Post by Scathe on Mar 20, 2016 12:33:34 GMT -5
February 17th, 2016
~In the dead of night, a hulking brute of a man strode soundlessly along a run-down avenue, not unlike so many other unremarkable neighborhoods in the American Midwest. Directed by senses keener than those possessed by ordinary people, the man stopped outside a house that was slightly more ramshackle than the rest. An air of neglect and abandonment hung about the edge of the property, and a minor probing further revealed it had been the site of a mass suicide a few years ago. Intrigued, the man who called himself Scathe approached the house, and laid a hand against the splintering door. Ah, unlike so many other remarkable neighborhoods in the American Midwest, this one had been built on a site of ancient power. Something not of this world.
As he entered the decrepit house, he cast his senses through the backwash of power emanating from below him. Back, beyond the family of four who had killed themselves in unison. As he strode deeper into the house, so too did his mind delve deeper into the mystery of the power source that called out to him. To his inner eye, the walls of the structure fell away, as did all the trappings of modern "civilization" in the surrounding land. Gone was the infrastructure of a Midwestern American city, replaced with broad, open plains. This site had been the border between the territories ruled by the children of Dhegihan, Pawnee, and Chiwere; the tainted area had been decreed a place of dark magic by the shamans of the tribes, and watch posts had been set up to ward the unwary away.
Deeper. His physical senses detected the faint odor of stale sweat, the muffled rustling of dirty clothing making furtive movements. He was not alone in the house, but Scathe had no attention to spare for the here and now. Further back did his mind race, and he bore witness to the early days of the Dhegihan, saw their shaman approach the glowing pole, its crystalline facets carved with strange symbols. Heard the frightened cries of the onlookers as a searing bolt of crimson spat out from the totem and engulfed the shaman. A blinding flash. When vision returned, a pile of ash and a few charred bits of bone were all that remained of the shaman. Scathe's body approached the door leading down into the basement, his mind approached the truth of the crystal spur's origin. Just a little deeper.
Of its own accord, the Darkitecht's hand reached for the basement door, and the top hinge pulled free from rotted framework as he pushed inward. He descended into the dwelling's black bowel and stepped surely across the concrete floor, despite the complete absence of light. Scathe came to a stop directly above where the artefact lay buried, and looked further back. As he came to understand the formation of the intricate lattice deep below him, he felt it come awake, felt it probe at him as well. The otherwordly construct attempted to supplant his will and he resisted. The Darkitecht brought his full power to bear and attempted a counterstroke of his own, though the other consciousness resisted as well. For a moment that lasted an eternity they engaged in silent battle, neither able to gain more than a fraction of advantage over the other.
At a stalemate, both entities drew apart to collect themselves. The basement door pulled free from the remaining hinge, and clattered down the stairs. At the head of the stairway stood a shabby vagrant, the sour stench of his body odor preceding him by a fair distance. Scathe quickly sought to enthrall the pathetic creature; its meager life force would add to his power. A mere drop in an ocean, but every little bit helps. Simultaneously, the crystal construct invaded the man's mind with the same intent. Through the buffer of the wastrel's drug-addled mind communication made possible; understanding was reached. Both sides ceased their hostilities as information crossed back and forth, and a precarious bargain was struck. The vagrant went limp as his faculties were overwhelmed, and his body tumbled to a heap at the foot of the stairs.
As the transient died, the mental connection was broken. It no longer mattered; he had lived long enough for Scathe to learn what he needed to. The Darkitecht stood over the lifeless form, and felt a small measure of regret. Not that the man had died, but rather that now Scathe would have to do the digging himself. "Terry?" Called a cautious, feminine voice from upstairs. Excellent, it seemed there would be no need to sully his hands with physical labor. The deep blackness clung to his shoulders as Scathe arose from the basement, seemed to grow throughout the battered abode as he took control of the filthy woman's mind. In moments he sent her out to search sheds in the neighborhood to procure tools for the impending excavation. He would find hands to work them, the more the better. There was quite a bit of work to be done.
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February 22nd, 2016
~Under a midday sun, a large, leather-clad man strode soundlessly through thick brush and swampy terrain, the clinging flora presenting him little obstacle. Following senses not possessed by ordinary men, Scathe's path was straight and true as an arrow's. Though unsure what exactly, he knew there was something he needed at the end of the invisible line he trod. The Darkitecht broke through the treeline, and came to the edge of a wider bog. Directly opposite him, on the other shore, stood a life-sized statue of Jesus Christ with arms spread wide, though the statue was poorly maintained and falling apart. The taste of the fetid air told him he was in the bayous of Louisiana, though the information was irrelevant to him. More relevant were the traces of aura lingering about the area; someone powerful indeed had been here recently, and left something behind.
Scathe stepped into the water, and yet did not. The Darkitecht marched inexorably forward, and sank beneath the swamp's surface without even a ripple. The soft mud, so quick to suck in an unwary foot, provided solid footing for Scathe as he pressed forward, intent on where his target lay at the bottom of the bog. The rays of the sun couldn't penetrate this far through the murky waters, but the lack of light caused as little impediment as the thick underbrush had. There; floating just above the swamp floor was a large shaped wrapped in cloth, and anchored with stone and brick. Scathe reached out toward his prize, and the bindings fell away, revealing a bloated corpse, the flesh waterlogged and only beginning to rot. A prickle along his spine told the Darkitecht he was being watched, the tingle of the energy viewing him felt familiar.
Mildly amused, Scathe turned his head, his gaze searching. For the barest of moments, he thought he saw a feminine form floating a few feet away, but the figure and feeling vanished as completely as if they had never been. No matter; Scathe had what he had come for. Though there was no light down here, the darkness seemed to somehow grow blacker as Scathe gathered his power. With one hand gripped tightly around the throat of the cadaver, the Darkitecht stepped from the bottom of the swamp, to the darkened basement of the house he had appropriated. The excavation was proceeding well; the small army of vagrants and addicts he had collected worked themselves to the point of exhaustion at his command, and rested only as long as necessary. Even still, progress was too slow; for both his liking, and the still-buried crystal construct's.
The Darkitecht released his grip, and the sodden corpse fell to the hard packed dirt with an audible splat. Scathe dropped down in a graceless squat, and peered intently into the milky white orbs that had once been eyeballs. A minor exertion of his abilities and the orbs changed from milky white, to black as pitch. Though no longer among the living, the man's essence was still trapped within, as was usually the case with victims of violent murder; when unprepared for death, the consciousness generally clung to the life it had known. A useful trait among humans, particularly when they possessed information that they were unwilling to part with. The consciousness may remain, but very little of the willpower did. A flood of knowledge assaulted Scathe's mind as he took in every minute detail of the private investigator's life.
Memories of a voice and name came to him, and the Darkitecht came as close as he ever did to smiling. He dug deeper through the man's memories of Bonnie Blue, searching for nuggets of gold in the dross of the man's base fantasies and recollections. Interestingly, there were no accurate visual representations of Bonnie in the man's mind, only half-formed, blurry images. His mildly amused expression, unseen though it was, faded from his face as he found memories of another familiar voice and face, though these had come after the time of death. Setting aside thoughts of Bonnie for now, Scathe sifted through what the investigator had learned of Johnny Rabid, and his slightly pleased expression returned for a few moments. It vanished again when all memories of Rabid, as well as the final moments of the man's life, crumbled like dust and were swept away from his mind's eye.
Frustrated, Scathe very nearly crushed the investigator's skull with the sheer weight of his rage. The Darkitecht caught himself just shy of doing so as an extraneous thought took hold. Surely, if precautions had been taken to safeguard the man's mind beyond death, there was something in there worth knowing. And if he were unable to retrieve them from a corpse... Well. Resurrections had never been the Darkitecht's forte. Quite the opposite, in fact. But restoring vitality to the bloated mass of rotting flesh could serve multiple purposes. His train of thought was derailed by an insistent questioning from the construct's consciousness. A buffer between them was no longer necessary, though sometimes Scathe would prefer that it was. As hard as he pushed the thralls, the crystal would have him work them to death, and that simply would not do.
He withdrew from the tattered mess that remained of the cadaver's mindscape, and turned his awareness toward the construct below. Scathe wearily began the litany of answers to the string of questions - always the same - the crystal consciousness bombarded him with. He no longer needed his full attention to do so, and began to plan how to amuse himself in the coming week.
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March 3rd, 2016
~In the fading twilight, the Darkitecht stood just inside the front door of the dilapidated dwelling, the nerve endings along his arms buzzing with the electricity of anticipation. His senses - vastly superior to those of the masses - detected the approach of the child he had marked. A larger mass of energy approached as well; it seemed the girl had been able to do as instructed. Small wonder, considering the motivation he had given her. The door creaked inward, and a little girl of about eleven years skipped into the dim living room, stopped, and spun about to face the door. "It's okay, mister," she said in a saccharine, simpering voice, "I told you, my mommy won't be home until late." Hesitantly, a short man of slight build, with thinning blond hair entered the house as well, the cautious expression on his bespectacled face giving way to a lascivious grin as he did so.
Scathe allowed his glamour to drop, and both child and adult jumped as he seemingly appeared from nowhere. Scathe struck with enough speed to shame a viper, his large hand encircling the pervert's throat in an iron grip. His eyes bulging, the paedophile pounded futilely at the Darkitecht's wrist, trying to loosen his hold. The strength of his resistance faded with his awareness, and Scathe released him after ensuring he was indeed unconscious. The little girl began quake and sob quietly, believing she had just witnessed a murder. "Hush, child." Scathe demanded in his oddly accented bass, "He yet lives, though you know he does not deserve to. You have performed admirably in this task, and so you shall receive what was promised." The Darkitecht reached into the pocket of his leather trench coat, and tossed a pair of keys on a ring to the child.
"Your brother is in the basement of the church across the street. I advise you to hurry, as he only has until the sun is fully set." The crying child gasped in horror, and bolted back out the door. A flicker of amusement crossed Scathe's face, and he allowed himself a single bark of laughter. He could have acquired a sacrifice far more easily himself, but there was a delicious irony in using the cruelties he inflicted to mete out his particularly twisted brand of justice. The Darkitecht reached down and took hold of the man's foot, then began to drag him toward the basement stairs. The man roused at the jolt of dropping down the first step, and as he gathered his wits he began to plead for his life. "Look, man, I-I wasn't gonna do anything, I swear! Ju-just let me g-go, and I'll give you anything you want! I have money; I can pay you!"
Scathe paid as little attention to the man's pleas as he would the buzzing of a gnat, and continued his implacable descent. At the foot of the stair, the Darkitecht flung his still-gibbering captive across what remained of the original floor. The impact of his rough landing drove the wind from the pervert's lungs, providing a break in prattling. Once he laid eyes on the bloated and rotting corpse he had landed beside, though, the man's ineffectual bargaining began anew. Scathe continued to ignore the semi-coherent words tumbling from the man's lips, and reached into his coat pocket once more. A simple piece of sidewalk chalk was produced, with which the Darkitech began to draw arcane runes and symbols in a patterned sequence, forming a wide circle around the two people laying on the floor, one living and one dead.
Correctly sensing his approaching death, the pervert scrambled to his feet and bolted past Scathe as the Darkitecht closed the circle. Up the stairs he ran, and back along the short hall. A scream leapt from his throat as Scathe stepped out of the closet to the side of the front door, barring his path. The paedophile spun about and raced toward the back of the house, seeking the rear exit. He tore through the kitchen and ripped the back door open, only to shriek again when he found himself once more face to face with the Darkitecht. Again Scathe struck with inhuman speed, and caught the man by the throat. In the space between two heartbeats they were back in the basement, without crossing the intervening space. Scathe reached out his free hand, and the sodden corpse of Bonnie Blue's private investigator rose into his waiting grasp.
The Darkitecht began to speak an incantation in a sonorous voice, the language one not heard by human ears in centuries. The chalk symbols begans to hiss and emit thin tendrils of bluish smoke, then burst into flame; a pale, sickly yellow-green shot through with flecks of black. The volume of Scathe's recondite recitation rose, as did the flames surrounding the trio. Slowly at first, the life force of the paedophile began to seep out, and Scathe directed the flow of energy into the corpse held tightly in his other hand. The pervert began to age rapidly as his remaining years were drained away, and transferred to a different vessel. Simultaneously, the waterlogged flesh of the bloated cadaver began to rejuvenate as the Darkitecht's dark magick breathed new life into it.
In moments the ritual was complete, and the sickly flames winked out; leaving blackened symbols permanently etched in the concrete. In one hand, Scathe held the dessicated corpse of the man who had entered the house less than half an hour ago, and in the other was the gasping, shivering form of a man who had been dead for nearly two weeks. The Darkitecht released the renascent investigator, and the man's knees gave out on him. Scathe released the corpse as well, which fell to dust as it hit the floor; already forgotten. At his feet, the investigator gathered himself enough to push himself into a kneel, and looked up at Scathe. "Who--" he began, only to be cut off by Scathe. "I ask the questions. All you need know about who I am, is that I am the one who restored your life."
The Darkitecht roughly pulled the investigator to his feet, and locked eyes with him; Scathe's malicious gaze penetrating deep into the man's soul. "If you wish to make use of this gift I have given you, you would do well to tell me everything you have learned about Johnny Rabid. Fail to comply, and I can just as easily put you back where I found you, though I will not do you the courtesy of killing you first." The investigator swallowed audibly, quickly weighed his options, and said the only thing that made sense to him. "What do you want to know?" He asked in a tremulous voice. "As I said," Scathe replied, "Everything."
