city, emerging from the dust like protective guardians, openly wielding all kinds of make shift weapons, knives, pipes, chains. None of them stand out particularly, not does there seem to be any cohesion in their movement. The only thing allowing them to stand out is the fact that each one wore a yellow scarf somewhere on his or her body. The last dregs of Urbadelphia's past, the final unwashe dirt of trouble was stood before the man. They appeared cautious, fully well knowing what one man was sometimes capable of, but they also had an air of arrogance and superiority surrounding them. They all knew what they could do, and were far from scared of using the powers blessed to them by the demons below. They stopped a fair few feet from the mysterious man and the stand-off began. He regarded them as if they were merely apparitions, ghosts, spirits incapable of bringing any harm to him. Yet they stood tense, make-shift weapons at the ready to tear this stranger limb from limb. They stared at one another for half a minute before one of the scarves stepped forwards and spoke.
"Who the hell are you?"
The harsh tones of a man who grew up on the street and has lived a hard life. The stranger smiles behind his collar, and makes no move forwards to meet this apparent emissary, no words break from his lips as he simply stares at the man with that cold, intimidating gaze. He has him entranced, locked in place with the intensity radiating from his eyes alone. Silence reigns for another half a minute before the harbinger of speech before him speaks again, this time with more aggression and ardour in his voice.
"You deaf? I asked who the hell are you?!"
It almost has a ring of authority within it. The stranger simply shakes his head to the initial question and simply stands there still. His gaze remains lingered on the man stood before him, who know unsheathed a flick-knife from his pocket and starts to move forwards. By all means, if the stranger was an ordinary man caught in this situation, harassed by local thugs, he would display a flicker of worry. His eyes would track the knife with a reek of fear for his own life. His legs would tremble, his palms wod sweat and his lip may even quiver. But this man was cut from stone, and shifted not even a millimetre as his harasser approached him. It would only take a few more steps.
The thug stopped, he was just out of reach. He pointed the knife across at the stranger with a sneer on his face, one that exhumed confidence but acted as a mask for his inherent worry. He had not garnered the response he had wanted, and was now wary of approaching this fearless man, who stood without even a trace of worry, this man who held his gaze despite the tool capable of taking life in his hand. No ordinary person held his gaze whilst his knife was drawn and he knew it. The thug sniffed once, twice. No scent of demon anywhere nearby, no signs of crossing... This man was not a demon, or was damn good at hiding it. The air smells almost sweet, safe, almost serene in its scent. In a lapse of judgement, the yellow scarf looks over his shoulder at his comrades, planning on asking for their suggestion, they are a group after all. The stranger exploits that group mentality.
The second he sees that he is just out of sight of the thugs peripheral vision, he steps forwards. He takes two steps before his right hand reaches out and grasps at the thugs knife-hand wrist. He twists to the right, the thug was halfway through the process and lets out a sharp cry, dropping the knife to the floor. The others shout and start to move forwards, but the stranger works quickly, and everything feels oh so slow and leisured for him. His left hand comes up and out of his pocket, the right releasing the thugs wrist and reaching down towards the left side of his waist. His hands cross as th me left moves up and grasps the wrist in the same space, the other scarves still nowhere near close enough to help. His right hand delves into the unsealed lower half of his coat, the left wrenches the twisted wrist up and to the left, exposing the flank of his foe. His right hand returns from the depths of the jacket, clutching the black and white hilt of a sword. The curved katana is snowy white, with the inlay of a black dragon snaking up its blade. It glints brightly in the dim sunlight and feels comfortable in the strangers palm. Unlike the thugs knife, it is not a tool, not a weapon. The blade is his friend and companion, his lover and his family, it means more to him than his own life, and the affection appears to be returned with provided skill. The blade slides easily against the clothing of the thug, biting through it and into the flesh. The sword draws a red line from the thugs lower-right, just above the pelvis, up and across his torso and chest, ending near his left collarbone. When it has traced it's path, the sword flicks down, held out to the side by its wielder, pointing to the floor and almost devoid of blood. The stranger releases the thugs wrist, and he falls to the floor, dead.
The others pause. Only now that their friend is dead do they see the sword, and they seem wary. One of them, a female, appears distraught and rushes forwards. Her hands erupt into flames as she jumps towards the stranger. He calmly steps to his left and pulls the blade up, the black and white hilt passes the girls face first, then the handguard, then the blade traces its deadly image across her neck. She crumples to the floor next to her friend and leader, dead before she even knew what was happening. The sword calmly lowers down to its wielders side, the other stare horrified at the swiftness of their comrades deaths. The cool stare of those icy-blue eyes lingers on the remaining three, requesting one of them to step forwards and fight. They look at one another and exchange words that they think the stranger doesn't hear, and then all charge forwards together. He stands in the exact same spot, not moving, his blade doesn't quiver once as he observes his opponents bull rush tactics. One holds an iron pipe, another a chain and the last has hands that have suddenly protruded bone-like spikes. Indeed, this would be interesting.
The tip of his sword touches the ground and flicks up. The original thugs flick knife flies through the air, and catches the chain-wielding thug in the eye, sendin him sprawling to the floor in order to die a painful death. The other two approach and swing in time, the pipe coming for the right side of his head, the spikes for the left. He down low, the pipe collides with the spikes and both thugs spare a moment to exchange a look of confusion as to where there opponent has gone. He spins smoothly on the ground, as if it were made of ice, slicing through the ankles of the two gang members, who fall to the floor in cries of agony, having suddenly lost their footing, so to speak. The stranger stands up to his full height, stood in the same spot in which he had originally stopped when he moved forwards to attack. The engagement had lasted less than a minute, but was fulfilling. His sword slipped back into his overcoat, and his hands returned into his pockets as two more similarly dressed figures step forth. Both wear the same black overcoat, although with minor differences, such as more or less buckles. One of them, a woman, with long, dark blue hair, steps forwards next to the stranger and thrusts downwards with a sword, similar to his own, killing one of the thugs at his feet. The second, a giant of a man, looms from the dust and grime and steps casually onto the neck of the other. He is dark skinned, and a short, black Mohawk covers his head. Rather than staring at the city, they both gaze at the man in between them, who only now speaks. His voice is cool, calm and collected. He is eloquent and well spoken, almost like nobility, and his voice rings with authority.
"He asked me whom I was." He said, his gaze not moving from the city before him. More figures emerge from the darkness behind him, the group increasing in size as he speaks again.
"I am the Archangel Azazel. And it is my duty to cleanse this city of evil."
With that, he casually started walking forwards as before, as the others fell in line behind him.
Heaven's protectors had reached Urbadelphia.
U liek?
I had an urge to write something for the sake of writing, and came up with this. I reeeeaaaally enjoyed writing it, may have to work on it some more.
Oh, and the ten years from now thing was just to avoid having to explain its uncanon.
