09-13-2018, 02:23 PM
(This post was last modified: 09-13-2018, 02:27 PM by Jaxen Marveet.)
Jaxen was center stage when a tornado of plumes circled on all sides. In the moment, he couldn’t tell whether it was him or the illusion that drank in the adoration of a crowd begging for more. Such exhilaration!
… but first, the finale.
The wry grin that flickered was definitely his when he disappeared into the darkness that was stage-right. In the expert way that performances could deceive, the set began to shift. Players swapped when one dipped out of sight, replaced by someone else. The practice that went into this performance was astounding, but only slightly adapted from previous shows to expedite the need. Following the Ball, and the slow trickle of rumors bled from the wound, Jaxen called his contacts immediately. The show would be a raging success, but never so much as tempted before. Derogatory graffiti within the bounds of the Golden Ring was not abided by the government. Fines and worse crushed those attempting to speak against his lordship Ascendancy. It had always been that way. For the most part, Moscovites, and Russians before them, accepted the restraints, almost proud to do so.
But times changed. Gods rose from the moats, rising against the kings harbored safely in their castles. It wouldn’t be long before rivals were revealed. The way things were heading, the world would plunge into darkness in a matter of decades (if not sooner). Why not push it along?
The music shifted then. Hilarity and frivolity faded as something more sinister wafted from below. Like those swamp gods crawling from murky waters to behold fresh air for the first time. Strings, deep and hollow, touched to the bone. Warning of something to come.
The sheer shirt sparkled with all the little glistening ass-candies sewn into the fabric. The spotlight blazed a beam of pure white light upon him. Feet innumerable shuffled in the shadows.
Then, the bleating of a lamb bellowed in the hall. A second spotlight illuminated Desmond Du Marc gripping the rope restraining a pure white lamb.
Ass-candy spread his arms like he welcomed the little creature for a hug, but instead, sickly orange lights cast their hellish lamps upon nine newly positioned figures between them.
Young girls. Dancers chosen specifically for their diminutive size. Each one adorned in the national costume of bygone cultures eradicated from modern times. A kimono upon one. The sparkling sari upon another. The hijab. The ruffled dresses of Andalusian folk dresses of Spain. Shawls and kerchiefs of gothic Slovakia. Each one a different woman. Each one staring at Nikolai Brandon in defiance. But looming behind each girl was an enormous pole draped with flags unfurled. Gray tipped with colors and shapes. The Dominances awaited to cover each like a shroud.
Brandon stalked to the first one. Power sizzled through Jaxen as a great, intangible scythe appeared to slice through the girl. She screamed and crumpled. A spray of red, false, exaggerated red, erupted like a fountain. Brandon snatched the first flag from its pole and draped it from his shoulders.
Then to the second. The scythe swung. He laughed victoriously as the girl in the kimono was no more. More red fountains. Another flag to claim.
One by one, he cut his way through the girls. The stage was a pool of red that drained through slits in the floorboards. The great screen behind them flickered with hellish flames licking closer. By the time the ninth body fell at his feet, the flags formed a cloak that draped from his shoulders like kingly robes. The scythe disappeared as he seemed to kick and roll the human sacrifices toward the center of the stage until they piled up.
He climbed the corpses, then, cloak trailing over ruined faces as he did. Fog billowed from a chair upheld by broken backs that he sat upon.
Jaxen’s heart was pounding in his chest. Nothing – NOTHING like this had been attempted before. Recording devices were likely spreading the tale, if anyone had the wherewithal to retrieve one from their frozen, shocked stupor.
But he relished in the chaos to come. A slap to Brandon that none other was willing to attempt. It wasn’t personal. Truly. Jaxen had little qualm with the man himself to incite such rebellion against his aura.
It had everything to do with the institution itself. A mockery. Someone had to do it. Someone had to dare to be first. Delightfully, that someone was Jaxen.
Ass-candy waved at Desmond. The male, still wrapped with the costume mocking a tuxedo, the sleeves cut at the biceps, black jewels sewn like sparkling shadows across his back. His hair was shorn to a black carpet close to the scalp. His cheekbones high. Globes of eyes glistening white. Just like the man he imitated. No illusion required.
He led the bleating lamb to the foot of the stairs otherwise strewn with the bodies of Brandon’s conquest. There, Desmond pulled a very real, very sharp knife from his coat and plunged it into the downy fur. Screeching stung their ears. Music rose to a crescendo but was an ineffective muffle to the horrors observed. Jaxen forced his lip from curling. But this time, the blood was real. The red not faked.
The sacrifice completed, Jaxen folded finally into his seat when everyone on stage bowed their faces to the floor before him.
The hiss of a smile licked his lips as the curtain fell.
Your move, Ascendancy.
When next he appeared, the curtain was a shield from the mess hidden behind. The players in the show were announced but their real names were carefully withheld. They took their bows amid well-earned applause.
But when the part of Ass-Candy was declared, Jaxen sauntered out a solitary figure. He was willing to take the consequences of this show upon his shoulders alone.
He wore the aura of Nikolai Brandon until the very moment his name echoed the theatre.
And he basked in the glory while the illusion finally unraveled. Gasps erupted, cheering and whistling for the mastery of magic flooded his skin like a drug. His very real eyes and very real cowl of hair glittered with endless amusement. He spread his arms, dipped a leg backward, and bowed with delightful drama.
… but first, the finale.
The wry grin that flickered was definitely his when he disappeared into the darkness that was stage-right. In the expert way that performances could deceive, the set began to shift. Players swapped when one dipped out of sight, replaced by someone else. The practice that went into this performance was astounding, but only slightly adapted from previous shows to expedite the need. Following the Ball, and the slow trickle of rumors bled from the wound, Jaxen called his contacts immediately. The show would be a raging success, but never so much as tempted before. Derogatory graffiti within the bounds of the Golden Ring was not abided by the government. Fines and worse crushed those attempting to speak against his lordship Ascendancy. It had always been that way. For the most part, Moscovites, and Russians before them, accepted the restraints, almost proud to do so.
But times changed. Gods rose from the moats, rising against the kings harbored safely in their castles. It wouldn’t be long before rivals were revealed. The way things were heading, the world would plunge into darkness in a matter of decades (if not sooner). Why not push it along?
The music shifted then. Hilarity and frivolity faded as something more sinister wafted from below. Like those swamp gods crawling from murky waters to behold fresh air for the first time. Strings, deep and hollow, touched to the bone. Warning of something to come.
The sheer shirt sparkled with all the little glistening ass-candies sewn into the fabric. The spotlight blazed a beam of pure white light upon him. Feet innumerable shuffled in the shadows.
Then, the bleating of a lamb bellowed in the hall. A second spotlight illuminated Desmond Du Marc gripping the rope restraining a pure white lamb.
Ass-candy spread his arms like he welcomed the little creature for a hug, but instead, sickly orange lights cast their hellish lamps upon nine newly positioned figures between them.
Young girls. Dancers chosen specifically for their diminutive size. Each one adorned in the national costume of bygone cultures eradicated from modern times. A kimono upon one. The sparkling sari upon another. The hijab. The ruffled dresses of Andalusian folk dresses of Spain. Shawls and kerchiefs of gothic Slovakia. Each one a different woman. Each one staring at Nikolai Brandon in defiance. But looming behind each girl was an enormous pole draped with flags unfurled. Gray tipped with colors and shapes. The Dominances awaited to cover each like a shroud.
Brandon stalked to the first one. Power sizzled through Jaxen as a great, intangible scythe appeared to slice through the girl. She screamed and crumpled. A spray of red, false, exaggerated red, erupted like a fountain. Brandon snatched the first flag from its pole and draped it from his shoulders.
Then to the second. The scythe swung. He laughed victoriously as the girl in the kimono was no more. More red fountains. Another flag to claim.
One by one, he cut his way through the girls. The stage was a pool of red that drained through slits in the floorboards. The great screen behind them flickered with hellish flames licking closer. By the time the ninth body fell at his feet, the flags formed a cloak that draped from his shoulders like kingly robes. The scythe disappeared as he seemed to kick and roll the human sacrifices toward the center of the stage until they piled up.
He climbed the corpses, then, cloak trailing over ruined faces as he did. Fog billowed from a chair upheld by broken backs that he sat upon.
Jaxen’s heart was pounding in his chest. Nothing – NOTHING like this had been attempted before. Recording devices were likely spreading the tale, if anyone had the wherewithal to retrieve one from their frozen, shocked stupor.
But he relished in the chaos to come. A slap to Brandon that none other was willing to attempt. It wasn’t personal. Truly. Jaxen had little qualm with the man himself to incite such rebellion against his aura.
It had everything to do with the institution itself. A mockery. Someone had to do it. Someone had to dare to be first. Delightfully, that someone was Jaxen.
Ass-candy waved at Desmond. The male, still wrapped with the costume mocking a tuxedo, the sleeves cut at the biceps, black jewels sewn like sparkling shadows across his back. His hair was shorn to a black carpet close to the scalp. His cheekbones high. Globes of eyes glistening white. Just like the man he imitated. No illusion required.
He led the bleating lamb to the foot of the stairs otherwise strewn with the bodies of Brandon’s conquest. There, Desmond pulled a very real, very sharp knife from his coat and plunged it into the downy fur. Screeching stung their ears. Music rose to a crescendo but was an ineffective muffle to the horrors observed. Jaxen forced his lip from curling. But this time, the blood was real. The red not faked.
The sacrifice completed, Jaxen folded finally into his seat when everyone on stage bowed their faces to the floor before him.
The hiss of a smile licked his lips as the curtain fell.
Your move, Ascendancy.
When next he appeared, the curtain was a shield from the mess hidden behind. The players in the show were announced but their real names were carefully withheld. They took their bows amid well-earned applause.
But when the part of Ass-Candy was declared, Jaxen sauntered out a solitary figure. He was willing to take the consequences of this show upon his shoulders alone.
He wore the aura of Nikolai Brandon until the very moment his name echoed the theatre.
Jaxen Marveet!
And he basked in the glory while the illusion finally unraveled. Gasps erupted, cheering and whistling for the mastery of magic flooded his skin like a drug. His very real eyes and very real cowl of hair glittered with endless amusement. He spread his arms, dipped a leg backward, and bowed with delightful drama.