The Harlequin

He had a feeling that the other member of this admittedly ragged and untrusting group would expect him to apologise. Great. Not that he would of course... The Harlequin (mutters): Next time I suppose I should just slice him into pieces small enough for a vultures gullet, and the hell with apologising. Damn Eps. The Harlequin wondered at his overreaction. Perhaps it was just his aura's stabilising as his body and mind adapted to death. Anyway, there was no point in hanging around for the night, it would just stir things up more, and The Harlequin wasn't sure what the reaction would be if he ended up cutting Eps's throat, in self defense or otherwise. The Harlequin pads off into the night, wary or the other stalking denizens, to find somewhere comfortable to try and break his insomnia addiction again, resolving to return early.

The Harlequin stares for awhile at Spyders retreating back, then shrugs and turns back around. Eps: Well, aren't you going to follow he... Eps's sarcastic remarks is suddenly cut off as his jaw is misaligned by The Harlequin's right heel. Valeigh, Rico and Athen quickly jump between the two combatants, forcing them to leave it there. Eps get's up, spitting blood, a humourless smile on his face. The Harlequin: You have no right to comment. Eps: You'll pay for that one day Harlequin. The Harlequin: I live for the day. The Harlequin stalks out into the night, driven to sudden aggravation by Eps's sarcastic remarks. He turns, wishing to finish the combat, before realising the futility of it. Sliding back into a comforting state of despression, The Harlequin once again retreats into the night.

The Harlequin: Still as arrogant as ever Eps: Well I could, don't you think? The Harlequin: Perhaps. We'll see. Eps: And you could? The Harlequin: Have so far. Valeigh: Would you two stop it. The Harlequin: Well why don't we all find something more interesting to do? Valeigh: Such as?

The Harlequin: At least I won't be starved for entertainment. Everyone in the room jumps, surprised at the sudden newcomer. The Harlequin takes a mocking bow. The Harlequin: Yours truly Spyder: Harlequin! The Harlequin's face does not change as he slowly focuses on the one thing in existance he cares about. The Harlequin: You didn't really expect me to stay dead did you? When I find out who buried me though, then things will get... The Harlequin's complaining suddenly cuts off as his mouth is suddenly occupied by another's. Once all the uncomfortable shuffling dies down. The Harlequin disentangled himself from Spyder's frantic embrace. The Harlequin: I assume someone would be willing to enlighten me as to what is going on?

Damn it. The words seemed to resound in The Harlequin's mind. Why did he have to remember everything now? In the midst of a god damn wrecked city with some very strange people wandering around. Pity they weren't interested in talking though. Pity they weren't any good either. Oh well. He'd killed strangers without provocation before. It was nothing new. Damn distractions. What was that ahead? A rather strange, sooty light. Almost torchlight, but without the flicker. Who cares. Time to evicerate whatever comes along. Spinning his twin viper in elaborate patterns with one hand, and loosening his kris with the other, The Harlequin's savage grin chilled the nearby rats as he stalked in for a kill.

Upon clearing the barren, yet comforting earth from around him, The Harlequin realised what the disruption to his auras was. He was dead. This knowledge did not faze him, yet brought bitter laughter to his throat. "So much for otherworldly truths", he thought, mocking himself, although he did not yet know how. Yet another thought intruded on his randomly spinning conciousness. Someone had buried him, after his death. An inconvenience, but overcome. Still. Gathering up his knife and twin viper, The Harlequin, left only with the knowledge that someone had inconvenienced him, and the vaguely disturbing thought that he was missing a major part of his former life, set out to find out who had performed the almost forgotten Last Rites on him and, in typical fashion, evicerate him and string his guts up on a nearby fence.

Name: The Harlequin Status: Dead Possessions: Extended twin viper, blackened kris Bio: Hidden behind The Harlequin's spiderweb tatooed, expressionless face, is the shattered pristine of a tortured mind and soul. The only light in his dark bastion of solitude is his love Spyder. Damp earth. A grave? Where was he? The Harlequin's memory slowly focused itself, yet the finer details still eluded him. Something about him was different. And that difference was located in his psyche, his soul. Resolving to ponder it later, The Harlequin started to clear a space around him, to return to what was left of his known world.

As I walk through my home, the shell which has sustained my remnants of an existence for countless aeons, aeons that could have been moments, days or years, the profound despair of one who realises the nothingness inherent in existence, descends upon me yet again. With a quiet, yet inexorable dignity, it eclipses the shattered pristine of my mind, my thoughts, my feelings, my conscience. Its familiarity is almost comforting, as is the common mixture of pity and envy I feel for those blissfully ignorant fortunates who are not blessed, or perhaps cursed, with the insight that they are as pointless as trying to extract blood from stones. They exist like insects, running busily around trying to better their existence, to add an element of permanence to their lives. Yet they seem to fade in and out of the phase of my life like day and night, or is it perhaps just their habits, as incomprehensible to me as the mysteries of the universe. I know not. All I know is that such extroversion, such ability to take joy in life, is far beyond me. Society, people as a whole, are beyond me. I lament it not. Perhaps my insights led to my solitary habits, or perhaps my introversion, brought around by my solitude, made me come to such bleakly refreshing insights. Should all life perish in an apocalyptic firestorm, should all the rocks of the world crack and run to sand, should the oceans recede into sulphurous lakes, the futility of existence will remain. So to will my apathy towards life, existence, pain, pleasure, joy and people. Thus I remain the emotionless shell of my own devising, trapped behind my self constructed walls of silence, imprisoned by my own fortress of solitude.

As I once commented my love, very well written. But perhaps it's just my perspective. When were you intending to post the full story?

If that was the worst thing one ever experiences, one should be thankful.