Crypt of the Gods: The Literary Epic

[chuna]

Sorry BD. I just really don't know what I'd want to happen with me cause I don't know what happens in teh story. Do whatever you want with me in the story, I srsly wouldn't mind. I'm sorry. I have no idea. D:

[Blessed Devil]

Since you wouldn't mind anything I write, I might get a little out-of-character for you. But tomorrow I'll get to work.

[J e e c o .]

Wait. Who wants to be tortured? XD

Here's a sample of what I would do if anyone of you wants to be. I was imagining BD to torture someone.

-

Pain was a funny thing. It came in short bursts, momentary yet blinding, and it surged through his veins like electric currents through wire. He could see his fingers twitch and tremble, stained in the crimson shade of life- and he coughed, a loud, hacking sound, and liquid fell from his lips like thick warm syrup.

He couldn't move at all, weighed down by something untangible yet pressing- and he knew there was nothing he could do. He was going to die, or he though he would, but one could never be sure- for a person like he was always bound to someone, a distant hated savior with dark tanned skin and golden eyes.

His vision swam in confusing waves, and he sometimes saw white and violet and red in different intervals, and nothing made sense completely. His breaths came in short periods, creating puffs in the cold night air, and whatever liquid emmitting from his mouth continued to flow down his chin, unhindered.

A blade. He could feel it dance on his bared abdomen, feel it caress his pale white skin as if to tease- and to frighten, in a way. He shivered briefly, cursing the mild dew sticking to his exposed skin.

He didn't understand, first of all, where he was; his eyes were still playing cruel tricks on him, and he couldn't trust his half-deaf ears for any other information. All he could do was feel- and he didn't like it at all, because unless his oversensitive skin was sending his brain the wrong information, he would guess that he was stripped naked, injured, and laid before someone's cruel mercy.

There was liquid coming from his ears too, and he reckoned it would either be because whatever was in them blocked the sound waves, or his ears were injured, terribly.

The blade- or whatever the sharp cold steel could be- increased pressure on his skin, and a sharp cry was drawn from his strangled throat as the steel dug deep. It traced a long, red line across his stomach, threatening to press harder, lining below his navel and lifting at his hips. He hissed in pain, tears now staining his face, and he prayed to be struck dead then and there. The pain was unbearable- and though his ears couldn't hear a thing, he knew whoever was doing this to him was laughing- and that was the cruelest thing of all.

-

YOU WON'T DIE I SWEAR XD

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[Blessed Devil]

So finally, I got inspired to make chuna's story. It's not that long, really, but you're probably in for a shocker. Maybe.

V. The Devil's Advocate

Joan’s throat burned as she gulped down a glass of Red Horse in one straight go, before almost slamming the glass on the table, startling the bartender in front of her. And then, she buried her face inside her arms like a little girl scolded by her mother. The stench of alcohol had made her so nauseous that she wouldn’t dare move her head no matter how slight the movement may be. The fact that she took the beating of a lifetime earlier today did not help at all. There wasn’t a single bone in her body that didn’t ache, and the pain had made all the noise in the bar seem unnoticeable. She felt that she had drunk way too much tonight, though she was quite a strong drinker. And yet, no matter how much she drank, she couldn’t forget the problem she had tonight.

She remembered how weird those people (that is, if they had a trace of humanity left) were. At first glance, they looked like they were women in dresses, and they were beautiful. And then you would notice that their faces were so smooth and white, and their skin seemed to reflect light as if they were sculpted from bleached porcelain. A closer look would reveal that there seemed to be joint segments on their elbows, their knees, their necks, and every movable place in their body. Were these people... dolls?

She remembered being surrounded by five of those dolls in a dark alley somewhere. They wanted to take Jeanelle. She was protecting her. She’s a cop, it was her job. She was also her friend, it was her duty. The dolls appeared to know how to fight, but her skills were a lot better. She fought them off with her best kung fu, and yet, no matter how much of a beating these monsters got, they always seemed to be able to get back up. With no other choice, she tried shooting them, forgetting the fact that they might be human beings, and acting purely on survival instinct. But the result was still the same. These doll creatures cannot die.

And then, someone dropped from – oh, she didn’t know where. This someone dropped on Jeanelle’s side, and grabbed her before running faster than any man she had ever seen past the dolls and into the streets, with the long tattered cape attached to his hood flapping behind him like a mermaid’s tail. On instinct, she tried to run past the dolls to chase after the hooded person, but she was met with a bone-shattering kick on the stomach, followed closely by a strong blow to the back. The next thing she knew, she was laying face-down on the ground while receiving painful blows from the five dolls.

When she woke up, she was still in the alley. The dolls had left her alive, fortunately. But it was a mistake for both the dolls and the hooded man. Because like they always say:

Never wound what you can’t kill.

She gulped down another glass, focusing on the pain in her throat. She noticed that the drinkers beside her were walking away one by one, almost as though they felt a dark aura surrounding her. Suddenly, she felt a hand touch her by the shoulder. She turned her head to see a pale-white monster with black lips and long hair, with his fiery red eyes staring down at her. She yelped in surprise and almost fell off her chair.

“I’m sorry, did I frighten you?” the monster asked with deep concern in his voice.

“No, not at all, Devil,” Joan replied, trying to regain what little composure she had earlier.

“So did you need me for something?” the monster asked with a menacing smile across his face.

[J e e c o .]

Oh yay. Some subbed action I never knew of in the first place (NO I AM NOT SARCASTIC HERE).

Waii. You better start telling me what you have in mind. XD

[Blessed Devil]

What I have in mind is that chuna kicks ass. XD

Okay, I'd tell you what I have in mind, but it has to be between you and me. Oh, and I think Martin should be the tortured guy since you know how much I love torturing him. Heheh..

[J e e c o .]

Just as long as nobody takes it seriously. Really. >.<

Anyway, yeah. I'M WAITING FOR YOUR PM SWEET MOTHER OF ALL THINGS EROTIC. (I'm kinda getting used to that, too. O.O)

[AJ the Ass Slayer]

I like how chuna kicks ass.O.O BD...helping the authority.O.O Naks naman.

I'm bitin...I wanna read some more! Please post the next chapter really soon!

[chuna]

Thanks BD for making me kick doll ass in the story. I'm pretty damn awesome in the story. YAY.

Who else is left to write about?

[Blessed Devil]

I think Jeanelle is already writing something about the tortured guy, which is why I'm not really writing anything right now.

[tofiluk]

Uuwah, this sounds fun. I love all the characters, all well elaborated. (:-B)b

[J e e c o .]

And I have written something. Two things, even. But let's start on Martin:

-

VI . The Victim

It is around eight in the morning, and the streets are abuzz with cars and crossing pedestrians; Martin stands a little off the street light, watching life pass him by.

He's got a bag that contains his prized camera, and his phone dangles from a sling around his neck. He's dressed in blue and white and his hair is cut in a buzz cut, sort of like what usual temple boys have. His face is not devoid of facial hair, but it is clean and neat anyway- and he stands with a confident, dignified air around him.

Besides his camera, there are also precious shots that he could have taken only once in a lifetime; photographs of a dark-haired, luminous being, with hazel eyes and skin that almost resembled porcelain. He remembers that night only briefly, because there had been a dull pain in his head when he had taken that shot, and only a memory of the woman's figure as she disappeared in a flurry of ebony strands and crimson strings assured him that the photo he had taken wasn't from a dream, or 'shopped', for that matter.

He waits for a bus, but as he does, he thinks he wants to walk instead.

So.

Take an alleyway, a few shortcuts or so; and then he's facing a blank, crumbling wall that's not supposed to be there in the first place.

The air is dark, damp; it takes a little effort to breathe, but it is an effort that normality does not call for often. He realizes his hands are starting to sweat, and a little drop slides down the side of his face, and then he's running because there's a dark figure looming over him now, but by that time it is too late.

He stumbles a bit forward when the figure appears before his escape, and trembling he raises his gaze and meets glaring red with his brown orbs.

"And where do you think you're going?" says the figure before him, a dark and chilling voice; and he fumbles at his bag, looking for anything, anywhere, and realizes at this point that maybe he should have brought his notebook, or something.

As his hand searches his bag, the photographs of the woman fall, and the figure before him picks them up before he could.

His attacker makes an almost human face of disgust, beneath the high-risen collar covering half his face. "So she's still alive, huh." Is what he says, and it only scares the hell out of Martin more.

And then the man before him pulls down the collar, and Martin sees a grin with razor-sharp teeth. "This'll be fast," is the last thing Martin hears, before explosive pain engulfs his gut and he blacks out.

He rouses a little while later, or what he feels like a little while; he is no longer in the place where he had encountered the dark man, and he feels relieved or so, but as realization comes that he cannot seem to tug his hands free from either side of him, his heart feels with dread, and he shouts in a vain attempt for help.

"That's of no use here," there's the voice again, and Martin almost wants to swear with something like hell yeah you crazed up bitch, but keeps his mouth shut. He knows that it is not an easy ordeal he's going to go through, right now.

And it really isn't, perhaps maybe even the worst- but this is not the only time he's going to go through this, nor is it the only moment wherein he wished another person dead, terribly.

His eyes catches a glimpse of long, steel edges, sharp enough that it looked thin and all, and a nasty bile threatens to build in his stomach as the putrid smell of raw meat meets his nose; and the cruel man before him laughs, and laughs--

- and laughs.

This is not over.

-

YAY! XD I got too lazy to get to the good part, but anyway. I only wrote that this morning. The laptop I write with did a wonderful job on clearing every piece of literary work I have stored there- and hence I was gone for a week or so, because I had it repaired and...well. I broke down. All the commissions I hadn't submitted...D: And then the internet wanted to go ballistic too. Not a nice set of circumstances at all.

Oh yeah, here's Nico's. I mean, HE HAS TO BE IN THE STORY TOO OR HE'D GO EMO ON US, and that's not a good thing at all. So.

-

VII. The Seeker

“The worst destruction is that wrought by a protector upon his charge.” - a book in his father's library

If one would really think about things, he wasn't exactly at the opposite end of morality; he had, after all, only been a terribly lonely teenager, too advanced and too aloof to actually make friends. He is as vulnerable as he is gifted; and his hands, skilled in the intricate art of doll-making, has only created a companion, a protector- not a monster.

He didn't know it would've ended that way, did not perceive to its possibility that his own puppet would take a living consciousness of her own, much less that his puppet would actually raise her knife against him, ball a fist before his face. But, as all things were in the brutal facet of reality, the worst thing his doll could ever become to him had happened, and he had found himself bloodied, half-dead, with the window wide open and the winds a bitter cold.

It is not anger he first feels once he rouses from a dying sleep; it is a feeling of helplessness, of despair, of loneliness and every single negative empty feeling a human being could ever feeling all at once in a dark day. He waves a hand, summons the other dolls (never as perfect as the one he had lost) and sends them to find his.

It was, at that point, made clear to him- and it was a funny thing too, because the inevitable had always been inevitable, as much as it had been bitter; that he had only realized that he was literally and poetically nothing without his doll, without his friend, and that he had loved her all along.

He remembers the last words she had spoken unto him, that night she had risen without a pull of his strings.

I'm sorry, she had said. For what?

For what?

He had always abused her presence, always so sure that she'd be standing next to him, watching over him, even if he did. He only needed to tug the crimson strings that bound her to him and she would follow his commands, say what he wanted her to say, kill whom he wanted her to kill. She was no more than a puppet to him, but he had every need of her, only that she did not know. He wasn't one to tell other people what he felt, after all.

She thought she had killed him, finally. But he is alive, standing before the glass window she had crashed into, all covered up in bandages and blood-stained pajamas. His lips move quietly, but not entirely on their own- in fact, he is whispering something, something only she could hear, something he wants her to hear.

Please, come back! Please. I need you.

It is filled with sincerity, hope, and need. There are no malignant intentions, but knowing him, he would do anything to have her back. He didn't care if he destroyed the whole world to find her- just as he did, that's all that matters.

There is a brief reply, and he thinks it's her, but it is only a memory of her words not so long ago.

Shit, not you. Shit. Shit. Shit!

I hate you.

He had struck her then, terribly disappointed and enraged by her disrespect, and vaguely hurt by the emotions that had been in her words.

But that was then.

This was now.

So he says, I'm sorry, the same thing she had said, only wrongly. It was he who was sorry, not her. That was only a bidding remark, a last attempt at being courteous.

I'm sorry. Please. Wait for me. I'm coming for you.

There is no answer this time, not even that from a past, and only a chilling wind greets his forlorn.

I promise.

-

[Blessed Devil]

That was probably one of the most frightening narrations of The Devil so far. I love it.

Oh, and I would like to announce that my next chapter will be delayed for a while because I'm going to be working on the next Inanity. I hope you can all understand.

[J e e c o .]

You liked it? o.o I thought I lacked blood and gore...and other mean stuff. Pfft.

Good luck with Inanity. :3 I shall be waiting...aw, dang. YEAH. STUDEEEH XD.

(Is sneaking the laptop, huu huu)

[AJ the Ass Slayer]

I love it. Very well written! Please update soon.

[UB the fat dude]

Need new updates jeanelle. That was awesome!

[tofiluk]

I loved it. The Seeker was really cool. The chapter, I mean. But basically I love it so far. \m/

[Chosen. Of. Chaos.†]

YEAH THE SEEKER IS COOL CUZ I AM HIM LAWL *gets bricked*

Right nao I'm surfing the net in a graveyard. WOOT FOREST LAKE.

MUST KILL BOTH BD AND JEE FOR NOT UPDATING FOR TOO LONG, PUTANG INAAAA. Ganyan lang kayo. I will guilt trip you guys until you both die! GAAAAH! D<

Yeah. Updates. We need them to stay alive. ;o;

[Blessed Devil]

Oops. Oo nga noh. I've forgotten that I promised Jeanelle. haha.. I will get to work once I find my unfinished work.

[J e e c o .]

...it's his fault. *points at BD* D<