Writing The Fair Immortal[M]

[Nothing]

OOC: This is my first or second attempt at a story here, and I hope at the very least it interests you. I used a different method to display spoken dialogue than what I would normally use, in an attempt to make it easier to read. I'd appreciate any comments I could get.

About this story in particular: This is my attempt at intertwining what seem like completely unrelated stories that meet near the end. Direct Influence: Sin City, Broken Saints (an online comic), Betterman, Gothica, Xin (an online flash series) and Trigun.
Enjoy!
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[I]The jaded shore of Kiton-Holdi. Gnarled stalagmites and lethal creatures made these waters all but useless to man. Many hooks and broken lines lay upon the watery floor, entangled with the skeletal remains of the fools who the water's smooth surface had tempted. The broken masts of wayward ships dot the coast, mossy and curved by nature?s hand. Their warning to stray ships sometimes goes unnoticed, unrecognizable after the passage of years.

The shore. A boy. A dream, to merely feel the warm touch of ground beneath his sea born legs. A dozen poisons coursing through his veins, a gift of the merciless sea. The mast of his raft sticks up between two protruding rocks. Another warning for another sailor. Alas, this sailor cannot be saved.

Above him, crouches a companion. A man, or what has been left of one. The sun's rays are reflected on his bare, pale skin. The sea's toxins had coursed through his veins as well. Even under water, when their raft had first dived under the sea, this man had tried with all his strength to protect the boy with his own body. It was in vain. The boy was dying. Slowly. The man had emerged unscathed, the sea's poison in his veins drifting out like wind through a storm. Greater poisons than the seas could ever contain coursed through his veins already.

The pale man...
More beautiful than the gods...[/I]

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[I]The world always makes the assumption

that the exposure of an error is identical with the discovery of truth

- that the error and truth are simply opposite.

They are nothing of the sort.

What the world turns to,

when it is cured on one error,

is usually simply another error,

and maybe one worse than the first one.

~H.L. Mencken[/I]
[B][U]1~Lies and Veiled Insanity~1[/U][/B]

The white halls of the Kertuli Assylum were brightly lit by fluorescent bulbs across the ceiling. Too bright, thought the newest inmate. Tall and thin, with spidery hands and blonde hair. A towering guard escorted him, past the visitor's area, past the minor cases hall, where nobody stayed more than a few hours. Past the Intermediate hall, where patients could still be cured with hypnotherapy, or the right amount of drugs. Through the double doors at the end of the inmates hall, past the steel doors of incurables. Past the sociopaths. Farther than the kleptomaniacs. Deeper into the medical labyrinth than those who had murdered by god's will. The newest inmate was led as far back as he could be led:

To the psychotic killers. The serial murderers. To hell itself.

The guard paused at a keypad near the final set of double doors, and punched in his pass code. The doors hummed in response, and after a short pause slid open. Another guard waited on the other side.

[B]Guard II: This the new guy?

Guard I: Yeah. Here's the file.

Guard II: And the warden's signature?

Guard I: It's all there.[/B]
The guards exchanged clipboards and brown paper envelopes. The hallway they were now in was much wider than the others, abandoning the white polished furnishings of the rest of the asylum in favor of metallic surroundings. Catwalks lined the walls, suspended eight feet above cells lined with thick plastic, more durable than bullet-proof glass, and less privacy than a fucking shower curtain, thought the inmate.

One of the many impenetrable doors slid open, and the inmate was roughly unshackled and thrown in. The guard couldn't help but notice the rough, infected scars on each limb. They were names, thought the guard. Carved in deep and scarred for life.

[B]Guard II: So, what's his case?

Guard I: It's in the damn file. Read it yourself.

Guard II: C'mon, don't be like that. You know I can't read his file without the proper clearance.

Guard I:.......Ian Dellisect. His wife called the police and reported him missing, the house ransacked behind him. Police suspected he had been attacked by that "Red Vlad" gang that's been rioting downtown. What they found, was Ian sitting alone in a farm, screaming, ?they?re dead! They?re dead!? and carving names into his arms and legs with a pair of gardening sheers. When he saw the police approaching, he threw the sheers at them, and proceeded to rub as much dirt into each cut as possible.

Guard II: Weird. But that alone doesn't send somebody back here.

Guard I: You remember that chain of murders last year, seventeen men and women dead and bodies mutilated?

Guard II: Don't remind me. I was lucky enough to see the crime scene photos from that.

Guard I: Each victim disemboweled, dismembered, and body parts strewn across the street. The murderer was never found.

Guard II: Don't tell me...

Guard I: The names this guy was carving into his arms were the names of the victims. Ian was found guilty of all seventeen murders in court last week.

Guard II: Jesus...why wasn?t the trial all over the news?[/B]
Ian smacked the glass of his cell, making the two guards jump and look at him.

[B]Ian: Because it was never a real fucking trial to begin with.[/B]

There was a pause, as the guards recovered from their shock.

[B]Ian: There was no jury, no lawyers, no law. Just a god damn-[/B]

A guard smacked his cell with the butt of his nightstick, making Ian flinch.

[B]Guard I: Shut up! You?re a murdering psychopath and that?s all there is to it![/B]

Ian stared down the back of the guard?s head as the two walked away, still talking in voices too low for Ian to hear.

[B]Ian: [I]I used to live alone, making a living writing articles for an occult magazine. I didn?t [b]kill[/b] anyone. But I can?t prove it, either. Somebody paid a lot of money to connect me to those murders, and a lot more money to keep it under wraps. I don?t have any enemies. Well, none that would do [b]this.[/b] I just went to bed one night, an ordinary guy, and woke up the next morning as a convicted psychopath being treated for wounds and massive blood loss. Question is, [b]why me?[/b]

...

I guess I have all the time I need to think about it...[/I][/B]
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[I]If I make the lashes dark

And the eyes more bright

And the lips more scarlet,

Or ask if all be right

From mirror after mirror,

No vanity's displayed:

I'm looking for the face I had

Before the world was made.

~W.B. Yeats[/I]

[U][B]2~Light, Dark, and Infinity~2[/B][/U]

The river of our lives, never flows in the same direction it did the day before.
The water can never be the same,
for if it was,
if only for a second,
all would be lost in an eternity of stagnation.
Who is to say,
that that second is not our millennia?
A second,
a lifetime,
there is no difference between them,
Except in how we see them.
I forgot what time was, a long time ago.

Majik and Kitchi stand out in their transparency. Looking at them is like looking at a place that someone should be. A place that someone is just on the verge of being. A place that someone is almost in, but has never really quite been there. I can see their auras, though I cannot tell where they end, and the empty space between them begins. Neither of them are human. Though, I doubt even they know what they are exactly.

Demons?

Angels?

nothing at all?

Or...everything that matters?

I met the red-haired Majik one day ago. It was at a bar I drank at. He saw me across the room, with eyes like glass.

[B]Majik: You. Daz.

Daz: ...How did you know my name?

Majik: I need you to judge a duel another and myself will have. Should one of us fall during the duel, your reward will be more than you can imagine.

Daz: What do you mean, a duel?

Majik: Come. There's no time.[/b]

I didn't have a choice. At least, I don't think I did. I never spoke to Kitchi, but from where I stand, she looks like an angel who forgot her wings. I wouldn't call it a duel that the two now exhibit. I'd call it a dance, except more graceful than I've ever seen. It was over before I had ever seen a blow landed. A two-hour duel without a single hit. Had I not been so mesmerized, I would have wondered why they had picked a lifeless punk like me to judge something so...

divine.

Majik has fallen, and Kitchi stands victorious. She doesn't look like she's won, though.

[B]Majik: ...so, I've lost.

Kitchi: There was no other possible outcome. We both knew that before we began.[/B]

Majik, having been thrown onto his back, sat up now. He doesn't look like he's lost, though.

[b]Kitchi: You remember our wager. You have to give it up now.[/b]

Majik stood up, and came very close to Kitchi. Almost close enough to kiss.

[b]Majik: I know. I'll do what needs to be done.[/b]

In a flash, Majik's arm comes up to Kitchi's stomach. She didn't seem surprised, as she exploded into dust and vapor. Her aura didn't disappear, Majik absorbed it, took it into his own. He stands alone now, as if Kitchi had never existed. He turns, to look at me, with eyes like glass. I can see Kitchi's essence inside them. It is she,

that looks straight through my soul...

[B]To be continued (hopefully)...[/B]


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[DragonBlood]

wow...that...was....wow...

I very much like the first section, walking to the back of the asylumn, very discriptive, and yet not many words, from what I read the characters seem to have a very discriptive back story, even if it may be of little importance to the story, if the rest to come is like this, fear not and post.