“W-what are you??”
“Me? I am many things. Some call me the Grim reaper, others the Devil. But I prefer to call myself Trippetta. In tribute to my first host. Nice to meet you Daniel.”
+
He woke up in a cold sweat and breathing hard, that secret note innocently tucked underneath his straw pillow. His face was sunk half-in the white sheet, his forehead glistening with sweat forming right above his brow. His eyes were bloodshot and wide open, darting across the small dirt room as if waiting for some demonic creature to come leaping from the shadows. Every movement was tracked by his eyes suspiciously, while digging his fingernails into his thin blankets used to cover himself up.
A few stilling moments passed with no movement or noise, save for the neighbors creaking window, pounding on their house with a bang. He listened for a moment, only hearing his own shaking breathing.
Realizing it must be gone; the boy of ten then slowly released his death grip on his blankets and sat up. It was well past midnight, and the stars still shone brightly. The moonlight was draped in cloud cover, and occasionally soaked its soft rays on his bed and his room when free. Still, it didn’t help his nerves any.
He glanced outside the window nervously and stood from the straw bed. Clutching the note with the scribbling on it, he made his way over and peeked out the second story window of his home. Taking a deep breath, he tore the note with red blood on it into pieces, and let them scatter with the wind, blowing in erratic directions. Satisfied, the small boy quickly crawled back to his bed and hid under the covers again.
Reaching under his pillow to bury his head and situate himself, he froze with the professional control of a mime. Still, no movement, muscles frozen rock hard.
The same innocent note, folded in half just as it was, lay underneath his pillow again. The boy became panicky, pulling it out ever-slowly. Afraid to read what he already knew.
The boy wanted to scream, but the locals would call him crazy again and his father would yell and slap him. He wanted to run to his parents’ room and cry, but his father turned it into a forbidden temple after his mother died. He wanted to run to his little sister’s room too, but she would never understand, as young as she is.
The boy clutched the note like a long-lost toy soldier, and held it in his hands, crumpled from his grip. He then bit his lower lip, biting it so hard blood came out.
He stayed and cried like this until sunrise, when his father got up to go fishing, and his sister got up screaming she wanted breakfast. She ran into his room, jumped on him and pulled the covers off him until she got his attention.
But he silently cried inside though, wishing to rid himself of this unspoken burden.
Nevertheless, the boy got up. Just like every morning.
The rain came in waves, short, drowning spurts covering all of Palt Harbor and its citizens. It flooded cracks in between stones of the city streets, carried away dirt, minerals, and sand over the muddy sidewalks, erasing the sunken tracks of passers by trying to get home to avoid the onslaught. They dropped their brooms, papers, and grocery food, some even climbing to neighbors houses to seek shelter from the ill omen flood. This irregular behaviour was due to a new law integrated by the Priests of the Church, the owners of the Cathedral in the heart of the city, known as 'The Esquire'.
The law states that any man caught wandering in the floods of the Devil would be punished by trial, or executed immediately, depending on the nature of the act. The town whole-heartedly agreed to it, because they were the priests. The holy messengers of God. In this town, the priests could do anything they wanted, so long as it was in the name of God. They had the entire island at their feet willingly.
It was also common knowledge that torrential downpours such as this were acts of the Devil, signs of drought and death, disease and starvation to come.
Naturally, the church’s word was law and as such, there were few who disobeyed. But, those that did dare defy the Church faced terrible punishments from the divine Lord himself; sometimes even death. Many a traitor of God have found themselves lying face down on the pebble-ridden shores of Palt Harbour’s only beach, threatened to be beheaded and tossed into God’s wrath to be lost forever.
Daniel only hoped he wouldn’t be one of them, roaming the streets like a Growlithe that lost his bone, in search of his sister’s favourite doll. The four year old girl had cried and whined all day because she lost it earlier that afternoon, and Daniel had put up with her long enough, waiting a full hour for the rain to pass. Unfortunately, it showed no signs of letting up, and Daniel thought he might know where it was anyway. Oh well. A quick duck and back couldn’t do a boy any real harm right?
He sighed, and made his way across the docks of the city’s only harbour. He and his sister had gone boating on their father’s newly crafted boat earlier, and that was the only place they’d been all day. Thus, it was the only probable location his twelve year old mind could think of, other than the main cobblestone streets which he hoped was not the case. The general populace, maybe even the Priests themselves, were on located on the main streets looking for people like him.
He scanned the old rutty wood, quickly got on his knees and glanced underneath the dock, then finally opted to search the boat. If it wasn’t here, he’d have no choice but to go back home, and pray his father wasn’t home yet from work. The elder man can be dreadfully frightening if he found out (as he has done in the past) that Daniel was out defying the Church’s laws again for the umpteenth time.
Thunder clashed, and the sudden noise caused Daniel to lose footing on the slippery dock and fall right into his father’s boat head first. He almost landed on his face, but turned his head upward in midair and caused himself to land on his jawbone. His teeth crunched together and his neck bent back horribly, resulting in him groaning in pain.
“Ouch…” He muttered, rubbing his lower jaw. Argh, why am I such a nice big brother? Alice owes me big for this when she gets older…
He climbed over the wooden oars and seats, looking for the small hay-filled doll in the rain. Then a thought occurred to him as he tipped over a bucket of water-filled fishing bait. Knowing his sister, she probably left it dangling from the very tip of the boat pretending it was a mermaid or some angelic creature of her fantasies. He told her she read too many books, and she should start obeying the law like the other ladies in the city and forget she knew how to read.
“But I like to read!” She exclaimed in her four year old gibberish. He smiled to himself as he grasped the familiar form of the clothed doll from the tip of the boat. She was exactly like him. In almost every way, eerily. She loves to read stories, she loves adventure (hence, their boat crusade) and can’t stand the high Priests of the Church. Their father said they were both absolutely hopeless and would never make good loyal citizens. Which, nether of them minded.
Daniel clambered out of the small boat and held the doll to his chest to prevent water from entering it further. With twelve year old haste, he sped across the dock and went back to the living sector, proud he wasn’t caught so far. He then hopped over a few trash pits, skipped through the alleyways, and snuck in the back door of their two-story shack-like home.
He smiled and handed over the rag doll to his sister, whom was sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor and playing with her clay tea-sets and Ballerina figures. She received it wide-eyed and lovingly, a grin stretching from one ear to the next. That smile, Daniel thought, is almost worth getting soaked and muddy. His smile quickly diminished though when he caught himself in a mirror, and suddenly realized his favourite shirt (of only three) was now soaked and ruined with mud all up the back. It would take weeks upon weeks to get it clean again. He pouted and turned to his room.
Well, it was -almost- worth it.
-- beware the malicious ’krow and insanity‘s dog --
--
B o n e d u s t
-
“Whipkey. Roslyn Whipkey.”
The store manager eyed her with a look of contempt suspicion, holding the paperwork just handed to him by the petite young woman sprawled out over the counter and smiling flirtatiously. He checked the profile, and then looked back at her. And to be sure, looked back at her, then the profile. Grumbling in approval, he slid a hand to his antique pocket watch and checked the time before retreating to the back of the room. He returned moments later with a small parcel in hand, wrapped neatly in fine silver cloth. He handed it to her wordlessly and beckoned for his pay.
The ruby-haired golden-eyed woman snatched up the parcel hastily and stuffed it into her leather-bound purse before handing the man three silver dollars. Satisfied, she left the old-fashioned postal office in somewhat of a trot, smiling to herself as she exited through the alleyways and trudged through mud.
By the appearance of her expensive clothes and doted make-up, many high-class society members would have been shocked she just ruined her expensive clothing through all that dirt and filth. But this lady did not seem to care- or take heed of the fact no persons were to be out at this time of day. Instead of running away from the rain, she welcomed it with open arms and gladly let herself be soaked in its presence. Watchers-by glancing from their porches looked at her oddly and she made her way all alone, directly up the main street and through the empty mud bath. She received other odd looks by the keepers of the Chapel, the ones who called themselves “the priests” or something like that. But, they seemed to forgive her intrusion and thought no second thoughts as she entered the dry and warm Cathedral of Palt Harbour.
“Eh? Back already Roslyn?” A small voice quipped from atop of one of the Cathedrals many steps. Roslyn glanced up amusedly, and rolled her eyes.
“Nice to see you too Withers. Or am I intruding on another one of those plans of yours?”
The vivacious dark purple Haunter, called Withers, appeared directly from thin air in front of her, grinned and poked her nose playfully.
“You know me. This Cathedral would as good as dead without my pranks. Though I don’t see how a Vaporeon would know anything about the meaning of ‘fun’. All you do is shop, shop and shop and then scare the locals with your invisibility tricks in the rain. Those aren’t technically even pranks you know. They need to be keen, elaborate and carefully prepared plans.” Roslyn again rolled her eyes again and brushed him aside, stalking up the stairs in true pokemon form with the silver parcel in mouth.
“Whatever, I’m heading up to the clock tower. Don’t bother me either, got that? And I’m serious.” Withers made a pouting face.
“Ever since you heard about that thing you got there, you’ve been acting strange. Sure you’re alright? You really shouldn’t be messing with those kind of artefacts, rumour or not-”
“I don’t care!” Roslyn snapped. “Stop trying to change my mind, and leave me alone!” The blue skinned Vaporeon broke into a sprint and dashed up the stairs, rounding the fourth floor doors and slipping through a crack in one of the old walls.
Withers, being left behind, sighed drearily and decided not to interfere with the hot-tempered spastic Vaporeon. Who knows what the female species does or thinks on their spare time? Instead, he opted to roam about the halls and perhaps knock over a few paintings or special vases here and there. He grinned to himself deviously.
Mortals hate that.
Roslyn opened the parcel carefully, and extracted the find porcelain doll from within its contents. Her heart leapt ecstatically and she immediately felt the urge to touch its finely cultivated face. It was entrancing… and captivating and even eerie all at the same time. It was wearing majestic clothes not even the finest of Palt Harbour could weave. Its hair was braided with beautiful brown locks of some unknown thread, and seemed almost like real hair as she caressed it with a paw. The eyes and face were a beautiful glass, smiling innocently and at the same time giving off a Mona Lisa air. A mysterious air which Roslyn found absolutely fascinating. It was almost like the doll knew something she didn’t. Which was absurd, quite plainly, because Roslyn knew everything there was to know about anything.
But still, the doll mocked her. Strangely, it didn’t bother the selfish Vaporeon one bit like it normally does. It was too beautiful to hate or be jealous of.
Roslyn then set the doll upright in her collection of other mysterious artefacts from other worlds. It was only one of the many she had gone to great lengths to get to. This one, in particular though proved to be her most challenging. Which is why this newly tasted victory of acquiring the doll was so sweet. Her collection was now complete.
She had the green-crusted magic comb from a land afar called Narcis that had long-since vanished.
She had the red ribbon from a deceased human from Torsha that perished as the city was said to burn to the ground.
She also had the sacred necklace from a land called Altmere that had rumoured been destroyed by the Altmerens themselves for unknown reasons.
And now, she had the biggest of all - The infamous Puter Viscus doll from each and every one of these lands. Ancient and said to hold deadly secrets, it was passed around from each of the worlds because of ill-luck it brought.
The fact that each and every one of these worlds the doll had been to vanished is what gave it its infamy.
Roslyn marvelled at the singe mark on the bottom part of the doll’s golden robes. The fable of Torsha must be true then, if it burned to the ground. The doll had smelled like smoke and the robes are damaged.
But for Roslyn, any kind of evidence would make her connect this doll to the other worlds.
She snapped out of her daydream and stared at the doll again.
It stared back with a small distaste and a frown.
Roslyn mirrored the frowned, blinked, and concluded it was her own imagination.
-- beware the malicious ’krow and insanity‘s dog --
--
B o n e d u s t
-
Thrice was he called to the inner chambers of the Inaugural Council. Not once, not twice, but thrice. By now, after decades of subtle and diligent work, Juxtepa, Demi-god Guardian of Souls, was ready to call it quits. He had succeeded to prolong this inevitable meeting for as long as he could, but now there were no escapes from it. This thought, along with having to leave behind his sister Genettamine, was depressing to the normally composed and self-righteous Mightyena.
He sighed as he walked slowly on four black-furred legs, tail and head dipped downward. He was sure that if he tripped on this glass floor, he’d probably fall all the way -head first- into the deceased and failing mortal world. Not that he would mind it; the thought of going somewhere where pain was not eternal and feelings like hunger existed seemed quite appeasing. Demigods like himself had no hunger, only an empty hollow feeling where it was supposed to be. How he longed for that feeling. It made him feel alive. Alas, he wasn’t anywhere near that kind of bliss, only an eternal soul forced to baby-sit others.
Complaining, however, isn't going to help any, he told himself. I agreed to this job, however slow or boring it may be. I suppose it's better than being fed to the Black Ones to pay for my sins...
He glanced upon the floor again, and shook his head disapprovingly as he saw the rain clouds move in and pour over the city his paws were walking on.
Probably Esamelia. She must be toying with the weather again. She had a nasty habit of making fun of the mortals in this city who hide from the harmless rain. It was her favorite form of entertainment, next to going down there herself and causing trouble. Naturally, the council had forbidden her to do so for ages, but she had her ways of sneaking out, in such a way a child would sneak out the window while being grounded by its mother.
He smiled crookedly though as he caught sight of one small boy, dashing and darting through the backstreets with speed of a trained Scyther. The scene was all too familiar, and Juxtepa made a mental check on his timeline of the boy's life.
We've still got seven years at least... he said wryly. ... If only things could be different.
As the boy sped out of view underneath his paws, Juxtepa caught sight of several red splotches on the fur, which he knew continued up his legs, and all throughout his black body except for the tail. He sighed involuntary. How long had it really been since he'd step foot on mortal soil? More than a century or two, perhaps. But he'd never counted. He'd been locked into his line of work for what seemed like forever. Although, he knew better than that. The time for change would come soon, but at what cost? Why must they suffer the same fate as the last citizens of the utopia?
Juxtepa sighed. He knew he deserved his punishment from whatever time he came from. So many lay dead because of him. But, does that mean the boy must suffer too? Is there really nothing he could do to protect him or anyone else?
Juxtepa already knew the answer. But that didn't mean he had to like it.
Angered, he found his way to the God's gathering place, the chambers of the Inagural Council, and sat infront of two incredibly large white marble double doors. He waited until they automatically opened, and allowed himself to be consumed by the rays of blinding white light.
-- beware the malicious ’krow and insanity‘s dog --
--
B o n e d u s t
-
Crack!
The bone splintered down the middle, and a harrowing cry pierced the dead silence of which two Pokemon stood in the darkness. The first one, too dark to see, clipped his teeth together snarled lusciously. In his thoughts, the bones of a human corpse had always been plentiful, and the most fragile. But their delicacy also gave off a refined taste only one could learn to appreciate.
His excess slobber dribbled down his chin and onto the stone floor, and he snarled with no regard as to how he behaved. He thought of himself as a monster; no more no less, only a machine geared to kill and eat. It was all he knew. The darkness had drained all his intelligence and probably all his knowledge of the outside world where humans ruled with an iron fist.
But the other Pokemon, just as big and dark, remained motionless and sat on his haunches nearby, waiting patiently and keeping his hunger in check. Unlike his friend, he upheld his dignity as a bloodthirsty warrior, and showed no sign of any emotion. It was against his family’s traditions to show anything of sentiment. …. Even though it was his family’s decision to banish him here anyway. Shunned and shamed away into darkness, the dungeons and sewer lines of the underground tunnels of Palt Harbour were his only place of solace. Sadly, even here it seems he was shunned. He was a foreigner, something from the upper world, and not welcomed. Only his companion had remotely given him a place here. Of which, he was grateful, but…
He glanced over at his ‘friend,’ absolutely disgusted with the slobber and raucous snarls. Who knows how long he’d been there, probably since the building of Palt Harbour itself. But it gave him no excuse to behave so ravenously. Was life here really all that horrible? It seemed there was always at least one unfortunate soul who fell down into the tunnels. So there shouldn’t be a massive shortage in food to cause this much of a feeding frenzy.
He glanced in the direction of the mangled corpse, which lied face up and staring blankly at the moss-covered ceiling. Well, perhaps it could have stared, had the feathered Black Ones not eaten the eyeballs already.
He grimaced at the way the Black Ones tore and chewed at the red flesh hungrily. Not even he had seen such a morbid scene in all his former days in the Upperworld. Up there the Black Ones were rare; but he knew they didn’t eat human flesh. Atrophied flesh, maybe, but definitely not of human. They usually kept to themselves and perched atop the Esquire year-round.
The two moved in for their share of the skeleton, as soon as the feathered Black Ones were done feeding off the flesh. From the looks of it, they picked it clean and retreated to the black corners of the tunnels as soon as they had their fill. The savage one immediately approached and tore off a rib bone, smashing it to pieces with his own barren teeth, and swallowing the jagged pointy edges of the bones.
The more sophisticated Pokemon though, first pawed at the corpse, and then stared down at its horror frozen face. What a terrible fate for a person… To accidentally slip into this netherworld, then be eaten as the price. Truly, what a demented and vile world this was…
Nevertheless, he reached down with his long neck and bit off part of an arm bone, eating delicately. He cringed when the bone scraped against his delicate inner stomach and tore apart the roof of his mouth. Almost taking another bite, he peeked at his companion who was eating ferociously and ate like a mad Tauros. The crunching of bone almost made the calm one sick. He thought his partner must have a stomach made of fresh-cut diamonds or something.
Suddenly, the savage one stopped.
Feeling as though he might have been the cause, the calm one averted his eyes and bit off the elbow, but soon felt a dirt-encrusted paw swipe near his throat. The calm one looked up, and saw the savage one motioning for his to stop and be quiet. Quietly, the calm one did as he was told, and swallowed painfully.
In the dead silence, the savage one sniffed the air, and looked around in the pitch black darkness. The calm one flattened his ears, on the look out for something peculiar. Often, it was only a Rattata, which served as more food, or perhaps enemies trying to steal their food. But this time, the savage one looked paranoid, head and ears darting back and forth. The calm one then picked up on what he was hearing soon after. A low groaning rumble coming from the tunnels ahead, and steadily getting louder, and louder...
The floor began to shake, and the calm one felt his muscles tense.
Then, out of the hole of blackness in front of them, dozens of Black ones swarmed and flew overhead, screeching and cawing terrible cries. Some bumped into each other because there were too many, and others struggled to get wing room.
The calm one immediately ducked and pressed his entire body to the floor, avoiding the onslaught of birds. The savage one, however, got backed up to a wall and whined pathetically. The calm one couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears, and shut them both off to the terrible fiasco.
After feeling the presence of the black ones gone, the calm one reopened his eyes and looked around. His first sight was the savage one; the menacing beast which intimidated even him on first sight, and always slew his prey or enemy when needed. He was backed up to the wall, frozen with fear. His eyes were wide and dilated, mane and tail bristled and wrapped tightly around himself. The calm Pokemon didn’t even think he was breathing. He was about to approach, when he heard a sickening thud behind him.
Heart caught in his throat, the calm one agonizingly turned his head.
There, where the corpse had been, was a walking zombie. A black, sick, fetid zombie that had taken control of the remains they had been eating just moments before. Black and blue blemished skin was hanging off of the bones, and where the calm one bit off the arm and elbow, was a knot of skin tied up to keep it from hanging limply. The eyes were still gone, but the calm one couldn’t help but be sucked into those eerie black voids.
Its jaw jutted forward, and attempted to make noise with its dead vocal cords. All that came was a raspy gagging sound and a wheezy noise. Then, after a few more tries, it wobbled forward to the savage one, wheezing and rasping so much that it almost sounded like it wanted to talk more than it did harm.
But that suspicion was proved wrong, after it lashed out with its one arm at the savage one. The savage Pokemon whined again, and blood sprouted from three puncture marks where the fingers had struck.
... That wasn’t the last of it, it seemed.
A few more seconds after the wounds bled, the savage one’s blood turned black, and he started to scream and wail.
The calm one watched in a petrified state as the blood vessels popped out, then burst in the savage one’s head and neck. Black-colored blood sprayed, and the dark body of the savage one fell dead on its side.
The calm one tried moving his feet, but with little avail. He could only scoot backwards as his former prey stalked up to him, moaning and groaning.
And he too, could only scream as the left hand came down upon him.
-- beware the malicious ’krow and insanity‘s dog --
--
B o n e d u s t
-
Daniel tabbed through the pages of his newest book, called “Falltharn,” by an anonymous author. He plopped himself on his straw made bed and gleefully drank in the first few pages’ content. Absorbed, he read the first few lines to himself.
“In the far reaches of the corners of this land, lies an island, divided in two and set in the middle of an uncharted ocean in the bottomless waters of the unknown. Populated by fierce and magical creatures, this island, invisible to the God’s eye, awaits a king, for its ruler to come, and harness the darkness unleashed…”
A knock to the entrance of his room caused Daniel to jump.
“Big brother?” came the young Alice’s voice, “My doll’s broken.” Daniel rolled his eyes and reluctantly snapped his book shut.
“It’s not ‘broken’, probably just wet from the rain. Here, let me take a look.” Quietly, Alice came forward from the archway as Daniel hopped off his bed and beckoned for the doll. Alice handed it up to him on her tiptoes, measuring up only to his stomach. “Looks fine,” Daniel said as he took it, and turned the doll over. He then noticed one of the arms was hanging limply to the side. He touched it, and the straw-filled doll unintentionally came apart. The left arm fell to his hand, soaking wet with absorbed water.
Uh-oh, he thought.
Alice said nothing at first, but then, little by little, started to cry.
“You…. You broke it…” she whispered. Daniel scrambled to put the arm back on. After three unsuccessful tries, he set it down and sighed.
“Sorry,” he said, “but it was already broken. All I did was touch it. You’ve got to learn to take better care of your things.” Alice paid no heed, and started to wail.
“I’ll tell mommy!” she sobbed through tears. The reference to their dead mother made him flinch. Alice had always talked about their mom even in her death, like she could really talk to her and that mom would listen. Daniel guessed she was too young to remember mom, and the only piece of her she had left of her was a parcel in the bank, not to be received until Alice was seventeen. So naturally, growing up with a dead mother wouldn’t be as burdening rather than having to witness her death and live with that. Daniel felt his heart tear as she cried, and sighed exasperatedly.
“Alright, alright, I’ll buy you a new doll.” Alice sniffled and looked at him wide-eyed.
“Really?” Her voice came out as a squeak, and she hiccupped in mid-sentence. Daniel fished through his Grumpig bank sitting on the one desk he had in his room. Originally, he was using it to save for some new clothes he saw at the market, but…
“Here. Got it, you stay here, and I’ll buy you that doll.”
“But I wanna come too! I want to pick it out.”
Daniel sighed again. Great, all he needed was extra luggage on his way.
“Fine,” he mumbled, “but stay close. Don’t get lost.” Her anticipating smile broke into a happy cheer, and she followed her big brother outside, and into the street.
-- beware the malicious ’krow and insanity‘s dog --
--
B o n e d u s t
-
It was a nice evening, and very quiet.
Maybe that’s what made Roslyn’s piercing scream even more bone-chilling, had Withers have any bones to begin with.
Bong.
Bong.
Bong.
The Church bells simultaneously rocked back and fourth, clappers throwing themselves to the rusted metal sides again and again. The sound was almost excruciating, seeing as he was standing right next to them, but Withers was too preoccupied with that dead feeling that had set in both his mind and his body to even bother moving. It was a dead weight that immobilized his movement, like he’d just been slapped across the face with one of those dreaded charm attacks.
He scoffed at himself, and stared the city down from atop the highest point in all of Palt Harbor; the roof of the Esquire.
Bong.
Bong.
Time.
What a fleeting thing. Wasn’t Roslyn just here, five minutes ago?
Bong.
Bong.
But she’s.... gone.
Withers blinked, and realized he was actually crying. Crying for that selfish Vaporeon, that stupid woman who kept brushing him off, that stupid girl who scoffed at him and told him he was an idiot. That stupid girl... who... who... who had been there since the start... Since he knew existence, practically. Hell, he knew her since she was a mere Eevee, and he a pathetic Ghastly. Granted, they treated each other a bit nicer then...
Withers clamped a hand together, and out of anger, threw a cackling black shadow ball into the wall of the Esquire. The explosion’s noise was covered by the bell tolling. Rocks had spewed from the collision, and landed as rubbled at his nonexistent feet.
Feeling another wave of anger come over him, he bit his lip.
It was that damned doll.
He snorted, and tried hard not to think. But really, his mind was like a wheel of a bandwagon, going around and around in circles, getting absolutely nowhere.
Shutting his brain off, he closed his eyes.
“Hey, Roslyn? You've been kind of quiet. You okay? ... Or do I need to bring in some cavalry just to get you to open your 'door'?”
Having caused enough mischief around the humans, Withers had retraced his steps back up to Roslyn's 'room', a makeshift hole in the Esquire's walls that lead to a gap in the church, positioned a few flights right below the bell tower. Draped over the hole was a cloth, partly used to conceal the highly obvious gap, and partly used by Roslyn to keep unwanted visitors -such as Withers- out.
Receiving no response, Withers took it upon himself to go in anyway. Roslyn may chop his head off; but it was worth it anyway. She must have been up here for at least an hour, just staring at that new doll of hers. What could be so interesting about a doll? Withers got a bad vibe from it right from the get-go, and he didn't trust any of the merchants selling Roslyn this... stuff. Who knows what those creeps are selling her under the table and in their hats.
“Roslyn-?-!”
The candlelight from her desk was out, and smoke was wafting in the air, smelling of Roslyn's favorite sweet vanilla scent. Glancing around, Withers found a few spare matches that had been knocked on the ground, and lit them using a nearby box cluttered with her stuff. He placed the matches over one of the candles, and rekindled it.
The result illuminated the room, casting an eerie glow and made shadows dance on the wood floor. Withers scanned the small area for Roslyn, and caught a shape of a blue blob near the back.
“Roslyn? You sleeping?” He asked quietly. Slowly moving closer and closer, he felt his blood drain and the manila candle slip from his grip.
It fell and hit the floor with a thud, going out in a puff of smoke.
Thankfully, all he had to do was stare in the direction of the scene, not actually -look- at it, because of the pitch-black darkness. But in his heart and mind, the gears of his internal clock just got cogged, and was desperately tying to make sense of what his eyes just saw.
Lying sprawled out all over the floor was Roslyn, a pale shade of blue and unmoving. Red blood on the floor in front of her and on her shoulder blade marked where she had been first hit. The blood behind her cascading over the concrete grey wall, and the puncture hole where her heart was told the rest of the tale.
But lying six yards away was her doll, innocently sitting on the floor next to an empty crate Roslyn used as a table. It smiled gleefully, and had stared Right through Withers.
For the next few minutes, he stood there. And contemplated getting help.
But she was already dead. Judging by her looks, she must have been dead for at least a half an hour or so. There was no point.
Trying to get some sense into his head, Withers investigated the crime scene using the Candle he dropped and another pair of matches. Gashes and wounds were absent, except for the shoulder cut and the fatal blow. Tenderly and shaking, he touched her skin. Cold and dry. There were no traces of elemental attacks, or any attacks from a Pokemon.
And besides the knocked over matches and doused candles, nothing was amiss in her room either. No struggle at all.
The only thing that caught his attention was the doll again. Sitting against the crate still, smiling. Angrily, he reached out for the doll and caught in in one translucent hand.
It didn't move, but only smiled. Clutching a fist, Withers flew out of the room without thinking, and exited the church silently.
'What you don't know won't hurt you,' was one of Roslyn's favorite sayings. But what Withers was going to give the merchants would kill them.
Breathing steadily again, Withers opened his eyes and peered down to the market district. He had successfully sold the doll to a merchant, and gone back to the Esquire with no problems at all.
The doll can't hurt anyone else he knows now.
Sighing, Withers descended down the steps back to Roslyn's keep, where he had laid the shovel and burlap bag he bought with the money he got from selling the doll. Now, he might be able to give her a proper burial rather than the Priests finding her and tossing her into the streets to rot. It wouldn't be a first for them. Heaving the shovel over his 'shoulder', he dragged he burlap bag inside the room with him, ready to lay his best... and only friend, to rest.
Intermission. Go grab a coke and piece of cake for a fifteen minute break. When you're ready, please read the rest of chapter one. ;D
“Me? I am many things. Some call me the Grim reaper, others the Devil. But I prefer to call myself Trippetta. In tribute to my first host. Nice to meet you Daniel.”
Bonedust
[rated PG-13 for VIOLENCE, GORE, DISTURBING images, CURSING, and well... just plain disturbing stuff.]
Subject to change.
+
The First Blood
Contamination
Satan’s Knave
The Cursed Hangman
Sawbones
The Cave in the Mountain
Bonesbourogh Gate
The Tormented Isles
Arrival of a King
Marmalade
[rated PG-13 for VIOLENCE, GORE, DISTURBING images, CURSING, and well... just plain disturbing stuff.]
Subject to change.
+
The First Blood
Contamination
Satan’s Knave
The Cursed Hangman
Sawbones
The Cave in the Mountain
Bonesbourogh Gate
The Tormented Isles
Arrival of a King
Marmalade
+
Big thanks to my beta/mentor, Saphira_Thorn!
Welcome to your worst nightmare.
The first mistake costs you your life.
Each step taken only leads down another broken road.
Welcome, welcome, This is the end of childhood happiness,
This is the end for all things period.
The skeletons here rise from their graves.
The blood spilled is never regained.
There are no second chances.
The devil worshippers will thrive off your pain.
Once you trip, you fall.
You fall very hard.
The end of boyhood innocence.
This is the end of all things pure,
THIS IS THE END FOR EVERYTHING YOU’VE WORKED FOR.
The First Blood
He woke up in a cold sweat and breathing hard, that secret note innocently tucked underneath his straw pillow. His face was sunk half-in the white sheet, his forehead glistening with sweat forming right above his brow. His eyes were bloodshot and wide open, darting across the small dirt room as if waiting for some demonic creature to come leaping from the shadows. Every movement was tracked by his eyes suspiciously, while digging his fingernails into his thin blankets used to cover himself up.
A few stilling moments passed with no movement or noise, save for the neighbors creaking window, pounding on their house with a bang. He listened for a moment, only hearing his own shaking breathing.
Realizing it must be gone; the boy of ten then slowly released his death grip on his blankets and sat up. It was well past midnight, and the stars still shone brightly. The moonlight was draped in cloud cover, and occasionally soaked its soft rays on his bed and his room when free. Still, it didn’t help his nerves any.
He glanced outside the window nervously and stood from the straw bed. Clutching the note with the scribbling on it, he made his way over and peeked out the second story window of his home. Taking a deep breath, he tore the note with red blood on it into pieces, and let them scatter with the wind, blowing in erratic directions. Satisfied, the small boy quickly crawled back to his bed and hid under the covers again.
Reaching under his pillow to bury his head and situate himself, he froze with the professional control of a mime. Still, no movement, muscles frozen rock hard.
The same innocent note, folded in half just as it was, lay underneath his pillow again. The boy became panicky, pulling it out ever-slowly. Afraid to read what he already knew.
Welcome to your worst nightmare.
The first mistake costs you your life.
Each step taken only leads down another broken road.
Welcome, welcome, This is the end of childhood happiness,
This is the end for all things period.
The skeletons here rise from their graves.
The blood spilled is never regained.
There are no second chances.
The devil worshippers will thrive off your pain.
Once you trip, you fall.
You fall very hard.
The end of boyhood innocence.
This is the end of all things pure,
THIS IS THE END FOR EVERYTHING YOU’VE WORKED FOR.
The boy wanted to scream, but the locals would call him crazy again and his father would yell and slap him. He wanted to run to his parents’ room and cry, but his father turned it into a forbidden temple after his mother died. He wanted to run to his little sister’s room too, but she would never understand, as young as she is.
The boy clutched the note like a long-lost toy soldier, and held it in his hands, crumpled from his grip. He then bit his lower lip, biting it so hard blood came out.
He stayed and cried like this until sunrise, when his father got up to go fishing, and his sister got up screaming she wanted breakfast. She ran into his room, jumped on him and pulled the covers off him until she got his attention.
But he silently cried inside though, wishing to rid himself of this unspoken burden.
Nevertheless, the boy got up. Just like every morning.
2 years later…
The rain came in waves, short, drowning spurts covering all of Palt Harbor and its citizens. It flooded cracks in between stones of the city streets, carried away dirt, minerals, and sand over the muddy sidewalks, erasing the sunken tracks of passers by trying to get home to avoid the onslaught. They dropped their brooms, papers, and grocery food, some even climbing to neighbors houses to seek shelter from the ill omen flood. This irregular behaviour was due to a new law integrated by the Priests of the Church, the owners of the Cathedral in the heart of the city, known as 'The Esquire'.
The law states that any man caught wandering in the floods of the Devil would be punished by trial, or executed immediately, depending on the nature of the act. The town whole-heartedly agreed to it, because they were the priests. The holy messengers of God. In this town, the priests could do anything they wanted, so long as it was in the name of God. They had the entire island at their feet willingly.
It was also common knowledge that torrential downpours such as this were acts of the Devil, signs of drought and death, disease and starvation to come.
Naturally, the church’s word was law and as such, there were few who disobeyed. But, those that did dare defy the Church faced terrible punishments from the divine Lord himself; sometimes even death. Many a traitor of God have found themselves lying face down on the pebble-ridden shores of Palt Harbour’s only beach, threatened to be beheaded and tossed into God’s wrath to be lost forever.
Daniel only hoped he wouldn’t be one of them, roaming the streets like a Growlithe that lost his bone, in search of his sister’s favourite doll. The four year old girl had cried and whined all day because she lost it earlier that afternoon, and Daniel had put up with her long enough, waiting a full hour for the rain to pass. Unfortunately, it showed no signs of letting up, and Daniel thought he might know where it was anyway. Oh well. A quick duck and back couldn’t do a boy any real harm right?
He sighed, and made his way across the docks of the city’s only harbour. He and his sister had gone boating on their father’s newly crafted boat earlier, and that was the only place they’d been all day. Thus, it was the only probable location his twelve year old mind could think of, other than the main cobblestone streets which he hoped was not the case. The general populace, maybe even the Priests themselves, were on located on the main streets looking for people like him.
He scanned the old rutty wood, quickly got on his knees and glanced underneath the dock, then finally opted to search the boat. If it wasn’t here, he’d have no choice but to go back home, and pray his father wasn’t home yet from work. The elder man can be dreadfully frightening if he found out (as he has done in the past) that Daniel was out defying the Church’s laws again for the umpteenth time.
Thunder clashed, and the sudden noise caused Daniel to lose footing on the slippery dock and fall right into his father’s boat head first. He almost landed on his face, but turned his head upward in midair and caused himself to land on his jawbone. His teeth crunched together and his neck bent back horribly, resulting in him groaning in pain.
“Ouch…” He muttered, rubbing his lower jaw. Argh, why am I such a nice big brother? Alice owes me big for this when she gets older…
He climbed over the wooden oars and seats, looking for the small hay-filled doll in the rain. Then a thought occurred to him as he tipped over a bucket of water-filled fishing bait. Knowing his sister, she probably left it dangling from the very tip of the boat pretending it was a mermaid or some angelic creature of her fantasies. He told her she read too many books, and she should start obeying the law like the other ladies in the city and forget she knew how to read.
“But I like to read!” She exclaimed in her four year old gibberish. He smiled to himself as he grasped the familiar form of the clothed doll from the tip of the boat. She was exactly like him. In almost every way, eerily. She loves to read stories, she loves adventure (hence, their boat crusade) and can’t stand the high Priests of the Church. Their father said they were both absolutely hopeless and would never make good loyal citizens. Which, nether of them minded.
Daniel clambered out of the small boat and held the doll to his chest to prevent water from entering it further. With twelve year old haste, he sped across the dock and went back to the living sector, proud he wasn’t caught so far. He then hopped over a few trash pits, skipped through the alleyways, and snuck in the back door of their two-story shack-like home.
He smiled and handed over the rag doll to his sister, whom was sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor and playing with her clay tea-sets and Ballerina figures. She received it wide-eyed and lovingly, a grin stretching from one ear to the next. That smile, Daniel thought, is almost worth getting soaked and muddy. His smile quickly diminished though when he caught himself in a mirror, and suddenly realized his favourite shirt (of only three) was now soaked and ruined with mud all up the back. It would take weeks upon weeks to get it clean again. He pouted and turned to his room.
Well, it was -almost- worth it.
-- beware the malicious ’krow and insanity‘s dog --
--
B o n e d u s t
-
“Whipkey. Roslyn Whipkey.”
The store manager eyed her with a look of contempt suspicion, holding the paperwork just handed to him by the petite young woman sprawled out over the counter and smiling flirtatiously. He checked the profile, and then looked back at her. And to be sure, looked back at her, then the profile. Grumbling in approval, he slid a hand to his antique pocket watch and checked the time before retreating to the back of the room. He returned moments later with a small parcel in hand, wrapped neatly in fine silver cloth. He handed it to her wordlessly and beckoned for his pay.
The ruby-haired golden-eyed woman snatched up the parcel hastily and stuffed it into her leather-bound purse before handing the man three silver dollars. Satisfied, she left the old-fashioned postal office in somewhat of a trot, smiling to herself as she exited through the alleyways and trudged through mud.
By the appearance of her expensive clothes and doted make-up, many high-class society members would have been shocked she just ruined her expensive clothing through all that dirt and filth. But this lady did not seem to care- or take heed of the fact no persons were to be out at this time of day. Instead of running away from the rain, she welcomed it with open arms and gladly let herself be soaked in its presence. Watchers-by glancing from their porches looked at her oddly and she made her way all alone, directly up the main street and through the empty mud bath. She received other odd looks by the keepers of the Chapel, the ones who called themselves “the priests” or something like that. But, they seemed to forgive her intrusion and thought no second thoughts as she entered the dry and warm Cathedral of Palt Harbour.
“Eh? Back already Roslyn?” A small voice quipped from atop of one of the Cathedrals many steps. Roslyn glanced up amusedly, and rolled her eyes.
“Nice to see you too Withers. Or am I intruding on another one of those plans of yours?”
The vivacious dark purple Haunter, called Withers, appeared directly from thin air in front of her, grinned and poked her nose playfully.
“You know me. This Cathedral would as good as dead without my pranks. Though I don’t see how a Vaporeon would know anything about the meaning of ‘fun’. All you do is shop, shop and shop and then scare the locals with your invisibility tricks in the rain. Those aren’t technically even pranks you know. They need to be keen, elaborate and carefully prepared plans.” Roslyn again rolled her eyes again and brushed him aside, stalking up the stairs in true pokemon form with the silver parcel in mouth.
“Whatever, I’m heading up to the clock tower. Don’t bother me either, got that? And I’m serious.” Withers made a pouting face.
“Ever since you heard about that thing you got there, you’ve been acting strange. Sure you’re alright? You really shouldn’t be messing with those kind of artefacts, rumour or not-”
“I don’t care!” Roslyn snapped. “Stop trying to change my mind, and leave me alone!” The blue skinned Vaporeon broke into a sprint and dashed up the stairs, rounding the fourth floor doors and slipping through a crack in one of the old walls.
Withers, being left behind, sighed drearily and decided not to interfere with the hot-tempered spastic Vaporeon. Who knows what the female species does or thinks on their spare time? Instead, he opted to roam about the halls and perhaps knock over a few paintings or special vases here and there. He grinned to himself deviously.
Mortals hate that.
*
Roslyn opened the parcel carefully, and extracted the find porcelain doll from within its contents. Her heart leapt ecstatically and she immediately felt the urge to touch its finely cultivated face. It was entrancing… and captivating and even eerie all at the same time. It was wearing majestic clothes not even the finest of Palt Harbour could weave. Its hair was braided with beautiful brown locks of some unknown thread, and seemed almost like real hair as she caressed it with a paw. The eyes and face were a beautiful glass, smiling innocently and at the same time giving off a Mona Lisa air. A mysterious air which Roslyn found absolutely fascinating. It was almost like the doll knew something she didn’t. Which was absurd, quite plainly, because Roslyn knew everything there was to know about anything.
But still, the doll mocked her. Strangely, it didn’t bother the selfish Vaporeon one bit like it normally does. It was too beautiful to hate or be jealous of.
Roslyn then set the doll upright in her collection of other mysterious artefacts from other worlds. It was only one of the many she had gone to great lengths to get to. This one, in particular though proved to be her most challenging. Which is why this newly tasted victory of acquiring the doll was so sweet. Her collection was now complete.
She had the green-crusted magic comb from a land afar called Narcis that had long-since vanished.
She had the red ribbon from a deceased human from Torsha that perished as the city was said to burn to the ground.
She also had the sacred necklace from a land called Altmere that had rumoured been destroyed by the Altmerens themselves for unknown reasons.
And now, she had the biggest of all - The infamous Puter Viscus doll from each and every one of these lands. Ancient and said to hold deadly secrets, it was passed around from each of the worlds because of ill-luck it brought.
The fact that each and every one of these worlds the doll had been to vanished is what gave it its infamy.
Roslyn marvelled at the singe mark on the bottom part of the doll’s golden robes. The fable of Torsha must be true then, if it burned to the ground. The doll had smelled like smoke and the robes are damaged.
But for Roslyn, any kind of evidence would make her connect this doll to the other worlds.
She snapped out of her daydream and stared at the doll again.
It stared back with a small distaste and a frown.
Roslyn mirrored the frowned, blinked, and concluded it was her own imagination.
-- beware the malicious ’krow and insanity‘s dog --
--
B o n e d u s t
-
Thrice was he called to the inner chambers of the Inaugural Council. Not once, not twice, but thrice. By now, after decades of subtle and diligent work, Juxtepa, Demi-god Guardian of Souls, was ready to call it quits. He had succeeded to prolong this inevitable meeting for as long as he could, but now there were no escapes from it. This thought, along with having to leave behind his sister Genettamine, was depressing to the normally composed and self-righteous Mightyena.
He sighed as he walked slowly on four black-furred legs, tail and head dipped downward. He was sure that if he tripped on this glass floor, he’d probably fall all the way -head first- into the deceased and failing mortal world. Not that he would mind it; the thought of going somewhere where pain was not eternal and feelings like hunger existed seemed quite appeasing. Demigods like himself had no hunger, only an empty hollow feeling where it was supposed to be. How he longed for that feeling. It made him feel alive. Alas, he wasn’t anywhere near that kind of bliss, only an eternal soul forced to baby-sit others.
Complaining, however, isn't going to help any, he told himself. I agreed to this job, however slow or boring it may be. I suppose it's better than being fed to the Black Ones to pay for my sins...
He glanced upon the floor again, and shook his head disapprovingly as he saw the rain clouds move in and pour over the city his paws were walking on.
Probably Esamelia. She must be toying with the weather again. She had a nasty habit of making fun of the mortals in this city who hide from the harmless rain. It was her favorite form of entertainment, next to going down there herself and causing trouble. Naturally, the council had forbidden her to do so for ages, but she had her ways of sneaking out, in such a way a child would sneak out the window while being grounded by its mother.
He smiled crookedly though as he caught sight of one small boy, dashing and darting through the backstreets with speed of a trained Scyther. The scene was all too familiar, and Juxtepa made a mental check on his timeline of the boy's life.
We've still got seven years at least... he said wryly. ... If only things could be different.
As the boy sped out of view underneath his paws, Juxtepa caught sight of several red splotches on the fur, which he knew continued up his legs, and all throughout his black body except for the tail. He sighed involuntary. How long had it really been since he'd step foot on mortal soil? More than a century or two, perhaps. But he'd never counted. He'd been locked into his line of work for what seemed like forever. Although, he knew better than that. The time for change would come soon, but at what cost? Why must they suffer the same fate as the last citizens of the utopia?
Juxtepa sighed. He knew he deserved his punishment from whatever time he came from. So many lay dead because of him. But, does that mean the boy must suffer too? Is there really nothing he could do to protect him or anyone else?
Juxtepa already knew the answer. But that didn't mean he had to like it.
Angered, he found his way to the God's gathering place, the chambers of the Inagural Council, and sat infront of two incredibly large white marble double doors. He waited until they automatically opened, and allowed himself to be consumed by the rays of blinding white light.
-- beware the malicious ’krow and insanity‘s dog --
--
B o n e d u s t
-
Crack!
The bone splintered down the middle, and a harrowing cry pierced the dead silence of which two Pokemon stood in the darkness. The first one, too dark to see, clipped his teeth together snarled lusciously. In his thoughts, the bones of a human corpse had always been plentiful, and the most fragile. But their delicacy also gave off a refined taste only one could learn to appreciate.
His excess slobber dribbled down his chin and onto the stone floor, and he snarled with no regard as to how he behaved. He thought of himself as a monster; no more no less, only a machine geared to kill and eat. It was all he knew. The darkness had drained all his intelligence and probably all his knowledge of the outside world where humans ruled with an iron fist.
But the other Pokemon, just as big and dark, remained motionless and sat on his haunches nearby, waiting patiently and keeping his hunger in check. Unlike his friend, he upheld his dignity as a bloodthirsty warrior, and showed no sign of any emotion. It was against his family’s traditions to show anything of sentiment. …. Even though it was his family’s decision to banish him here anyway. Shunned and shamed away into darkness, the dungeons and sewer lines of the underground tunnels of Palt Harbour were his only place of solace. Sadly, even here it seems he was shunned. He was a foreigner, something from the upper world, and not welcomed. Only his companion had remotely given him a place here. Of which, he was grateful, but…
He glanced over at his ‘friend,’ absolutely disgusted with the slobber and raucous snarls. Who knows how long he’d been there, probably since the building of Palt Harbour itself. But it gave him no excuse to behave so ravenously. Was life here really all that horrible? It seemed there was always at least one unfortunate soul who fell down into the tunnels. So there shouldn’t be a massive shortage in food to cause this much of a feeding frenzy.
He glanced in the direction of the mangled corpse, which lied face up and staring blankly at the moss-covered ceiling. Well, perhaps it could have stared, had the feathered Black Ones not eaten the eyeballs already.
He grimaced at the way the Black Ones tore and chewed at the red flesh hungrily. Not even he had seen such a morbid scene in all his former days in the Upperworld. Up there the Black Ones were rare; but he knew they didn’t eat human flesh. Atrophied flesh, maybe, but definitely not of human. They usually kept to themselves and perched atop the Esquire year-round.
The two moved in for their share of the skeleton, as soon as the feathered Black Ones were done feeding off the flesh. From the looks of it, they picked it clean and retreated to the black corners of the tunnels as soon as they had their fill. The savage one immediately approached and tore off a rib bone, smashing it to pieces with his own barren teeth, and swallowing the jagged pointy edges of the bones.
The more sophisticated Pokemon though, first pawed at the corpse, and then stared down at its horror frozen face. What a terrible fate for a person… To accidentally slip into this netherworld, then be eaten as the price. Truly, what a demented and vile world this was…
Nevertheless, he reached down with his long neck and bit off part of an arm bone, eating delicately. He cringed when the bone scraped against his delicate inner stomach and tore apart the roof of his mouth. Almost taking another bite, he peeked at his companion who was eating ferociously and ate like a mad Tauros. The crunching of bone almost made the calm one sick. He thought his partner must have a stomach made of fresh-cut diamonds or something.
Suddenly, the savage one stopped.
Feeling as though he might have been the cause, the calm one averted his eyes and bit off the elbow, but soon felt a dirt-encrusted paw swipe near his throat. The calm one looked up, and saw the savage one motioning for his to stop and be quiet. Quietly, the calm one did as he was told, and swallowed painfully.
In the dead silence, the savage one sniffed the air, and looked around in the pitch black darkness. The calm one flattened his ears, on the look out for something peculiar. Often, it was only a Rattata, which served as more food, or perhaps enemies trying to steal their food. But this time, the savage one looked paranoid, head and ears darting back and forth. The calm one then picked up on what he was hearing soon after. A low groaning rumble coming from the tunnels ahead, and steadily getting louder, and louder...
The floor began to shake, and the calm one felt his muscles tense.
Then, out of the hole of blackness in front of them, dozens of Black ones swarmed and flew overhead, screeching and cawing terrible cries. Some bumped into each other because there were too many, and others struggled to get wing room.
The calm one immediately ducked and pressed his entire body to the floor, avoiding the onslaught of birds. The savage one, however, got backed up to a wall and whined pathetically. The calm one couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears, and shut them both off to the terrible fiasco.
After feeling the presence of the black ones gone, the calm one reopened his eyes and looked around. His first sight was the savage one; the menacing beast which intimidated even him on first sight, and always slew his prey or enemy when needed. He was backed up to the wall, frozen with fear. His eyes were wide and dilated, mane and tail bristled and wrapped tightly around himself. The calm Pokemon didn’t even think he was breathing. He was about to approach, when he heard a sickening thud behind him.
Heart caught in his throat, the calm one agonizingly turned his head.
There, where the corpse had been, was a walking zombie. A black, sick, fetid zombie that had taken control of the remains they had been eating just moments before. Black and blue blemished skin was hanging off of the bones, and where the calm one bit off the arm and elbow, was a knot of skin tied up to keep it from hanging limply. The eyes were still gone, but the calm one couldn’t help but be sucked into those eerie black voids.
Its jaw jutted forward, and attempted to make noise with its dead vocal cords. All that came was a raspy gagging sound and a wheezy noise. Then, after a few more tries, it wobbled forward to the savage one, wheezing and rasping so much that it almost sounded like it wanted to talk more than it did harm.
But that suspicion was proved wrong, after it lashed out with its one arm at the savage one. The savage Pokemon whined again, and blood sprouted from three puncture marks where the fingers had struck.
... That wasn’t the last of it, it seemed.
A few more seconds after the wounds bled, the savage one’s blood turned black, and he started to scream and wail.
The calm one watched in a petrified state as the blood vessels popped out, then burst in the savage one’s head and neck. Black-colored blood sprayed, and the dark body of the savage one fell dead on its side.
The calm one tried moving his feet, but with little avail. He could only scoot backwards as his former prey stalked up to him, moaning and groaning.
And he too, could only scream as the left hand came down upon him.
-- beware the malicious ’krow and insanity‘s dog --
--
B o n e d u s t
-
Daniel tabbed through the pages of his newest book, called “Falltharn,” by an anonymous author. He plopped himself on his straw made bed and gleefully drank in the first few pages’ content. Absorbed, he read the first few lines to himself.
“In the far reaches of the corners of this land, lies an island, divided in two and set in the middle of an uncharted ocean in the bottomless waters of the unknown. Populated by fierce and magical creatures, this island, invisible to the God’s eye, awaits a king, for its ruler to come, and harness the darkness unleashed…”
A knock to the entrance of his room caused Daniel to jump.
“Big brother?” came the young Alice’s voice, “My doll’s broken.” Daniel rolled his eyes and reluctantly snapped his book shut.
“It’s not ‘broken’, probably just wet from the rain. Here, let me take a look.” Quietly, Alice came forward from the archway as Daniel hopped off his bed and beckoned for the doll. Alice handed it up to him on her tiptoes, measuring up only to his stomach. “Looks fine,” Daniel said as he took it, and turned the doll over. He then noticed one of the arms was hanging limply to the side. He touched it, and the straw-filled doll unintentionally came apart. The left arm fell to his hand, soaking wet with absorbed water.
Uh-oh, he thought.
Alice said nothing at first, but then, little by little, started to cry.
“You…. You broke it…” she whispered. Daniel scrambled to put the arm back on. After three unsuccessful tries, he set it down and sighed.
“Sorry,” he said, “but it was already broken. All I did was touch it. You’ve got to learn to take better care of your things.” Alice paid no heed, and started to wail.
“I’ll tell mommy!” she sobbed through tears. The reference to their dead mother made him flinch. Alice had always talked about their mom even in her death, like she could really talk to her and that mom would listen. Daniel guessed she was too young to remember mom, and the only piece of her she had left of her was a parcel in the bank, not to be received until Alice was seventeen. So naturally, growing up with a dead mother wouldn’t be as burdening rather than having to witness her death and live with that. Daniel felt his heart tear as she cried, and sighed exasperatedly.
“Alright, alright, I’ll buy you a new doll.” Alice sniffled and looked at him wide-eyed.
“Really?” Her voice came out as a squeak, and she hiccupped in mid-sentence. Daniel fished through his Grumpig bank sitting on the one desk he had in his room. Originally, he was using it to save for some new clothes he saw at the market, but…
“Here. Got it, you stay here, and I’ll buy you that doll.”
“But I wanna come too! I want to pick it out.”
Daniel sighed again. Great, all he needed was extra luggage on his way.
“Fine,” he mumbled, “but stay close. Don’t get lost.” Her anticipating smile broke into a happy cheer, and she followed her big brother outside, and into the street.
-- beware the malicious ’krow and insanity‘s dog --
--
B o n e d u s t
-
It was a nice evening, and very quiet.
Maybe that’s what made Roslyn’s piercing scream even more bone-chilling, had Withers have any bones to begin with.
Bong.
Bong.
Bong.
The Church bells simultaneously rocked back and fourth, clappers throwing themselves to the rusted metal sides again and again. The sound was almost excruciating, seeing as he was standing right next to them, but Withers was too preoccupied with that dead feeling that had set in both his mind and his body to even bother moving. It was a dead weight that immobilized his movement, like he’d just been slapped across the face with one of those dreaded charm attacks.
He scoffed at himself, and stared the city down from atop the highest point in all of Palt Harbor; the roof of the Esquire.
Bong.
Bong.
Time.
What a fleeting thing. Wasn’t Roslyn just here, five minutes ago?
Bong.
Bong.
But she’s.... gone.
Withers blinked, and realized he was actually crying. Crying for that selfish Vaporeon, that stupid woman who kept brushing him off, that stupid girl who scoffed at him and told him he was an idiot. That stupid girl... who... who... who had been there since the start... Since he knew existence, practically. Hell, he knew her since she was a mere Eevee, and he a pathetic Ghastly. Granted, they treated each other a bit nicer then...
Withers clamped a hand together, and out of anger, threw a cackling black shadow ball into the wall of the Esquire. The explosion’s noise was covered by the bell tolling. Rocks had spewed from the collision, and landed as rubbled at his nonexistent feet.
Feeling another wave of anger come over him, he bit his lip.
It was that damned doll.
He snorted, and tried hard not to think. But really, his mind was like a wheel of a bandwagon, going around and around in circles, getting absolutely nowhere.
Shutting his brain off, he closed his eyes.
*
“Hey, Roslyn? You've been kind of quiet. You okay? ... Or do I need to bring in some cavalry just to get you to open your 'door'?”
Having caused enough mischief around the humans, Withers had retraced his steps back up to Roslyn's 'room', a makeshift hole in the Esquire's walls that lead to a gap in the church, positioned a few flights right below the bell tower. Draped over the hole was a cloth, partly used to conceal the highly obvious gap, and partly used by Roslyn to keep unwanted visitors -such as Withers- out.
Receiving no response, Withers took it upon himself to go in anyway. Roslyn may chop his head off; but it was worth it anyway. She must have been up here for at least an hour, just staring at that new doll of hers. What could be so interesting about a doll? Withers got a bad vibe from it right from the get-go, and he didn't trust any of the merchants selling Roslyn this... stuff. Who knows what those creeps are selling her under the table and in their hats.
“Roslyn-?-!”
The candlelight from her desk was out, and smoke was wafting in the air, smelling of Roslyn's favorite sweet vanilla scent. Glancing around, Withers found a few spare matches that had been knocked on the ground, and lit them using a nearby box cluttered with her stuff. He placed the matches over one of the candles, and rekindled it.
The result illuminated the room, casting an eerie glow and made shadows dance on the wood floor. Withers scanned the small area for Roslyn, and caught a shape of a blue blob near the back.
“Roslyn? You sleeping?” He asked quietly. Slowly moving closer and closer, he felt his blood drain and the manila candle slip from his grip.
It fell and hit the floor with a thud, going out in a puff of smoke.
Thankfully, all he had to do was stare in the direction of the scene, not actually -look- at it, because of the pitch-black darkness. But in his heart and mind, the gears of his internal clock just got cogged, and was desperately tying to make sense of what his eyes just saw.
Lying sprawled out all over the floor was Roslyn, a pale shade of blue and unmoving. Red blood on the floor in front of her and on her shoulder blade marked where she had been first hit. The blood behind her cascading over the concrete grey wall, and the puncture hole where her heart was told the rest of the tale.
But lying six yards away was her doll, innocently sitting on the floor next to an empty crate Roslyn used as a table. It smiled gleefully, and had stared Right through Withers.
For the next few minutes, he stood there. And contemplated getting help.
But she was already dead. Judging by her looks, she must have been dead for at least a half an hour or so. There was no point.
Trying to get some sense into his head, Withers investigated the crime scene using the Candle he dropped and another pair of matches. Gashes and wounds were absent, except for the shoulder cut and the fatal blow. Tenderly and shaking, he touched her skin. Cold and dry. There were no traces of elemental attacks, or any attacks from a Pokemon.
And besides the knocked over matches and doused candles, nothing was amiss in her room either. No struggle at all.
The only thing that caught his attention was the doll again. Sitting against the crate still, smiling. Angrily, he reached out for the doll and caught in in one translucent hand.
It didn't move, but only smiled. Clutching a fist, Withers flew out of the room without thinking, and exited the church silently.
'What you don't know won't hurt you,' was one of Roslyn's favorite sayings. But what Withers was going to give the merchants would kill them.
*
Breathing steadily again, Withers opened his eyes and peered down to the market district. He had successfully sold the doll to a merchant, and gone back to the Esquire with no problems at all.
The doll can't hurt anyone else he knows now.
Sighing, Withers descended down the steps back to Roslyn's keep, where he had laid the shovel and burlap bag he bought with the money he got from selling the doll. Now, he might be able to give her a proper burial rather than the Priests finding her and tossing her into the streets to rot. It wouldn't be a first for them. Heaving the shovel over his 'shoulder', he dragged he burlap bag inside the room with him, ready to lay his best... and only friend, to rest.
Intermission. Go grab a coke and piece of cake for a fifteen minute break. When you're ready, please read the rest of chapter one. ;D
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