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(no subject) [Sep. 2nd, 2005|03:40 pm]
feurety
It was night. It was always night it seemed. In this city, daytime was when the real world slept. Those who went about their business during the suns chariot race across the sky were like the insects on the forest floor. Going about their business ignorant of the anything around them, the forest for the trees if you will. The forest could be on fire and the insects would still scuttle back and forth, among the decaying mass called society and be completely oblivious til the flames directly crossed their paths. And by the time the inferno rained down upon them, it was already too late, and their McFat faces would always register a completely shocked and awed expression of stupid surprise while turning to each other silently asking, "Who knew?" and "Why didn't anyone tell us?".

The fact is, you can't feel sorry for the insects, they are just not capable of helping themselves. You can give them all the signs, the sweltering heat of their atmosphere being incinerated, or choking their oxygen from around them as the smoke congests their streets, hell you can even try and send them water to help and they will simply drown in the flood cursing the "men behind the curtain" for not telling them why. It's their own damned fault you see, and with insects while they serve their purpose in the ecosystem of the forest, providing a chain of function and nutrition for the life forms above them, you simply can't feel sorry if you accidentally step on a few.

In Seth's lifetime he had definitely stepped on a few, hell, one wouldn't be surprised to see him out back behind the figurative would shed with a magnifying glass from time to time either. However, Seth also knew that if you piss off one ant, wasp, spider, or human, you risk the attack of the horde. And in turn you best be wanting to kill that damnable insect before it kills you.

The phone call he received from Dale, "It couldn't have been anyone else...could it?" he thought to himself languidly, was distressing but not altogether unfamiliar. He had seen his share of lynch mobs especially during the freeing of the slaves, but the mobs of today's realm existed in an anonymity that those ignorant bastards of the KKK could never achieve. For it was the age of information and the internet and television and satellite. And though this caller could be another boy who cried wolf, this world, this time, there is always somebody listening.

He made a mental list of the places to start trying to track down Dale. He had the boy's school, which was a start, but that wouldn't be a guaranteed lead to his current whereabouts. He compiled a list of places and things that he tried to remember Kayla referencing when he got to know her. The more and more he thought about it he got wound up in a cycle of memories and living horrors as he suddenly found himself facing all those he destroyed. All the innocents, the unintentionals.... he was rocking back and forth on the couch, his shirt was off and he didn't realise that with the dull prongs of the fork he was clawing deep rigid gashes in his left pectoral muscle. The pain was numb as it always was and the slow burning sensation of the wound was the key to knowing it was already healing but he still tried in vain to keep cutting. It was with such vigorous effort that he was gouging himself, completely oblivious to his actions as he recited the names of the innocent....so many that he hadn't yet begun to repeat himself and wouldn't for awhile. The sharp snap of the fork as it caught jaggedly on one of his ribs, was enough to jar him from his psychotic nightmare mantra.

Shaking himself into reality, climbing out of the well of souls that lay ever smoldering inside him, he realised he was getting cold from the blood loss. The couch was leather, easy to clean when this happened. He stripped off his remaining clothes and with the bundled up wad of a shirt pressed to his sore gaping wound, he strode to towards the bathroom. It was almost routine, like an alcoholic falling off the wagon. He'd just pick up where he left off, dust himself off and try and start again, shoving the episode of weakness to the back of his mind until it came running forward another time.

He turned on the shower, the bathroom still in darkness, and climbed into the already steaming abyss. The hot water cleansed his wound with a fury that even he was surprised at how much it burned. Ironic that he who walks in flame gets burned by the essence of water. He leaned against the glass wall of the shower cubicle and let himself just sit there and burn. He knew the water was red, but he didn't dare turn on the lights when he had one of his episodes. He wouldn't look in the mirror either for a full day probably as his guilt though satiated for another day to his self inflicted torture, always lingered around him, like the stink of the dead that only he could smell. Atlas would have sighed and looked away in sorrow to the weight on Seth's shoulders.

After about a half hour or so, he robotically climbed out and dried himself. No need of a towel, he was dry within seconds, save for head full of damp hair. The wound though deep had already cauterized itself and would probably be only a thin white scar within the next day or two. Gingerly, he pulled out the first aid kit from the closet and dressed the wound, if he found himself exerting or contorting unusually, the wound could still split open, which would be a terrible inconvenience if he wore a white shirt.

Once that was done and still nude, he went upstairs to his walk in closet and selected a plain black long sleeve shirt, pulling it over his head with a faint wince and then selected a pair of silk boxers to put on as well. Jeans and socks were next til once again fully clothed he felt reasonably fresh and headed downstairs. Grabbing a leather jacket out of the main closet near the entryway, and selecting a pair of shitkicker biker boots, he decided he needed a breath of fresh air. It was still a couple of hours til morning and the river front was a great place to relax and clear your mind amongst the tranquil serenity of fog horns on barges and the ever present sirens always somewhere off.

He hardly ever met anyone on these endeavours late at night, walking by himself, but he knew he wasn't the only one up. Like rush hour traffic the city would be teeming with the real animals of the forest. The ones to which the insects supported, and there was always the chance of happening upon one of the many wolves or blood suckers that prowled the forest night.

He put on his sunglasses that he had grabbed from the end table on the way out, then searched his pockets as he walked down the rain slicked streets. Another thing about this city was the perpetual look as if had always just rained, and yet he didn't recall it raining earlier...

"Ah there you are..." he found the rolled joint that was in the inside pocket of the leather jacket. He wasn't one for drugs but every now and then he would smoke a joint to take the edge off. With his metabolism alcohol was about as effective as a sugar rush from soft drinks, plus drinking by yourself was always pathetic. The joint had probably sat in that jacket for about a month, so it was probably a little dry, but he didn't care. He needed to mellow out.

Not caring for lighters he lit the end of the pinner and drew in. He exhaled after holding it in for a few and coughed lightly, wondering as always, how people could get hooked on this shit or even cigarettes for that matter. Taking a turn down an alley the dock where he liked to sit and chill was in sight. A fog was rolling in as the warmth of the early night was burning off and the cool water created the vapour that made the harbour truly ambient in the wee hours. The only sounds was his thick leather boots echoing off the walls of the alleyway and the smoky distant call of the fog horn like some mechanical lonesome loon of the modern world.....


(ooc: up for grabs if anyone wants to. Be gentle though, I still new to this. heh)
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(no subject) [Aug. 26th, 2005|02:08 pm]
feurety
Audition form
Real name & age: Adam, 24

AIM/Yahoo: Feurety (or
Blckmgk on MSN)

Email: blckmgk@shaw.ca

Experience: Some Shadowrun
online rp, and some DnD online rp but otherwise I am a complete newbie, please
be kind and patient with me. heh.

Where did you find out about us?:
victoriagamers

Character name & age: Saethu Feurety, looks to be in
late 20s to early 30s, but around 212 years old.

Species: Demon
(pyrokinetic)

Character background: An extremely misanthropic individual,
hates himself for his past and what he is and is afraid to get close to people,
fearing what will happen. He has killed by accident everyone he has ever been
close to and as such has resorted to scarring himself so he will never forget.
His scars heal over time so he always cuts himself anew. He is pyrokinetic and
ages very slowly, as to if he is immortal, he is unsure, but he believes it to
be true unless proven otherwise. He has had blackouts during periods of intense
emotion, and always woken up in smouldering ruin. He can create and control fire
but uses it rarely for anything too major exhausts him and renders him near
comatose for hours if not days on end. Whether or not he is in control during
his blackouts is unknown to him, and he fears it could be his demonic blood that
brings out something evil within him. So he protects himself and others with an
overly brazen demeanour, discouraging others beforehand. As such he leads a
lonely life. He hones his body and soul through fierce meditation and rigorous
practise of martial arts, through which he has learned a variety throughout the
years. Beyond that he goes by the name of Seth and his welsh accent is all but
gone only trickling in from time to time when he doesn't catch
himself.

LJ name for character: feurety

Sample:

The
warehouse loft style apartment was located near the East River, in a more
industrial area of Queens. Huge vaulted ceilings and next to no walls, Seth
drove into "garage" portion of his vast barren dwelling. The headlights
reflected an almost harsh cast of illumination on his belongings. The kitchen on
the left hand side, the loft open bedroom on the second story, made gothic by
the contrast of the black wrought iron railings and staircase against the beam
of the car lights. The living room to the right, minimalist in design, little
did others know it was simply less of a fire hazard to own fewer things. The
study lay towards the back of the warehouse, beneath the bedroom, he liked the
close confines of it relative to the openness of the rest of the abode. The
shower and bath lay to the back left corner.
He turned the ignition off and the purr of the RX8 engine fell quiet. He clicked
the small button on his key fob and the steal doors rolled closed shutting out
the amber glow of the night city beyond, save for the large heavy windows that
showcased the East River and the skyline across it. Getting out of the car,
there came the soft padded footsteps of an all black cat, Mephistopheles. Humans
wouldn't have heard the cat approach but the severity of his hearing allowed him
to pinpoint the cat approaching from the couch before it had a chance to purr or
announce its presence.

His eyes as well, behind the dark tinted glasses
were also adept at piercing the darkness and he bent to pick up the feline,
which would have otherwise looked as if he were scooping darkness incarnate into
his arms and holding it close. The cat started purring at this and started
bunting his chin, its golden eyes yearning up at him.

"Yeah yeah... I
know what you want." With that he bent again to let the cat jump out of his
arms. In his 200 years he had yet to find a cat that would allow itself to be
placed all the way to the ground. Always, and he figured he was in a relative
position to comment in absolute, always cats leapt the last quarter of the way
down.

Mephisto bounded off towards the kitchen with a happy tail, and
Seth proceeded to glide towards the couch. Softer than the cat, his feet made
but naught a sound. He took off the trenchcoat and tossed it lazily on the back
of the couch. He took the glasses off as well and set them on the side table. He
didn't turn on any lights and navigated through the pools of darkness as if it
were the equivalent to the midday sun.

He proceeded to the kitchen where
his expectant cat seemed to be trying to rub its colour off on the corner of the
counter with its jaw. In 200 some off years... cats were still a mystery to
him... well except for that jumping thing.

He stooped to open the
cupboard beneath the sink, he grabbed a can of catfood and opened it via the
little pull tab atop of it. The aroma of the meat concoction made him salivate
shamefully and he realized he hadn't eaten all day. He dished out the contents
of the can with a fork unto a small dinner plate and gave it to Mephisto who
hungrily began burrowing his nose into it, purring with ever mouthful.


Seth went to the fridge and opened it, the stabbing light of it when the
door opened made him wince and still squinting he surveyed the contents. Beer
and steak. He had a wine cooler and some nice vintage red on some racks in the
study area, but he figured he would stick with the beer and steak tonight.
Grabbing a cold one, he cracked it and polished it down in 2-3 large gulps. He
quietly burped and excused himself to no one in particular.

He then
grabbed another and a thick raw steak still in its package from the meat deli.
He tore it open and tossed it on a plate, grabbing a fork on the way to the
living room.

By the time he reached the couch the steak was already a
nice savoury medium rare. A trick that took nearly 20 years alone to get down to
perfection. There was many a year he had to choke down charcoal.

He turned on the television, a flat screen 40 inch, and flicked through the
channels looking for anything of interest. He knew that there were others like
him or at least similar. He usually found out the hard way about them and they
more often then not didn't seem to take a liking to him. Perhaps they could
smell his blood and how it was different, or perhaps they didn't share his brand
of humour but it usually resulted in them trying to kill him. He learned then to
be aware and know what to look for. He knew for sure there were any range of
demons out there, but the primaries seemed to be the vamps and
wolves...

"Pimps and Chuds, Sharks and the Jets..." he had mused to
himself once.

Once he recognized them he knew to try and avoid
confrontation, some seemed highly territorial and if he lingered too long in
their area they made it known. Since, he had known how to recognize them in the
news. Missing persons, homeless deaths, mysterious deaths, all news that is
shouldered to the back of the newspaper where only the families of the victims
dare tread and face the grim reality of one who has become part of the food
chain.

He always checked the news from time to time to see if any thing
suspicious seemed to be near enough to cause for concern. He had been in the
warehouse apartment for 6 years now and with it finally being almost completely
fireproofed in 2003, he didn't want to have to go through all that again anytime
soon. Nothing drew his attention and he turned it onto an older Meg Ryan movie
that was already part way through. French Kiss it was with Kevin Kline. Good
movie, being old like he was, one needed a hobby and he became a videophile
shortly after bata videos crashed and burned. He saw the same thing happening
with VHS these days and he often wondered where man's technology would take them
next. To a greater more subtle extent, the reason he got lost in movies, is that
it replaced and supplicated the innate desire he had to lead a normal
life....

The cell phone in his duster jacket produced a muffled vibration
then interrupting Kevin Kline accosting a frenchman named Bub or was it Bob? He
never had the ringer turned on and found it often an affront to the ears of the
general public, and quietly despised those who had "catchy" ring tunes which
seemed to add a whole new level of lingering annoyance long after the cell phone
user had left your immediate vicinity.

Scrounging through his jacket he
found the phone and flipped it
open...

"Hello?"

"...."

"Hello?"

"...."


"Well thanks for calling, have a good night, look forward to doing this
again sometime." Seth made to close the phone and hang
up.

"Wait...."

"Yes, can I help you?" Seth was mildly irritated,
only paying half attention to the caller and watching more of the movie as he
cut another bite sized morsel of his delectable
steak.

"You..."

"rmmrmrmm? *I what?*" Seth grumbled through a
mouthful of food.

"You aren't human."

Seth finished chewing and swallowed before thinking of what to say next. Every
now and then his only real threat from humans presented itself if someone
started asking too many questions or getting to close. This fellow on the other
end of the phone line, seemed to fall in the former part of those categories and
subsequently somehow found Seth's number. Unlisted as it was Seth still
occasionally got the wrong phone number call, or from certain associates.
Otherwise the device was largely useless in the function of receiving calls.
Being close to two in the morning he had presumed it was a wrong number or some
pathetic obscene caller or something. Nothing to seriously require his
attention.

But if a human does start poking around too much, it could
compromise Seth's position in life more so than any cracked out vamp or
testosterone-ridden werewolf. For humans like cats were curious and Seth hated
when curiosity would have to result in the killing of the cat. Seth's position
in life was simply that he didn't exist, not as one person, and if the cattle
like masses of humans start getting wind of something the media was not far
behind. And media, can result in a quicker death than any wooden stake or silver
bullet.

"Do I know you?" Seth replied with a calm cool
precision.

"No, but I know of you, and you killed my
family..."

The figurative ball dropped and Seth allowed himself a bead of
sweat to nervously grace his brow. Seth rarely killed families, and if he did it
was more often a result of one of his black outs. The mention of such an
atrocity made for a sudden flare up of the wounds hidden beneath his shirt. As
if each cut suddenly sparked a blow torch or guilt and grief. The voice was
male, younger, perhaps close to what Seth's apparent age was.

"Look I
don't know what..."

"DON'T YOU FUCKEN LIE TO ME!! YOU EVIL BASTARD!! YOU
TOOK MY FAMILY AWAY FROM ME. MY PARENT'S, AND MY SISTER..."

And that was
it. 4 years ago, Seth as it always was inevitably, grew close to someone despite
his intentions. Her name was Kayla, and she was an art student. 26 years old and
getting her masters from Tisch school of the Arts with NYU in Cinema Studies. He
met her at a small gala following the New York International Independent Film
and Video Festival opening in April. They hit it off and he allowed himself to
see her again. Again happened a few more times, til he found himself having
dinner with her and her parents in Manhattan. The evening had been going well,
but sometime during after dinner sherry....it was Amontillado, exquisite.... he
blacked out. He awoke amongst an inferno. He was unscathed but the charred forms
silhouettes against the blazing walls were still in a state of recline,
suggesting they hadn't even had a chance to set their drinks down before their
flesh was seared from their bodies and burned away. Sirens suggested the
building was still intact and he fled before the authorities arrived. It was
always hard to gauge how much time had transpired after his blackouts.


He hated himself afterwards, and still did. He hadn't had a blackout in
almost 20 years prior to that and he allowed himself a luxury he could never
afford and still paid for it every time he glanced into a mirror.

He remembered back to that night, and prior. Talking with Kayla, how she
mentioned her parents, and her brother, Dale, who was away taking his Bachelor's
at Howard University in D.C. A business school. Seth had never met
him.

"Look, please calm down. We can talk about this."

"THERE IS
NO TALKING NOW. YOU KILLED MY FAMILY, YOU TOOK EVERYTHING AWAY FROM
ME...."

He had to belay a notion of ignorance, admitting to anything
would only prove dire later.

"Just tell me who you are, I can help you.
If something is wrong let me..."

"NO!" The caller interrupted Seth again.
Seth could hear the mounting adrenaline, the synapses were firing too quickly
now, and the caller wouldn't listen to anything Seth had to say now anyhow. The
caller continued, "NO! I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND NOW IT IS YOUR TURN TO
DIE..."

*click*

Unlike the movies, when someone hangs up on you it
is rarely ever a confusing circumstance. Infact it rather drives the message
home, like a nail in a coffin, and hardly ever results in the person who was
hung up on calling frantically into the phone "HELLO?!?!" repeatedly. As such,
Seth closed his phone with nary a word and set it down. The steak half eaten and
the Meg Ryan movie now a thousand miles away, Seth sat in silence.

In
the vastness of the warehouse apartment, with nothing but room to spare, Seth
sat amongst his thoughts and memories, and felt like he was suffocating with no
room to breath.
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(no subject) [Aug. 26th, 2005|11:41 am]
feurety
What Saethu Feurety looks like...
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(no subject) [Aug. 25th, 2005|11:51 am]
feurety
Saethu Feurety

Goes by the name "Seth".

Born in 1793, Seth's parents emigrated from Wales to America due to land enclosures and fear of punitory reprisal from locals. For Seth's parents were poor and strove to find sanctuary from the oppression of the rich and turned to the occult. With little to no knowledge of what they were getting themselves into, the father stole a book from a hermit of a nobleman, a lord who had all but withdrawn from society and never left the mansion on his derelict grounds. The common folk suspected that the nobleman who had taken possession of the land in 1785 was none other than the famous occultist St. Germain last heard to have died of pneumonia in Germany the year before.

Seth's father broke into the house in a desperate move, with the intent to salvage anything that could be sold. No one had seen or heard from the nobleman for a month and with a bit o' luck Seth's father was hoping the old lord was dead. Upon entrance into the house, he found things he couldn't describe, symbols and runes, herbs and chemicals, things in jars that were dead and things in jars that weren't quite dead. Despite the lavishness of the house on the outside, with minor repairs needed due to neglect, the inside was a wasteland of unfathomable curiosities and even horrors.

The nobleman was nowhere to be found, and only in the bedchambers did Seth's father find a thick maroon stained book. Leather of curious unknown origin, clasped with iron and weighing close to 40 pounds despite its lighter appearance. The mansion reeked of a mustiness that conjured images of being a haven for the dead, an amusement park where ghouls and gremlins frolicked amongst the netherworldly devices in the rooms and floors of the old mason house.

Seth's father took the book in a labourous effort, not an easy task for a malnourished man already into his late 30's. He tried to find the key to accompany the curious lock that bound the book but none was to be found. It was at that moment, with book firmly held close to his chest, some say, that a noise stirred below in the cavernous depths of the basement where Hell was sure to dwell. Fear stricken and nearly mad, Seth's father spryly bound from the room, with a current of nightmare and primal terror coursing through his tenuous veins. He ran through what seemed an impossible labrynth of curios and old dusty books. Then it was from the corner of his eyes that he started seeing things emerging from the dark recessed shadows of nooks and crannies and spaces that his flimsy torchlight dare not tread. Creatures with abyss for eyes, yet reflecting an earnestness for his flesh. Teeth that were too many in a mouth that seemed to naught be able to support them so. Bodies like liquid coal, sulfurous to the nostrils and yet chilled you to the bone to gaze upon their form for longer than a half second. The fingers and the hands were worse though, too many joints, too many claws, all too reaching, reaching towards him.

The window found him before he found it, and suddenly before he registered what had happened, he was already falling, all quiet in a heart beat save for the sweet tinkling sound of the glass around him in the air, sort of like what one imagines sunshine to sound like if they close their eyes real tight to shut out the world.

The awning of the lower porchway broke his illusion of daylight dreams, and it broke his shoulder as well. He still clutched the book, as if t'were a babe in colic distress, and hit the roof with his shoulder absorbing the full impact of the gravity of his fall. The incline of the awning allowed him little time to dwell on the searing pain that surprised his otherwise numb body, as he immediately began to roll towards the ledge. Airbound he found himself one more time, though the fall was less drastic and cushioned by the thorny brambles of a Brier rose patch that grew wild on the grounds. In the tumble from the window he neglected the torch that seemed to have fallen from his hand at some point between the window pane and the pain in his shoulder. The dry weather and moss on the roof did not make an inhibitive combination for the hungry flames that leapt eagerly from the once sad pathetic torch to the vast expanse of the awning roof. Looking back at the house as he crawled haphazardly from the brier patch, bleeding and worse for the wear, he saw the flames licking at the sides of the house in an anxious and fervent feeding frenzy that both scared him and yet held his attention fast.

No one left the house screaming for the water carriages of the nearby town...

No one screamed within.

The high ash trees of the grounds would shield the flames from the community in the gorge below til the house would be beyond salvation, though movement at the now broken window suggested it was long gone from such hopes. He looked from the fire to the window from whence he fell, what an eternity ago already, and saw the faces, the grinning faces, illuminated and yet absorbing all light too. They were smiling down on him, the pupilless eyes, and yet he could feel them staring solely at him, maniacly grinning as if he had just played a part in some demonic game, with the winner unclear to him. His spine felt like it was trying to tear itself from his body in vain effort to move him, make him run, let the house burn and all the devils within.

He then turned and fled, nothing grandiose and more pathetic than not, but one must admire his persistence as he did not stop fleeing til he reached his doorstep and burst in on his wife, whose own bursting belly almost went into labor with their baby yet born.

Now some argue that his choice had already been made back at the house, when he set about his endeavours to steal from the nobleman's house. And some say that the choice was made for him and he was but a pawn in a carefully orchestrated game to which his efforts sordidly resulted in the subsequent check and mate. And still others say that there was no choice but only chance, for when he got home the lock on the book was enigmatically open. Though a result of his falls, trails and tribulations insofar, or a more mysterious combination of his blood, sweat and tears none can rightly say for sure. The fact still remains that setting the book down on the small little table in his one room hovel with his pregnant wife beside him, the book opened for him and her alone to read. The secrets of the book died with them, and the book has never be found.

What is public knowledge though is that the man came into a surprise inheritance, from none other than the nobleman of the estate that Seth's father so considerately burnt down. Not enough to keep the imposing nobles from buying their land, it was enough for 3 tickets (one man, one woman and one babe in arms with those curious red eyes...) to go to America, and start fresh with nothing but the future before them.

...


...


That is if the boat didn't burn in the New York harbour. So close to dock that passersby on shore said that the sudden inferno looked like a powederkeg exploded and yet no explosion was heard. Some people made it to shore, most didn't. On one floating piece of flotsam was a badly burned corpse that medical examiners later determined from the pelvic structure was a woman, who clutched in her charcoal arms, a pink little baby boy, unharmed, unburned and smiling as if it were witness to some devious little secret and a sparkle in his crimson eyes.

The penny sheets called it a Miracle at Sea (amongst a disaster) and the ships log later received from Wales about 3 months after, determined that the sole infant on board was one Saethu Feurety of one Aberthol Feurety and his wife Vala Feurety. The child was placed in an orphanage... but that's another story for another day...
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