Post by jonathan on Dec 6, 2009 16:42:06 GMT -5
(sorry for any mistakes...this was done at 1 am..)
The performer Jonathan Pocket sat on a ledge of what used to be a balcony looking at the floating fortress that was the home of the elementals.
His tie was lose, his vest was undone, bags under his eyes were his proof of the many sleepless nights he had been experiencing as of late. The little sleep he had was riddled with nightmares. Angels, vampires, werewolves, humans, there were all after him in a nightmarish New York.
He would run and run, every step he took, the city would decay and fall apart under his stride.
He would make it to the mall, the doors locked, he would smash through a window display, and as he would run through the empty food court the smell of rot and decay would reach his nose, the lights would go out one by one as he would run through the halls, then he would trip in to a jewelry store, silver rings, necklaces, bracelets, pins and broaches would fall on him and burn and scorch his flesh leaving scars and deep gashes all over his body, he would roll on the floor screaming in pain.
Then a beast of reptilian skin would crawl in to the shop, crawling along the ceiling. It would turn to him and opening its mouth, dislocating its jaws, Spit and drops of venom dripping from it fangs, a loud hiss emitting from its throat. Pocket screamed at the sight of it, he jumped up and kept running. The hall ways were empty, but pocket was still perused by a unforeseen enemy.
Pocket would run until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out beneath him, but his efforts were for naught, he would look back to see if he was still being chased, and end up running head first in to a dead end.
He would quickly come to a stand, turning and in a last attempt to save him self he would draw his blade. Holding it at the ready, the blade falls limp over his hand, having turned to rubber.
He dropped the useless blade to the ground and looked up.
Approaching him out of the shadows were horrible versions of the leaders of the various factions. There was there werebeast leader, whom Pocket had never met nor knew his name, approaching him, sharp claws hanging down from its hands and scraping against the floor as it walked towards him, its thick tail dragging behind it, deep dark purple scales all over its body, peeling in some places, blood lust and raw hunger in its glossed over eyes.
Gregory Smith approached him with Lips Redder than blood contrasting against skin paler than fresh snow, red pupils focused on Pocket despite his eyes hidden by shadows, his long fangs protruding from a sick grin, digging in to the skin just below his lower lip. The shirt beneath his suite, which was ripped and tattered as if he had been in a recent fight, was stained with fresh blood.
Then there was Strike, his Alpha, a horrible hybrid, various open wounds and scars crossing his chest showing through his black fur that covered his 8 foot frame and looked greasy and covered in blood and dirt and god knows what else, five unsightly claws protruded from each paw and the horrible smell of rotting meat emitting from its open maw, blood shot eyes looked at pocket with disgust and anger. Lips drawing back to show a ugly assortment of sharp teethe as a throaty growl emerged from his throat.
Then there was the human leader, who's name Pocket had forgot, she was clad in a blood stained army uniform. Vilot eyes looked at him with anger, hate blood lust, murderous rage and basically every angry emotion a eye could express. The rest of her face was shrouded in shadows, but pocket could tell there her lips were pressed in to a eager smile, eager to kill the Performer and see his blood flowing down the sterling silver Rapier Her hand gripped.
Then there was the Angel.
A red cape fluttered behind him, tattered at the end and soaked in blood.
He clutched a Morning star in his left hand, flecks of bone dotted it as crimson drops fell off of its many spikes. Armor dented and punctured in many places, its dull gold reflecting the little light left in the hall. Large black wings with a few feathers missing here and there, were folded up behind a body that with riddled with scars from past battles.
Pocket would try to move, he would try to run, but soon would find that his hands and feet and been chained to pipes on either side of the wall.
Pocket was helpless to do anything but watch in horror as theses leaders ripped him to bloody shreds.
Pocket shook his head clear of the thoughts of his nightmare. He had had it a total of 8 times in the last two weeks, the other nights, he just didn't sleep. Every time he witnessed his death he would awake with either a yell or a loud gasp and be covered in a cold sweat. Once or twice he had shifted in his sleep and in turn shredded up his sheets.
He looked the fortress, marveling at its architecture and how it simply floated there. He would love to one day walk its streets. But to do that he would need a air elemental, and as of late, he hadn't seen any elementals. He wondered what had happened to them. Perhaps they were all up there planing a attack.
Maybe they had all gone home?
Or perhaps, the elementals had simply died out.
The thought saddened pocket, he had been intrigued by the elementals, he wanted to get to know them, they were always such good audience members.
Pockets shows had been becoming less and less watched as the weeks wore on until today, not a soul showed up. Pocket had been making sure to be incorporating new things in to his act, making sure there was never a dull moment.
Perhaps people were finally to afraid to come out?
Maybe they simply had to much to worry about to want to be entertained.
Perhaps Jerome was right, Maybe Pocket was useless, 17 and all he had to his name was a bag full of tricks and a top hat.
Pocket had only one goal with his shows, to try to bring some light to this dark world, if not just a spec cast from a smile of a onlooker.
The weight of the reality was finally starting to push on his spirit. Perhaps he should hang his hat, and train himself to be a fighter. To provide meat for himself and the pack, would that make him worth his weight? Was his goal to make people happy not noble enough?
The thought of food made pockets stomach growl he had been trying to teach himself to hunt as a wolf, and it had not been going to well.
He looked back at the fortress.
Such a waste.
“it's a hard world you came to, Wouldn't you say?” he spoke, “so where have you all gone?”
The performer Jonathan Pocket sat on a ledge of what used to be a balcony looking at the floating fortress that was the home of the elementals.
His tie was lose, his vest was undone, bags under his eyes were his proof of the many sleepless nights he had been experiencing as of late. The little sleep he had was riddled with nightmares. Angels, vampires, werewolves, humans, there were all after him in a nightmarish New York.
He would run and run, every step he took, the city would decay and fall apart under his stride.
He would make it to the mall, the doors locked, he would smash through a window display, and as he would run through the empty food court the smell of rot and decay would reach his nose, the lights would go out one by one as he would run through the halls, then he would trip in to a jewelry store, silver rings, necklaces, bracelets, pins and broaches would fall on him and burn and scorch his flesh leaving scars and deep gashes all over his body, he would roll on the floor screaming in pain.
Then a beast of reptilian skin would crawl in to the shop, crawling along the ceiling. It would turn to him and opening its mouth, dislocating its jaws, Spit and drops of venom dripping from it fangs, a loud hiss emitting from its throat. Pocket screamed at the sight of it, he jumped up and kept running. The hall ways were empty, but pocket was still perused by a unforeseen enemy.
Pocket would run until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out beneath him, but his efforts were for naught, he would look back to see if he was still being chased, and end up running head first in to a dead end.
He would quickly come to a stand, turning and in a last attempt to save him self he would draw his blade. Holding it at the ready, the blade falls limp over his hand, having turned to rubber.
He dropped the useless blade to the ground and looked up.
Approaching him out of the shadows were horrible versions of the leaders of the various factions. There was there werebeast leader, whom Pocket had never met nor knew his name, approaching him, sharp claws hanging down from its hands and scraping against the floor as it walked towards him, its thick tail dragging behind it, deep dark purple scales all over its body, peeling in some places, blood lust and raw hunger in its glossed over eyes.
Gregory Smith approached him with Lips Redder than blood contrasting against skin paler than fresh snow, red pupils focused on Pocket despite his eyes hidden by shadows, his long fangs protruding from a sick grin, digging in to the skin just below his lower lip. The shirt beneath his suite, which was ripped and tattered as if he had been in a recent fight, was stained with fresh blood.
Then there was Strike, his Alpha, a horrible hybrid, various open wounds and scars crossing his chest showing through his black fur that covered his 8 foot frame and looked greasy and covered in blood and dirt and god knows what else, five unsightly claws protruded from each paw and the horrible smell of rotting meat emitting from its open maw, blood shot eyes looked at pocket with disgust and anger. Lips drawing back to show a ugly assortment of sharp teethe as a throaty growl emerged from his throat.
Then there was the human leader, who's name Pocket had forgot, she was clad in a blood stained army uniform. Vilot eyes looked at him with anger, hate blood lust, murderous rage and basically every angry emotion a eye could express. The rest of her face was shrouded in shadows, but pocket could tell there her lips were pressed in to a eager smile, eager to kill the Performer and see his blood flowing down the sterling silver Rapier Her hand gripped.
Then there was the Angel.
A red cape fluttered behind him, tattered at the end and soaked in blood.
He clutched a Morning star in his left hand, flecks of bone dotted it as crimson drops fell off of its many spikes. Armor dented and punctured in many places, its dull gold reflecting the little light left in the hall. Large black wings with a few feathers missing here and there, were folded up behind a body that with riddled with scars from past battles.
Pocket would try to move, he would try to run, but soon would find that his hands and feet and been chained to pipes on either side of the wall.
Pocket was helpless to do anything but watch in horror as theses leaders ripped him to bloody shreds.
Pocket shook his head clear of the thoughts of his nightmare. He had had it a total of 8 times in the last two weeks, the other nights, he just didn't sleep. Every time he witnessed his death he would awake with either a yell or a loud gasp and be covered in a cold sweat. Once or twice he had shifted in his sleep and in turn shredded up his sheets.
He looked the fortress, marveling at its architecture and how it simply floated there. He would love to one day walk its streets. But to do that he would need a air elemental, and as of late, he hadn't seen any elementals. He wondered what had happened to them. Perhaps they were all up there planing a attack.
Maybe they had all gone home?
Or perhaps, the elementals had simply died out.
The thought saddened pocket, he had been intrigued by the elementals, he wanted to get to know them, they were always such good audience members.
Pockets shows had been becoming less and less watched as the weeks wore on until today, not a soul showed up. Pocket had been making sure to be incorporating new things in to his act, making sure there was never a dull moment.
Perhaps people were finally to afraid to come out?
Maybe they simply had to much to worry about to want to be entertained.
Perhaps Jerome was right, Maybe Pocket was useless, 17 and all he had to his name was a bag full of tricks and a top hat.
Pocket had only one goal with his shows, to try to bring some light to this dark world, if not just a spec cast from a smile of a onlooker.
The weight of the reality was finally starting to push on his spirit. Perhaps he should hang his hat, and train himself to be a fighter. To provide meat for himself and the pack, would that make him worth his weight? Was his goal to make people happy not noble enough?
The thought of food made pockets stomach growl he had been trying to teach himself to hunt as a wolf, and it had not been going to well.
He looked back at the fortress.
Such a waste.
“it's a hard world you came to, Wouldn't you say?” he spoke, “so where have you all gone?”