rosswriting-blog

[rosswriting-blog]

One-Off/Independent; "Larry's Big Day", orig. a class assignment

Jumble Story: Larry's Big Day

    Larry, May 5th, '04     It is not, in fact, Larry’s Big Day, because Larry hardly ever has any big days -- and this is certainly one of his littlest days, if it even qualifies as a day. Four AM, and he’d been sitting on that bench for nigh on three hours; he wasn’t underclothed, to be sure, but his posterior was doubtless frosted to the surface of the bench at this point. He didn’t care very much -- well, he did, but in relative comparison to everything else he presently cared about, it was of minor standing.     It hadn’t been snowing, exactly. The sky was that viscous grey at night, and if the orb of Sol were inclined to rise anytime soon he’s sure it’d be a fairly white morning. As if mirroring his own indecisive immobility, though, there was still hours yet before that phenomena would hit ground.     Similarly, it hadn’t rained for a while. Cold winter. What they’d seen of precipitation for the past month had been the frozen variety -- and even then, not a whole lot of it.     The wind was neither vicious nor melancholy; it was sort of just... there. Indifferent. It didn’t care about him.     Larry was palming his wedding band, duly staring at it, considering. Perhaps “consideration” is too eventful an attribution; after all, he’d been staring and thinking for four hours, but not thinking very quickly, so really he wasn’t exactly “considering” much of anything yet.     Don’t be hasty, Larry.     Think long and hard, Larry.     But for Christ’s sake, Larry, hurry your ass up, it’s bleeding frosty out, man.     Some soft sigh puckered out through his cracked lips, a jumbled amalgamation of resigned whimpering and carbon screaming to be freed of inactive sacs. If he’d had any energy with which to spend there’d probably be soft little tears on his soft little cheeks -- or at least some accumulation of ocular moisture, at least.     Larry was rather on the lanky side; didn’t have much in the way of “insulation”, so his usual complexion was a rather strawberry pink by now. He no doubt was sporting the genesis of a rather fierce cold, too, but he -- of course -- didn’t notice nor care about that yet. His third finger on his left hand had been white, following the arduous plucking of his wedding band, but it, too, was as pink as he. He didn’t want to chance trying to slide it back on: his extremities were simply far, far too woebegone to being practical icicle colonies for him to possibly have much luck with any general motor skills, let alone any fine ones. So he simply kept it in his palm.     November 2nd, ‘98     “Well, Larry, you’re as free of infection as any other good adult.”     An unsurprised sigh of relief, and slight chuckle, “Well that’s good, doc.”     A bit of a squirm, and a twitch of the brows. “There’s something else, though, Larry.” Minor fumbling with the paper. Takes a seat; doesn’t cross his legs.     “Doc?”     A professional face; he’s used to this, but it doesn’t make it anymore comfortable. “This may be difficult to take, Larry.”     A bit of a quiver, briefly. Resolute smirk. “Well, I’m sure it can’t be as bad as tetanus, Doc. Haha.”     Another twitch of the brows. “I’m sorry, Larry. It’s not an infection, you’re right, but it’s bad. You have a form of lymphatic cancer, my man. Early stages, very early, so it’s really quite splendid we got you in, though.”     Blank, count to two. Bleak, count to three. Blubbering, give or take a few seconds. “Wh-what do you mean? Lymphatic?”     Stool inch forward, gentle lift of a hand. Soft poke of three points on the sides of the ribs and under the armpit. “Three tumours, Larry. In the lymphnodes. You don’t smoke, Larry?”     Blink, blink. “N-no...!”     A frown. Concern. Sympathy. “I’m sorry. It’s unusual. I... we don’t think it originated in the lungs, but one of the tumours is nearing there. They’re not big, Larry, so it’s no surprise, but in a way that’s not shoddy news too.”     “I-I... don’t understand.”     A smile. There wasn’t anything more to say. Give him a moment.     A moment stretches to a few dozen more moments.     “Larry?”     “Ya, Doc?”     “You should ask your wife in, Larry. We should go over it, consider the options.”     “...Doc?”     A frown; very brief. Self-loathing flooded in; unavoidable. Avoid a compassionate smile; easily misinterpreted. Be resolute. It was the system, not him. Say it. “It can’t, won’t, be cheap, my man.”     June 3rd, ‘99         “Larry, please, sign it.”     “I won’t.”     “You have to.”     “I can’t.”     “You have to.”     “No, I don’t.”     “No, you don’t. But you should.”     “I should?”         A blanch. Guilt. “You know what I mean, man.”     Soft sneer; not much conviction. “I don’t think I do.”     “She’s left you, Larry, you can’t help that. Ya gotta sign it.”     “I can help it.”     “You tried, man. Damn, you tried, you did. Don’t waste yourself awa-”     “I’LL WASTE WHAT I WANT, F-For Christ’s S...sake.” A cough.     A quiver. Couldn’t meet his eyes. Not those pained, grey orbs. “Sorry,” a lift to rise.     Hand on his sleeve. “I-I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”     Stops, looks around; people looking, people staring. Hesitation. Gently shook the hand off, stood up, turned. “Whaddya want? This a zoo? E-eh?” Quickly re-seats. Stares dead at him.     A blink, soft smile. Pause. Glance around. Embarrassment. “Ah, heh.”     “It wasn’t uncalled for, my man. I’m sorry, though. I just don’t want to see you... while away over her.”     “I can’t help it... I can’t.”     A pat on his shoulder. Stolid, pained grin. “No one could.” Look him up, look him down. Glance down; the paper’s there, indifferent, two lines blank of four. Stares. Glances back up. Fumbles for the pen, slowly slides it over across the table. A soft smile. “Just get it over, man.”     A gulp; it fails. Small, inner cough. Stares at the pen. Lips part; no breath. Brief pause. Long inhalation. “A-ah... o-okay.” Grasps the pen.     May 4th, ‘04     Slams the door open, pulls mightily at his scarf; fails, it catches, half-chokes himself. Doesn’t care! Doesn’t care! Forgets the door; strides: long; breath: short; resolution: unshakeable; reason: debatable.     Pulls the receiver: tele-beeping. Hits a button... tone changes. Savour it. Stop. Inhale; deep. Resume. Tap, tap, tap -- tap, tap, tap -- tap, tap, tap, tap.     Three rings. Brief silence. “Larry, you know-”     “Remission. For six months. I’m clear.”     “. . .”     A conversation.     December ‘06     It’s not very windy and it’s not very wet; it’s snowing only a little bit and it’s not hard to see. The kind of winter weather that someone can get careless about. He doesn’t have winter tires; why bother, it’s not been very severe, and he can’t get off-shift ‘till after bar-lock-up, during the dead o’ night when there’s no traffic, anyway; and besides, they can’t afford it. They just can’t. They’re just pulling through, after all. But they don’t need to worry; he’s used to it. He’s faced worse, after all. After all. After all.     A screeching, something thuds; it’s soft. No immediate recognition. Then surprise, then overwhelming fear -- adrenal fear, barely conscious. Twist of the hands.     More screeching.     A massive sound, a vibratory impact, loss of sense and control. There’s red; forehead wet, ear wet. Only a second has passed, though. Another thump. Two more seconds of control, as if it were a blip on the proverbial radar, that’s all.     Confusion. Rear view mirror: nothing. Ahead: nothing. Deep breathing. Turn; look in the driver’s mirror. Long and brown and white, with a lot of red and white.     Opens the door, gets out, slips. He fell. Only briefly; climbs up. Gets closer.     Up close inspection: a mangled, malformed menagerie. Engine running, but it’s fifteen meters away -- nothing else around, no one else on the sidewalk -- and he hears it; a pathetic, shuttled croak of a sigh, the hump of the bodies back deflating; he can’t help but realise the nature of that death-sigh.     Larry, May 5th, '04     “You’ve got two options, Larry.” There’s no else around; he’s talking to himself. Not really talking; he’s quiet and the words are so drawn out and unthinking that anyone else would have a difficult time deciphering them. What’s more, his mouth is half-frosted over as well, so he’d not have a particularly easy time of it even if he wanted to.     “Walk away,” he quietly echoes. “No one knows, just you. Scott free.”     A few moments of the ‘till-then unbroken silence stretch on once more.     “Turn yourself in,” he concludes even more quietly. “Trial and prison, probably.”     A few more moments, and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone -- it’s nowhere nearly a quick and sophisticated gesture, and it’s more movement in thirty seconds than the last hours combined in their entirety.     A few clicks, and he was staring at medical bills. Chemo was tricky; debt interest was monstrous; the economy was shit and paygrades were grotesque. The margin for wiggle room wasn’t negative, fortunately, but it was a pretty damn thin margin for what it was.     A gulp.     A few more clicks -- drops the phone. “Fuck,” he bemoans, with more expression in that one automatic expletive than the entirety of his half-night of inner monologue.     Rescues it, clicks once more. An e-mail. Doctor’s confirmation. Two months in, seven to go. Click, click; back to the first screen. The balance didn’t have anything for maternity leave taken into account. It wouldn’t; couldn’t.     Opens his palm, stares at the wedding band.     “Walk away, no one knows, scott free, applicable for a pension package in five years and benefits last year. Turn yourself in, hefty fine, trial, prison stint; doctors prescribe analgesia and pain management, staid-paid; no provisions to the outside, though.”     Opens his palm, glares at the wedding band.     “What’s it gunna be, Larry. Conscience for the kid on it’s way or conscience for the innocent girl juiced into a gutter. C’mon, Larry. C’mon, man.”     Clenches the wedding band.

[rosswriting-blog]

Theoniverse; "Scuttle Boy", orig. a class assignment

Scuttle Boy

Theoniverse; Venezia, 1520s

    The breeze was biting, salt on the air, whipping one way and then twisting the next; ever an indecisive or irritating god. Was it Poseidon that controlled the wind, with trident of sea-beasts and foul fortunes at hand? Or Zeus, atop his lofty mountain domain, upon a throne only just lent to him by the Doge, a practical slave who maintains the title of “King of Olympia” as the final spite he can offer to the man-god that’s enthralled them? Even if it is either of them, and not some myriad of squabbling wind spirits, would that mean they’re getting their orders from the Doge? Why doesn’t he just have them cut the wind out? It’s irritating. Too irritating. Hurts business.     No one wants to gondola with this wind. To be sure, Venetians are used to it, but that doesn’t help much. Only those that have to are going to go about it. The rest will be cozy in their apartments. Cozy, and without my business. The little boy sighed, practical and existential worries both occupying his idle time between ‘customers’.     He was a gondola scuttle -- more like “alley rat of the sunken capitol,” he thought -- and it was his job to steer the walkway roving peoples of the city to gondola with the appropriate route and a decent price. The city had a winding, perplexing network of canals; and an even more complicated, conflicting network of gondola ferryman and boat corporations and various other means of transport across the water. The citizens of the city -- and what’s worse, the constant, ebb and flow of imperial visitors, administrators, soldiers, businessman, and rich, idiot tourists from across the world over -- couldn’t be expected to know all the routes, not by the hair of a balefire crucible.     It was too windy, and too deep in the winter. Tourists were rare, businessman rarer; not much in the way of scatter-brained customers for the boy, making his measly living pestering passersby for their destination and tailing them to an appropriate gondola for whatever little tip the ferryman deems appropriate for him -- if any. To be sure, there were always the Thalassifrigate of the imperial navy roving in and out of harbour, every day of the year, and sometimes even the impressive Treasure Ship that all the world over knew to mean hundreds, if not thousands, of imperial officers and magi, but the navy-men and women typically knew where they were headed in the city and how to get there. It was easy for them, new piers and buildings built and stream-lined for the military administration. Too clean; no need for a gondola scuttle amongst the imperial officers.     “Boy,” a callous voice barked over his shoulder, snapping him out of his shivering and introspection with a small yelp. “You are one of these scuttles, are you not, boy?”     He looked the man up and down; black robes, fuchsia trim. Not the most elaborate in the world, but he was definitely not clergy, given the general lack of obnoxious pantheonic or church furnishings. Maybe a mage-administrator. “Aye, ser! Wher’ ya headed, ser?”     “The Commission, boy, and fast,” he condescended, bony hands in his thick... padded pockets... Oh, how it was cold today.     “Aye, ser’a. This way!” And the boy took off, not too fast but certainly not laggardly. Down an alley and across a canal-bridge, down a bend in the way and stopping at the top of a stairs, gondola moored at the foot where canal met steps. “Here ya’re, ser!”     The man proceeded to ignore the boy, standing tall and almost unbothered by the wind as he beckoned down at the ferryman. “To the Commission, man?”     “Yeser. The price’s-”     The man interrupted, “Doesn’t matter,” and he silently plodded down the steps. “Just get me there, fast,” he intoned, striding onto the gondola.     The gondola was pulling away a few moments later when the wind bellowed, whipping the gondola’s company flag this way and that, scattering detritus from the street top over the edge and into the canal. The boy was almost blown off his feet, and he shrieked quietly. He was regaining his composure when the wind cracked through again, thrice as fierce and from the opposite direction, flinging him clean off his feet and head over moccasins right into the canal.     The first thing he felt was the wet and the iciness, but that extended only up from his head to mid-torso -- he was upside down; hit the water neck first -- and then it faded away to a warm, toasting dampness all over his body in a brief second. Next thing he knew, he felt on fire, the warmth burning his limbs. He heard steam exploding all around him, like the hiss of an alchemical shop. He was then in pain, up against cold, hard slabs of cobble, shoulder aching and feeling like it had been smashed to bits. He tried to roll over, groaning, face and arms and the torso under his shirt all scalding equally.     A few seconds later, still dazed and confused, he was rolled over, a soft foot in the small of his back. “Boy,” that monotone, harsh voice invaded the wordless pain.     He opened his eyes, but couldn’t see very well. They felt dry, very dry. He realized the warmth was fading, though, and everything was just getting damp.     “Speak up, boy. Ey.”     He looked again, and then rolled over and coughed. No water came out -- none had gotten in his throat -- but it was dry, too. He managed to speak a few seconds later. “Wh... whad ‘appened?”     “It seems you’re a sorcerer, boy, or else someone’s watching out for you. Blood-mage, looks like. Someone in your lineage got pretty dirty with a gargoyle or wyrm... or imp; something. Doesn’t matter. You’re a powerful one. Damn near lit that bloody gondola on fire, as well, and that whole water way there was smoke enough, long enough, to see the petrified wood of the lagoon floor bright and dry enough.”     He was confused, and, to say the least, stunned, “Whad?”     “Cut that idiotic frown off your face. You’ve got the blood of something potent in you. It won’t be going to waste. This is Venezia, boy, scepter of the arcane world. Tch, the highest archmage of them all sits on his throne just a few hundred meters away, off in the High Palace. You’re not living this down. Get up, boy, you’re no scuttle anymore. I said get up.”     He rolled over, crawling to his knees. They felt bruised, just as much as his elbows. And charred. He looked at his hands; his fingernails were pitched, some of them curled and cracked, fingers skinnier, taut, and darker than they should be.     “Don’t mind that. It was instinctual, unavoidable; the reaction uncontrolled. You burnt yourself nearly as much as you did everything else. It’ll be sorted out. You’re young enough yet. Get up, come on. The Commission can wait, I’m taking you to the Arsenal. Register you with Cadre Captain Donadeli myself, gods know my pay commission can’t laugh at a magi registration. I said get up, boy, you’re going to the navy and they’ll sort you to a school with teachers capable of teaching you. Gods know I don’t want to do it, but they’ll sort you out; never lose a possible mage, that’s practically the imperial anthem, i’n’t it.”     The man was in better humour -- still cold and callous, but at least he could chuckle at his own good fortune -- as he practically pulled the boy along through the streets back to the sprawling, fortified battlements and piers of the Venetian Arsenal.

[rosswriting-blog]

Theoniverse; "Trial of a Chronomancer", orig. a class assignment

Trial of a Chronomancer

Theoniverse; Venezia, 1496

    A sharp pain sent him bowing forward, audibly seething in pain and automatic surprise. He involuntarily groaned, but the groan was even cut off before it was complete, and as he opened his eyes he saw not even blackness; just void. The sensation of little lights dancing under his eyelids was not even present. He could feel himself breath, but not hear it.     He knew it would happen, and so his indignation was only brief and customary. He slowly pulled himself back up, leaning back into what he felt was a confident, tall posture upon the chair. He breathed slowly, and as a voice registered just in front of him, “The tried commits that occular and vocal capacities are inducted?” he nods in response.     “Very well,” the voice nods, and he imagines the speaker nods as well. He can sense the man turns around, back to him, and his next words are consequently spoken not to him. “As representative tried La Sacrum Arcaeum, I commit on behalf of the tried that the judiciary may proceed.”     A voice across the room, higher in octave but indifferent in tone, follows. “As representative legalitor La Sacrum Arcaeum, I commit on behalf of the council that the judiciary may proceed.”     There is shuffling and scuffing for a few seconds as those present in the chamber rise from their seats, and then an altogether new voice beckons out lyrically.     “La Sacrum Arcaeum consular trial of the tried and accused, defendant Otto Teleki, shall proceed under the constitution of the Dominum Venez Sacrum; heretofore, as stipulated, the legislative and judicial body of the Imperial Court of La Serenissima Domini di Venezii is the sanctioned judicial authority of this trial.     “In accordance,” he intones more softly, reverently, “the Imperial Court. Presenting the honourable tertiary judges: Triarch de Conjuration, Jean-Claude von Huit; Triarch de Divination, Ioannes IV Bouras.” The air in the room practically freezes as two sets of footfalls register at the end of the chamber, climbing to a marble dais and sitting in the leftmost of five high back thrones.     “Presenting the esteemed secondary judges: Tertius Triumvir of the Venezii Domin, the Impera Doge, Priori Triarch de Transmutation, Nero Petros; Priori Triarch de Chronomancy, Nomiki Souga.” This last name -- this Nomiki Souga -- was met with an audible, albeit very hushed, collective gasp of surprise from the chambers. The two subsequent sets of footsteps strode the dais unaffected, nonetheless, seated in the third and fourth thrones, and the room was rendered hesitantly silent once more.     “Presenting the eminent primary judge: Primus Triumvir of the Venezii Domin, His Excellence The Abd Doge, High-Archmage de Abjuration, Conjuration, Divination, Enchantment, Evocation, Illusion, Necromancy, Transmutation, Theon Vicensimus Abderras; Doge of Venice, Abd Ranpìn I; His Imperial Majesty, Holy Roman Emperor of the German Nation, Duke of The Palatinate, Mainz, Trier, Cologne, and Brandenburg, Abd Ranpìn III.” This final proclamation was met with a single set of footfalls.     “The trial presents the tried, Otto Teleki, honourary Cadre Captain of La Imperatores, retired from active careerhead. In accordance with all due respect, this trial is sanctioned by La Imperatores legion of the Venetian Navy, on special commission by naval highcommand, at the discretion of His Excellence The Doge, and the Drakonean Corps maintains this trial as accorded sentinels.”     There is a brief, significantly more noisy pause, as the two or three dozen armed sentinels around the room presumably each take a step forward in synchronous, bow, and return.     “As the official dignitary of La Sacrum Arcaeum,” the indifferent speaker that had introduced himself as legalitor intoned, “I ask if the Imperial Court commits to the proceedings.”     “My court commits. Dispense with any further formality and proceed, representatives.” This was said softly and quietly, but with such an intensity of cavalier command that there could be no doubt that the one who had responded was the autocratic god-king of Venice, Germany, and that veritable maritime empire that stretched across the world so conclusively that the sun was said to never set upon it.     “Very well, Your Ascendancy. The case of La Sacrum Arcaeum against the tried, one Otto Teleki, is that against the diction of the Triumviracy of the Domin, he attempted to learn, or re-create, a forbidden arcane art. His success or failure in this endeavour is not precisely measurable--” and he caught himself, as one of the judges interrupts stonily.     "Except by myself, legalitor.”     The legalitor continues, “Very well, your eminence. The record notes that Priori Triarch Nomiki Souga, in his once-capacity as Triarch of Chronomancy, is the only known practised mage of Chronomancy, following the cessation of life of his former. Accurate, your eminence?”     “Accurate.”     “Very well, your eminence. La Sacrum Arcaeum is of the collective consular opinion that Otto Teleki, in the practise of forbidden arts, is a paramount danger to mortal life and the Grand Campaign. While the mandate forbidding him practice or knowledge of the art was instituted by the Triumviracy, it is the independant opinion of the multi national council of La Sacrum Arcaeum that the danger of this man controlling time and space is too significant to be allowed.”     The legalitor ends, and the first man who had spoken -- the representative of the tried -- speaks up quickly. “For the record, it is the opinion of La Sacrum Arcaeum that the tried face capital soulular destruction?”     “It is.”     “La Sacrum Arcaeum acknowledges that, in the tried’s lifetime, he has risen from valet to his eminence, then-Triarch Nomiki Souga, through the military ranks to Cadre Lieutenant -- of the Drakonean Corps, no less -- and whom is directly responsible for the negotiation of subservience or subduing of five supranatural threats, and the alliance, even, of two wyrms. His stewardship of the Austrian frontier was one of many essential lynchpins to the Domin’s stalwart defense against the lower-lands of the Holy Roman Empire ‘till and through the turbulent years of His Excellence The Doge’s ascension to Emperor therein.     “La Sacrum Arcaeum acknowledges that the tried is not merely on trial for the supposed crimes of forbidden arcane brought forth, but that the mere existence of this trial brings to question the validity, honour, and service of the tried’s entire career. A career which has culminated in nothing short of fashioning one of the most esteemed military geniuses of the Frontier, if not the entire Domin; a genius so reknown that upon retirement he was awarded honorary Captainship of the La Imperatores, sirs. An invocation of rank so prestigious as to be unknown since this dominion’s conquest of Milan, a conquest which His Excellence The Doge personally committed -- sirs, this invocation of rank is so prestigious, I’m sure I need not remind you, that the only other being to hold it is our very much immortal sovereign.”     The room is chilled and quiet in absence of the representative’s speech, until, presumably by some gesture, the legalitor is forced to respond -- quite quietly. “La Sacrum Arcaeum does acknowledge it--”     But he is interrupted, the god-king breaking his assumed nonchalant silence. “Four decades ago it was my decree that this Otto Teleki be forbade to carry on Chronomancy. Whether he was humiliated and embarrassed, left ashamed by his infinite inferiority, and whether or not that motivated him, for the next three decades, to serve my dominion in greater and greater capacity with swifter and more urgent, valiant success is irrelevant. The accomplishments are no less in his lifetime than they would have been in some other soldier’s, and if I felt them truly necessary I would have simply maneuvered some other soldier into place to accomplish it all.     “The material prides of the tried mean nothing to me. Representatives, and jury, your lives mean nothing to me, I assure you. No individual, however prestigious, approaches such an import of personal being as to have their mere actions mean anything on an individual scale. To be sure, on a more massive scale, it is the culminated excellence of the individuals of this dominion and her -- my -- allies that shape this evanescent nation and shall continue to do so for untold millenium into the future.     “Nonetheless, this court shall care only for the accusations against the Tried, and the quantity of their repercussions -- his guilt cannot be called into question, it is entirely assured,” he nods to Priori Triarch Nomiki Souga, who remains dour and sagely at his side, “and the tried himself has already plead his otherwise assured guilt -- ‘with mitigating circumstances; that the restriction placed upon his learning of Chronomancy endangers the survival of the art itself, and does not serve to benefit the Domin.’”     He drummed his long, talon-esque fingernails against the table of the judiciary once, before softly leaning back and slipping back into silence. It is the representative who speaks once more, albeit much more subdued and far less vehement.     “Of course, Your Ascendancy,” and he softly cleared his throat. “I repeat the plea and its mitigating circumstances.”     The legalitor spoke next. “La Sacrum Arcaeum acknowledges no valid mitigating circumstances. The tried’s documented attempts to re-create and self-teach the forbidden art of Chronomancy is a direct act of almost treasonous abandon of Imperial Mandate -- not even Triumviral Mandate, but a mandate of His Excellence The Doge,” he gestures vaguely, albeit only lightly, toward the god-king, “and La Sacrum Arcaeum finds no safe or sound merit to the existence of this particular art in the first place -- my apologies, your eminence,” he nods softly to Priori Triarch Nomiki, “that I must admit so, but my point -- the stance of La Sacrum Arcaeum -- stands.”     “No offense taken, legalitor. I assure you I know the potential catastrophe of this art better than no one else, better even than Theon here.” The apparent casual, comfortable, and ultimately irreverant tone with which he referenced the god-king seemed outright shocking to virtually everyone in the room, but for the god-king himself, and his Tertius Triumvir.. Seeing as how neither of the two showed the apparent disgust to the Priori’s words that the rest of the room did, the legalitor cleared his throat softly and barreled on.     “That is the stance of La Sacrum Arcaeum, your excellencies...”     “Very well,” the Tertius Triumvir interjected, “I believe we’ve all heard enough.”     “With all due respect, Your Transcendency,” the representative of the tried nearly shouted, bringing himself to his feet, and trying as calmly as possible to crack his palm down on the table which the blinded, muted defendant was seated behind while doing so, “I must insist that the plea of mitigating circumstance is not simply hot air. Injudicious and irresponsible it may have been, perhaps, and dangerous and catastrophic it might have been, the fact nonetheless stands that Chronomancy is one of the singlemost potent high arts in arcane existence -- sirs, an art that only his eminence, Priori Triarch Souga, even possesses; an art, your excellencies, that His Excellence The Doge has admitted to himself not being capable of practicing.     “Your excellencies, forgive my impertinence, but I absolutely must stress with the utmost of my moral and clairvoyant fiber that Cadre Captain Teleki was not acting with wanton negligence and powerlust -- he bears no ill will, beyond shame and grief -- his service to this dominion, and subsequently to the future of mankind, cannot be questioned nor understated. He was attempting to do, your excellencies, something essential to save the existence of an art that he -- and, indeed, many others -- feel to be absolutely necessary to ensuring the continued victory of this dominion.”     One of the Triarchate judges, and the legalitor, both attempted to speak at once -- what’s more, the audience of the jury was all a-hum -- but no defense could be mounted as the room was swiftly brought to silence by the Abd Doge -- the god-king -- the dominion incarnate -- standing and turning and walking from the stand, Priori Triarch Nomiki Souga on his heels. And as they strode, he spoke softly and easily, “The court shall maintain position as myself and Nomiki here take a short recess. Stay away from each other’s throats, please.” And he gestured vaguely to the guards as they moved through the thick Thymanium-plated double doors, so as to have the aperture closed behind them.                                                                                                                    * * *     “We’ve all heard enough. I have made my decision. Out of curiousity, though, I will allow the judiciary to make their own votes as to sentence before I announce my decision. Continue, legalitor,” the Abd Doge quietly hisses a full hour later.     “Yes, Your Ascendancy. La Sacrum Arcaeum rests its trial. The Imperial Court of La Serenissima Domini di Venezii is called to impose judgement. Your vote, Triarch von Huit; Triarch Bouras?”     “Guilt without mitigation,” they both echo.     “Understood, your excellencies. Your vote, Doge Petros?”     “Guilt without mitigation,” he intones.     “Understood, Your Transcendancy. Your vote, Priori Triarch Souga?”     “Guilt -- with mitigation.” And then he interlocks his fingers, turning his gaze over to the god-king at his side, the smallest of smiles forming.     “... Understood, your excellency. Your vote, Doge Abderras?”     “Guilt -- with mitigation, legalitor. I must admit I am heavily inclined to holding Otto here up to the masses, so that I could let our dear Imperial Dragon, Ix, at him for scraps and amusement. At the same time, his concern and intentions are admirable, if not mortally shortsighted and abominable, and so I shall allow him the mercy of continued existence."     Theon, god-king, Doge of Venice, rose swiftly and crossed the threshold of the court room, so light of step and so loftily carried that the only way Otto could even tell he was approaching was that the room was so entirely silent that the soft, leathered footfalls of the man could be barely heard of the whispered silence of the atmosphere itself -- but practically only as a sixth sense, more than actual hearing.     And when he spoke again, his voice was indeed immediately in front of and above the seated, bound magocratic soldier, and the tone of voice was both callously condescending and softly nurturing. Practically the voice of a stern -- disappointed -- loving father. "You will not remain in this world, though. I can't allow it; I will not allow it. You will be entirely banished, irrevocably. No Nova Europan penal colony shall bear the burden of your presence; no dominated state shall have to fear you. You will be removed from this world, perhaps not dead, but everything you know, and love, shall become lost to you, Teleki.”     The god-king takes a quick step back, and pivots quickly on the balls of his feet, his elaborate garmets making a brief scuffle of sound. He immediately invokes, with a tone dually brimming with authority as it does seeping, verbal arcane energies, “Otto Teleki dies to us today, replaced by a brimstone phoenix. A brilliant military commander, and one of the wisest minds of this first age of this dominion, has fallen to the darkest of lust and the most atrocious of disobedience; let Otto Teleki, Cadre Captain of my most esteemed personal army, La Imperatores, be remembered as a wise mage and an even yet more powerful man -- and let us lament over the birth of Xlixtiz, fifth Forbidden Artist since the inception of La Sacrum Arcaeum and my benevolent, essential censorship of the blackest of mortal arts.     “Priori Triarch Nomiki Souga will return to his mission upon the morrow, leaving our realm once more, and he shall take this murderer-of-spirit and usurper-of-honour with him, and cast him into some devoid, lonely corner of an alien realm so thoroughly devoid of arcane energy, and supranatural capacity to the supreme, that Nomiki maintains the capacity to return here himself only through my own soulular guidance -- and in this abysmally, coldly mortal realm, Xlixtiz shall be as like any other, powerless mortal. This is his punishment, for now and for all time, through all the metaverse.”     Otto felt the blindness fade, the sudden invasion of bright daylight through un-tinted windows searing his returned sight; he felt the clot on his larynx vanish, the sudden lack of pressure surprise his throat so much that he coughed violently and nearly choked. He did all in his power to resist the coughing and the brimming headache, and he looked up at the back of the man in front of him, which was turning now to stare down at him one final time.     “I pronounce Otto Teleki dead,” the imposingly beautiful god-king practically whispered down at him. “And Xlixtiz his killer,” he concluded with a twitch of his perfectly trimmed eyebrows on his perfectly deific face. The headache was throbbing and moaning, and his vision was slipping naturally, whilst he buckled forward off the chair, managing only a hissed “I loved you...” to the elaborately purple-wrapped, platinum-adorned footwear before unconsciousness claimed him in this world for the final time.

[rosswriting-blog]

Mayaverse; Short Story 1; Scene 1; "Love Speech"

Preface: I don't really draft, this hasn't been edited or proof-read; the characters are fictional, but might be inspired by, modeled after, based on, or built around the people or experiences I or others around me have IRL, to widely varying degrees of authenticity or (in-)accuracy. Themes and content involving sexuality, identity, psyche, ideology, religion, drug/substance use, self-harm, suicide, violence, mature language, and sexual intercourse (molestation or rape not excluded), can be considered to -- eventually -- in some form or other, pervade these works of fiction. They are just that, though; entirely fictional. I do not seek to glorify or demonize anything herein, except perhaps for this: The Context of Humanity.

      “I feel like... even judging someone based on their personality, and identity, and stuff as they are, is kinda destined for failure, too.” She screwed up her lips a bit, glancing off to the left out the window and into the winter. “I mean, I feel like a good relationship is on that’s built, where nobody is perfect to begin with. I know there’s things about myself I’d like to change, or build, or grow, but I feel like I can’t do it by myself. Like,” still looking out the window, idly twirling a curl of hair, “I need someone to help. And I think everyone feels a bit the same, too. Or... at least I think that’s the key to everyone’s heart, underneath...” she’d shrug, “everything else.”     There was a crow on a planter outside, in the courtyard, and it had been captivating her visual attention since she spotted it, initially thinking it and the bush twitching behind it were some short person huddled under an awning for protection from the rain.     “Hmmm,” she’d idly hum, in accordance with a melodic cadence from the one earphone plugged in. “...If two people have a relationship that understands it’s not perfect, and a little weird, and a little uncomfortable, but it’s something both people think can be beautiful--” a very brief yawn, “--can mean something to you, really drives Sooomething in your lives... I think that’s... like, the most awesome thing.     “I do not think anyone is perfect, and i think trying to find someone perfect--” her gaze would slide back to the four in front of her, “--...well, regardless of what traits or whatever you’re filtering out for... I think it’ll take forever and maybe never happen. Because that perfection exists only in your mind, and no one can live up to it; especially not yourself. So, I think, if you get interested in someone for their potential; their potential for their self, and for you, and for a relationship, or even just their potential for one fun date, or... anything, I guess... I think that’s... at least kinda more realistic. A lot more laid back, and... like, no matter who they are--or your are!--or what the situation is, it’s okay. Because those enviromental factors don’t matter, and you’re just kinda giving someone a chance.”     She started off dwelling, a ramble; idle; but now, passion captivating, memories swooning or cringing, she was ruminating; tone, assured; gaze, locking on her audience in measure; faint gestures, sincere glances, slight, occasional smirks, and downtrod or lonely, darkly nostalgic lip-twitching as punctuation.     “Something could build, and the more effort, and concer, and gradual, thoughtlessly thoughtful time it takes -- for everyone -- the better. Because it builds something. It pours a foundation. Sure, it probably isn’t anything perfect. Of course, you may not even be sure what to call it -- but you are building it with your own metaphorical blood and sweat; and what, to a human, can be more psychologically accurate than metaphor? More reverberating?     “Your thoughts, your fun, your happiness -- their smiles, their disagreements, their gestures and scent and idle moments and fancies -- you, and them; you don’t realize it, but you are building something together for a while, and it’s okay to not have a label, or presuppositions, or perfection, because it’s something else entirely. It’s real.     “One day you will look down and make notice -- of this foundation of steel or concrete or timber or wayward dust -- and will find yourself effortlessly intoning to that ‘someone’ at your side, ‘Hey, is this your foundation...?’ ”     She pauses a moment, biting a corner of her lips, with an uncharacteristically soft smile.     “And then you'll realise, sure, parts of that foundation are theirs; but look, that piece over there is yours, and that part here -- that they broke -- you fixed, and those things over there, that look weird to everyone else, are like this inside joke to you, necessary to holding this other segment over here up; haphazard, shoddy, unplanned; that foundation would terrify any architect worth their salt... terror at how,” she pauses, shortly at a loss, clenching a slightly raised fist. “...At the beauty and will in this disorganization. -- And then it hits you! No one needs to be perfect! Because, if they're perfect, what does it matter who you are? But if you're both whatever degrees of imperfect and willing to put effort into something that you can't quite label at first -- Even if it feels weird! -- you are creating things together; ‘This!’ thing together...”     She trails off at the end, breathless; and for one of the few times in her life, she finds herself at a loss for further words. Somewhere near the end, her gaze had flickered off to the left, out that frosted window.     A few long moments passed in the quiet hall, the din of lunch hour not exactly quiet in this central area of the school, but presently not disturbing enough that it could be considered ‘loud’ around the gathering spot of this group of teens.     Finally, the one straight male present spoke up, “Dude, that was kind’a dope.” Irish accent, thick red-haired brow raised on the left, lips parted a bit unusually.     “. . . OHHH MY GOOOD,” the only other girl chided in, in what could easily be considered a shouted whisper. “Like, all of my feels, man...! Like, I feel like that's something that they'd narrate into, like, a cute romance movie, and even though they’re using it in a movie it's still really true, and it, like, plucks everyone's heart strings, ‘cause people who actually believe and think about love are gonna think things along those lines!” Exhale, inhale, “It may not be the same wording, but it'd just be small branches off the main point -- and everyone would cry! And be like, ‘I feel the same way!’”     Taken slightly aback -- or surprised out of the stupor of confidence her passion had imbued, back to a reality of closely guarding her tongue (and sensitivity) -- she would open and close her mouth a few times in rapid succession, slightly frown, and furrow a brow. “I- … I kind of just figured it’s sorta how everyone feels about love, but can’t quite express it. That’s all...”     And then the second girl suddenly started up again, almost conspiratorially, a practical continuation of her original response, “--And then they'd go out and buy that movie and sit and cry and share it with people--” quick breath,”--and that's how they can tell people that stuff without sayin’ it, … y’know...?!”     “Yeah, we got it, Alice,” the straight guy threw at girl #2, also known as ‘Alice’, in a distinctly heavy Yorkshire accent with additional emphasis on her name; a white grin flashing at her.     Alice, suddenly embarrassed at how childishly excited her reaction was, reddens and grins just a little bit more, “Well, I think Maya was right, man!”     She, Maya, makes a kind of upturned V with her eyebrows in response, with a quiet, almost equally embarrased, “Heehh...”     “Most people don’t realize it, because she’s usually such a massively obnoxious, cunty bitch, but Maya is probably the most hopeless romantic that ever there was or will be. Aaaand that is coming from me, hashtag forever alone gay.” Silent and watchful up ‘till then, the youngest of their group of friends, was the other male present.     Maya made a coy face down at the guy -- DOWN at him, essentially one of very few carbon-compound structures of sentient posture in the universe which is actually shorter than her -- and tsked, “Carmichael is obviously a master wordsmith of the fifth sarcastic order. Me? Sensitive? Nonsense. Blasphemy. Sarcasm and cynical condescension is where it’s at, mo’fucka’s.”     “Naw, your brother’s got a point, dudette. Ya got all wistful and shit. It was pretty hot, actually. You’re usually too busy bein’ a nasty li’l egoist to be so adorable, y’know that?” This, from the straight male, in a notably flawless, though stereotypical, depiction of an English accent.     Alice nods with him, while giving Alice a big smile.     “Uhhh. You were all sharing some mutual, marijuana drug induced, alien manipulated hallucination,” the super-short, sixteen-goin’-on-seventeen year old girl intones, having reverted to her usual toneless expression and punctuation using arm-folding and not-at-all-subtle raising of her head and/or adjusting-thrusting her prominent, albeit classy-blazer-covered, bust.     Alice groans, audibly. “Pf, as if. Genius over here sold the last of our already meagre supply of weed this morning.”     “Well, that obviously throws a wrench in the drug induction, alien manipulation, hallucination theory, now doesn’t it,” Carmichael off-hands.     “Why did you do that?” Maya inquires, with a curious -- not in the least pleased or displeased about the actual loss of marijuana, really -- lean forward on the balls of her feet.     Carmichael shrugs nonchalantly and stretches. Alice sits next to him on the bench for a few moments, with Maya leaning forward, before entirely randomly making a tiny little dinosaur sound, which consequently has the straight male punctuate a single word in a singularly, now-concerned Irish; “Really.”     The short boy flicks his gaze between them some, slightly paling and slightly reddening, before ripping the cavalier expression off for an indignant, small, facial mask that as well body-languages the unspoken implications as the next words possibly could have: “They wanted it and I’m small.”     Alice didn’t have any immediate reaction, but Maya snapped from leaning to standing so tall and appearing so infuriated as to be a bear, and the straight, fiery-haired male’s expression of cold, calculatedly possessive concern didn’t change. It probably just deepend. Which is probably what allowed Alice to clue in, two seconds after.     “Oh, Sebastien, Maya, don’t go causing--” and so Alice was cut off by Maya promptly clapping her hands together.     “We are not cause, we are affect,” and she swivels on the balls of her feet to face Sebastien directly. “Shall we--” but he had already turned and started walking off down the hall, hand in the pockets of his leather jacket, bobbing in such a manner that his back gave the impression of being a hulking, sleek black machine emanating a very incendiary exhaust from where the head should be; and that impression is not entirely inaccurate.     Sebastien Ronal O’Neil -- 17 via May 9th, 1995, 6’2”, red-headed, physically fit and dexterous; Goju-Ryu blue belt that would probably make a better boxer... or Muay Thai practicioner -- and Maya Veronika Asama -- 16 via February 14th, 1996, 5’1”, naturally black haired but currently dyed blond with pink tips, skinny; swimmer’s body; 36D’s; Goju-Ryu brown belt that would presently be a third or fourth degree black belt if not for her tendency toward violent problem solving regardless of her training (and actual, contradicted, personal belief) indicating that violence is the final refuge of the stupid -- were gone, down the hall and around the corner, together.     Alice Springett and Carmichael Vincent Asama looked swept up, dubious, and concerned. “You didn’t have to tell them,” Carmichael hisses... guiltily.     “What?! I didn’t know! Uhhh.”     “. . .”     “Sorry...” Alice mumbles, to which Carmichael rests his head against her shoulder.