The Harlequin

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Vichante: Alive. Anything else is a bonus. Shalistrae: The idea is to be slightly more than alive. Otherwise that was quite a bit of work for nothing. [I]His eyes focused on her, still slightly fazed.[/I] Vichante: You were expecting something to come of this? [I]Whether the phrasing was intentional, or the result of fogged mind, was not something Shalistrae was intending to deal with right now.[/I] Vichante: I'll take that as a no. [I]With a rather laboured sound, he heaved himself up, leaning against a conveniently materialising wall. He decided further movement was not really advisable at this point.[/I] Vichante: How long am I stuck here like this? Shalistrae: As long as I want you to be.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Vichante looked at her in confusion, strange half memories rising to the surface. He wasn't quite sure what he was remembering, and he wasn't sure why he didn't remember more. He'd deal with it later. He blinked a few times, and tried to clear his head. He didn't do much of a job at succeeding, but the point was made. Shalistrae gave him a slight smile and withdrew slightly. Vichante couldn't tell whether she moved a foot away or entirely out of the room. He lapsed back into unconsciousness, a period of rest, far quieter than the last.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Ilmiwyrth: And you just love being swept off your feet don't you. Neuvox: Don't get overconfident. Ilmiwyrth: Overconfident? I could probably kill you the same finger I lifted you up with. Neuvox: Considering the fact that you could allow it to, I imagine you could. Ilmiwyrth: So there's an element of unlife there. Do you have any idea where these stars are then? Neuvox: I can find out quite easily. Ilmiwyrth: I can ask some of my ...contacts, if you get bored running around looking for them.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]The words tumbled through psyche like pebbles down a well, lost in an unimaginable darkness. The darkness was by no means vast, but it eclipsed all it touched, and was completly disorientating. It inspired a langurous apathy, if left one in no position to question, to resist. You floated away. And the words echoed around you, and drew you back. Vichante rallied what resources remained to him and tried to frame a reply. Latching onto all aspects of the words that had renewed his tenuous hold on sentience, he framed a similar reply.[/I] "Sussurant weeping, sylvan night Wake me when I scream Tragedy brings its own desires Morbid shattered pristine Serenity, solitude, save me" [I]His eyes slowly opened. He wasn't sure how long his eyes had been closed, but the light was more than slightly painful.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]That's more than a little sexist though. I somehow doubt sex is based entirely on what the male is doing. Even if both people are virgins though, it's [i]very[/i] unlikely they haven't "experimented" on their own, and even if they havent, it's pretty damn obvious when something feels boring enough that you fall asleep.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Some kind of auto-spell checker. It is very, very desperately needed. I agree with the idea about setting font, colour etc in profile, and the banner upload, but the idea of having annoying little catch phrases yelled at me every five minutes, I'd spend time with my friends.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]That brings back more than a few memories. Many of which I didn't know I had. Ah well. I like it, but then, I tend to like that kind of thing. As usual, because I agree with it....[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Vichante wasn't really sure what was going on. He was past the point of conscious though, and existed as a half aware being suspended in some kind of immaterial, non-physical existance that was almost certainly self-inflicted. He wasn't sure of anything, much less why he was here. But he didn't care. This dream-plane kept him separate from the higher order consciousness parts of his brain, the one that leant not only clarity and coherence, but also emotional pain. He was more than willing, or would have been willing if control had existed in this realm, to accept the trade off. In this place, reality was inspired by fleeting phantasmagoria that infested the subconscious. In Vichante's case, that would have been less than pleasant, but here there was merely experience, not analysis. Vichante would have given anything to stay, had he in that state known that it would not last forever, however meaningless time was.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Ilmiwyrth looked around, more than slightly amused now. He should have come here centuries ago, these mortals were fascinating. Lacroix hold told him the same once, but he'd never really trusted his father's sense of humour. The room was what he had a feeling he should have expected, low lit and with strange furniture dotting the occasional wall. A foreign scent permeated the air, darting in and out of percerption. He looked over to the other inhabitant of the room, who Neuvox greeted with a surprising amount of respect. Ilmiwyrth looked around quickly, taking note of mortal details unfamiliar to him. Lacroix and Ryshiel were uninventive decorators.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]You can talk about controlling yourself, and true love, and waiting to be married, and whatever else, as much as you like. It doesn't change the fact that when put into a surprising situation, when your instincts if not your hormones or both are running crazy, then logic simply goes out the window. You can't make rational decisions. You don't [I]want[/I] to, which is the biggest risk. There is always a part of you that won't resist a suggestion. If you're lucky like me, you don't regret it afterwards.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Welcome to the Monkey House is okay, (in part because of the Micallef association), but I'm still firmly convinced that their earlier stuff, Bohemian Like You and Not If You Were The Last Junkie On Earth -era stuff, is a lot better. This weird kind of quasi-Depeche Mode thing is getting to my head.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]I somehow doubt there's really anything that would embarrass someone of JC's level of dignity. It just couldn't happen. You already know my opinion on the story, so I won't restate it, though I am interested in a continuation.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Ilmiwyrth looked down, a few feet, in amusement. Neuvox looked up at him, slightly amused. Ilmiwyrth gave a self-deprecating laugh and started walking. His legs, which were basically at her head height anyway, meant she had to walk very fast to keep up. He looked down at her and laughed again, the footing doing nothing to hamper his balance. At last she stopped, hauled him to a stop, and glared up at him. He smiled broadly at her, and promptly picked her up, slinging her over his shoulder. That done, he leapt off the side of the mountain, gliding downwards easily to a lower level. He put Neuvox down, paying little attention to her broad glare.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: It was a faster way down.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Vichante looked at her a moment longer, then shook his head sadly. He wasn't sure what she meant, and he was even less sure what he meant. But one thing he did know was that it would be best if he left now. And go somewhere a little more secluded. Again, he turned and walked away, immediately absorbing every trace of himself until he seemed a mere pulsing husk. A static entity. And he made himself stay in that half state, avoiding any kind of contact, any kind of ouput. The next time he looked around, he was against a sheer rocky wall, higher than he could conveniently judge, and pockmarked with holes and small caverns. It had at some point started raining. He crawled inside one of the larger, unoccupied caverns, though it was still to small for him to stand up in. He curled up, wrapping the cloak tightly around himself, and sent himself into a dark wellspring of oblivion.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]He hugged her a while more, contemplating exactly how they would manage to cross the ocean.[/I] Vyrim: I have an idea of such unsurpassed brilliance that it will surely dazzle you my love! Raeven: Oh? Vyrim: We steal a boat. [I]Raeven sat silently for a moment, then started laughing.[/I] Vyrim: Well, I thought it was a good idea. Raeven: I'm sure it is my love. Vyrim: Where can we get one? Raeven: That's your job. Vyrim: Oh joy.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Ilmiwyrth: Helps to be related to them as well. An inquiry though, if you will. Neuvox: Someone's being rather polite for a denizen of the lower planes, particularly one with such auspicious parents. Ilmiwyrth: Actually my question is rather pertinent to that, though the real reason is that I find it rather amusing to humour mortals. Neuvox: Oh? Ilmiwyrth: It's a strange trait. To the point then. You know my name due to my parents, or due to exploits of my own? Neuvox: Vanity. Interesting. Ilmiwyrth: Very. Are you intending to answer the question? Neuvox: Not really. Ilmiwyrth: Didn't think so. Tell me then, why is a Dark Faun showing interest in the kind of being who normally doesn't take well to the intervention of such creatures? Neuvox: Do you work anything out for yourself? Ilmiwyrth: Not if I can manipulate others into saying it for me. Neuvox: And you think it's working now? Ilmiwyrth: I sincerely doubt it. Neuvox: Then why try? Ilmiwyrth: Because despite quite a bit of contact with this realm, this is the first time I've been here. Neuvox: And you want a tour guide? Ilmiwyrth: If you're offering.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Vichante: Yet I'm surrounded by people who still give the impression that they do. Shalistrae: Oh? Ilmiwyrth? Vichante: Wouldn't surprise me in the least. Shalistrae: You really are refreshingly morbid you know. Vichante: It's a character defect. [I]Taking the proffered cloak, he swept past her without a further word. Not quickly, but with a distant, semi-forlorn air that left him unapproachable. He wasn't exactly sure where he was going, and he wasn't sure why. But anything was preferable to company right now. Perhaps even walking into the wrong room, the kind of one that just happens to open up to a steep cliff.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Vichante waited to be set down before bothering to show a hint of movement. And all he did then was attempt to walk away. Shalistrae glared at him, and he turned, sighed, and sat on the floor. He sat silently a moment before looking up, narrowing his eyes, and just plain bitching.[/I] Vichante: How the hell is it that no matter what I do, no matter what kind of independant stand I try to make, no matter how logical or correct the grounds, reasons, motivations whatever, I not only end up being manipulated into performing whatever task, action, thought or intent desired by manipulatee, but am also some how connived into believing that it would be the best course of action! Shalistrae: Because if you had an alternative, you'd take it. Vichante: Point. Doesn't change the problem though Shalistrae: That you're hopelessly easy to manipulate? [I]Vichante stood slowly, straightening.[/I] Vichante: That I am. But so's everyone else. Shalistrae: oh? Vichante: After all, you got suckered into lugging me around.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Ilmiwyrth caught Rali's raised eyebrow. His response was in a semi amused, semi tired, long suffering drawl.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: Everyone has a story in this place. Everyone has some mystic destiny. Everyone has some deeper hidden purpose. [I]Rali laughed in commiseration and they walked off the field, the archery lesson having finished from the day. They ended up with Ryshiel and Otku, strolling easily along. Despite the quasi-relaxed atmosphere, Ilmiwyrth noted Rali's ever roaming eye and shook his head. He was good, no question, but he'd need to learn to react. They had several ex military types here. Always, the complete and utter lack of anything more than marginal discipline was a shock. Not that Ilmiwyrth really cared all that much. He just didn't like drill seargents. Ryshiel looked at the both appraisingly, a semi amused expression on her face.[/I] Ilmiwyrth: What now? Ryshiel: Nothing really. Just that this is the last thing we all need. Another one of you. Ilmiwyrth: I'm sure there are a surprising number of people who agree with you.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Vichante: I can make a fool of myself while perfectly sober, I'll have you know. [I]If he'd said it in some kind of affected accent, it may just have been remotely amusing. In a tired, sarcastic, bitter enunciation, it was merely sorrowful. Ilmiwyrth at last let out a frustated sigh and spun, backhanding Vichante. The fallen cleric allowed the blow to fell him and lay motionless on the ground a moment before adjusting his position to something slightly more comfortable, showing no signs of getting up any time soon. Ilmiwyrth nudged him in the ribs a few times, but didn't get a response. He contemplated a swift break, but decided against it. Blood did tend to stain after all. Ilmiwyrth turned back to the others, his expression not particularly conducive to an explanation. He gave one anyway, though it definately sounded forced.[/I] Ilmiywrth: "The-son-of-a-*****-a-*****-had-it-coming" is a good enough excuse for anyone.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Name: Ilmiwyrth de Ralquire Age: 22 Race: Human Class: Monk Bio: Ilmiwyrth was born in, and spent most of his time in, a monastery of the Order Of The Long Death, a group of monks that worship the passing of life to unlife in all its forms. Death is not a god to them, merely a force, which they refer as The Silent Lord. Ilmiwyrth's order is only intervening because of the undead involved, which they consider an abomination. As well, Ilmiwyrth seeks certain tools involved in passing the final initiation to the inner circle of the Long Death's order. Appearance: About six foot tall, and very slender formwise. Hair is a dark, metallic grey, skin a lighter, luminous version of the same hue. Living with death changes one. Ilmiwyrth wears long black pants and a black dobuk style shirt, and soft soled shoes. Noiseless, you know. Personality: Rather introverted, and completely devoted to death, but he is in no way a raving psycho who kills at any trigger. Rather, Ilmiwyrth is merely accepting of the transience of life. Death is beautiful, if one knows how to appreciate it. Weapons: Martial arts and a pair of kamas. Other: Channels an energy known as [I]qi[/I]. Not exactly magical, but it has its uses.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Vichante mumbled something about being savaged by a direwolf, but no one really thought it was funny. Of course, at the time, Vichante was busy staring at the veins in his wrists, so humour probably wasn't a forte at the moment. Ilmiwyrth said something to that effect, Vichante merely looked at him a second or two.[/I] Vichante: Sociopathic apathy. Ilmiwyrth: You're on about what now? Vichante: I'd kill you if I cared. Why are we here anyway? Lifé: You have anywhere better to go? Vichante: Depends on who's estimation you base that on. Ilmiwyrth: In a minute, I'm really going to slap you down you know. Vichante: Pretty certain, yeah.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]OOC: Don't worry Sage, this isn't Heaven vs Hell. This is Hell vs anyone with a chip on their shoulder... [I]It was cold. Very cold. Almost annoyingly cold. If he wasn't a creature of living darkness of course. Ilmiwyrth de Ralquire, emissary, if you will, of the lower realms to the material plane, looked around, and found himself in the mountains. Judging by that, and the temperature, he was somewhere near the Winterpalace. Not that it really mattered where he was, until peace was threatening, he was here passively. If it did, he'd engage in some covert assassinations or perhaps merely some political maneuvering, but until then, all he had to do was watch and kill anything he felt like. Which suited a half shadow Baalor just fine. Especially one raised by the single most powerful coterie the underworld had to offer. Ilmiwyrth stretched upwards, his normal nine foot frame creeping out to nearly half again that. His dark wings blotted out the sky momentarily, then furled, pinions extended in cruel relief. A quick observation revealed no heterotrophic life except the occasional fungus, so there wasn't anything he needed to hide his prescence from. Not that he would anyway, but in theory he was supposed to. Theory wasn't much of a concern to him though.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Steven: I am going to get in there, and locking the door isn't going to dissuade me. [I]His new roommate, whoever it was, was apparently sulking, something about someone intimidating him and this school being a bunch of bigoted freaks. Which didn't exactly make sense. But he was a preppy rich boy of some sort, Steven knew that much. He received a whining reply, and that was all. The door didn't open. Steven swore, and held his upper arm tightly, flexing his fingers vigorously. After all the fresh "blood" drained away, he let go, letting the alkaline, corrosive blood rush back into his arm. The thin skin on his wrists, so thin and pale due to repeated dissolving, broke away, and Steven let the substance coming from his veins drip into the lock. It didn't hurt him at all. Not even his skin splitting. The lock, if it could, would have felt a lot of pain though. So would have the door few a few inch radius around the handle. Steven reached through the rather large hole and opened the door from the inside. He glared at his new roommate, who stared in astonishment. Like he'd never seen anything like it. Steven sighed in annoyed exasperation.[/I] Steven: Why the hell are you here in the first place? "I'm here because I'm a degenerate" [I]Steven didn't give him the benefit of the doubt after that. He simply turned and walked out. He'd get himself a new room, and get his stuff, such as it was, later. That kind of thing would just annoy him. And hopefully he wouldn't have to take responsibility for the door this way.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Ilmiwyrth folded his arms and scowled. Rinkayum turned and smiled brightly at him.[/I] Rinkayum: We're not going to have the same problem we had last time are we? Ilmiwyrth: I doubt it. The displacement was...unsettling. Lifé: Oh? Ilmiwyrth: Like I said, they're not, technically speaking, real. They exist as a form of anti-matter. At our last meeting, I was less than happy, and attempted some things I shouldn't have. Merely allow me to say that the inverse universe to this one is not pleasant. Vichante: Do me a favour and pull some stuff then. This universe can't get much worse. Ilmiwyrth: Vichante, have you ever worn pink and liked it? Or giggled coquettishly? Vichante: Bad inverse, bad inverse...[/font][/color]