Lady Veryon
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Considering changing the title to something more interesting like 'Ballad' or 'Fire-Breath'. You decide.
Lost? Lonely? Need a hug? ...Comments? :DD
Color-Stealer
Daylight had crawled back to his hole; and night, with his silver pelt, had emerged, victorious again. The arms of the smog embraced the city of London, reaching up towards the taller buildings amid the hard-to-glimpse stars. The river Thames ran through it like a broken bit of skin, blood dripping from it, the dirty water glimmering under the hungry, yellow moon.
The moon itself was winking faintly, a small crescent, dying like the rest of them. In the city, nothing was immortal. There was only now, and for one man, now seemed long enough.
As it happened, Kale Bentheart was asleep. Tossing and turning, his subconscious mind fed to him the same old images.
He remembered red roses in a vase with dirty water near the porch swing, dying petals turned away from the sun; he remembered the tiny admonishing of red and purple mini-flames, already dead and looking the better for it.
Also, a simple shack, well-kept down to the vegetable garden; a small boy with dark hair was hidden in the trees. As Kale’s dream eye glanced up at the brambles of the tree, he saw the well-kept but old rags on the boy; saw, too the look of fear as the assortment of unknown people entered his mother’s house.
An odd group, this one, even odder than his mother’s usual fare. Some had tails; others had bits of something silvery in their hair, a few smelled like woodlands.
Fey, Dream-Kale thought to himself in horror.
“Kale!” a woman’s voice came from inside, “Kale, stay outside!”
Screeches of laughter traversed the air like promises of broken love as the boy scrambled down as quickly as his tiny limbs could carry him, chasing after their strangeness. The heavy door is locked. Putting an ear to the door, he heard a rasping; “This rubbish was not worth the weight of your promise--a false magic, witch!”
Then a noise like singing, and smoke escaped through the crack of the opening door.
The fey walked out, a few casting him glances, as flames devoured his home. The tallest one was clearly a dragon; his green skin was flayed with scratches and tusk-like fangs jutted from his teeth. His shaggy black hair trailed over his gleaming eyes as he turned to the boy.
“Never, my young one,” he said, his voice thick, “break a promise to the fey.”
The stranger’s taloned hand reached into the pocket of his ragged robes, taking out a bottle and throwing it down on the ground. It shattered on the clean path, digging into the hungry dirt.
Kale recognized his mother’s writing as the glimmer of flame sang on the label; tears flooding his eyes.
He ran to the door, throwing it open; a river of slippery red greeted his bare feet. Running further, the fire searing his skin, he fell back, screaming.
Kale woke with victorious night still in the sky.
“Die,” he said to the world, the same tears running from those eyes. “Die, Fey!”
As usual, the world was not listening.
***
Kale had tousled maroon hair so it rested differently on his pale skin. Storm-blue eyes, layered with complex anger, were alert and constantly moving this way or that, waiting for the attack. A leather belt filled with silver and iron bullets was stretched across his unrealistically bare chest; another knife was sheathed to his jeans. Even his trench coat was protected with Enchantments, warning what he was and what he did to those it would effect.
Speaking of Enchantments, Kale was headed to the only legally-recognized store on his street. The building itself had been painted over many times (and through many owners) before finally settling with some amount of permanence on a peeling, dark purple. A sign proclaimed the store to be titled, “Enter” in old-looking letters, surrounded by pale bulb lights. Next to those letters, somehow seeming out of place with all the almost-classy decorations, was a crudely painted cat, dead, its thin legs in the air, its tail tip touching the edge.
At night, the painted cat would get up and move, pacing, sitting, climbing, sometimes (if only rarely) venturing out into the street when the owner was in a particularly troublesome mood.
“It’s a moving night,” people would say to each other on Cuthbert street, making it clear that the shop was closed.
Nobody really ventured there unless they had to.
Therefore, Kale (like most men) had a reason, and he had to remind himself of this as he glanced up at the motionless cat, his scarred fingers on the old-world door handle.
He walked inside, holding his shoulders squarely.
The owner of the Curio stop Enter was not old, but middle-aged. She’d been middle aged for at least two decades and would probably stay that way for another three or four more. Her hair, presumably once a normal color, was now a raven-feather black streaked with white. Her eyes, too pale a blue to be anything other than dead-looking, brought comfort to those who had the patience to read them.
Linn’s clothing had never been particularly showy. Today it was an informal camouflage t-shirt on her unrealistically shaped body and a pair of well-fitting tight-rolled jeans, hiding the wings underneath.
For being old, she looked good.
“Kale,” she said slyly, the slightly weathered face breaking into a smile that’d make children uneasy.
“Linn,” he cautioned, mocking her voice, “I’ve no time for this.”
The cat from the sign wandered in, curling to rest on the counter after a series of several high-spirited jumps, magic pulling on the surroundings suddenly to reveal a beautiful nymph in its’ place.
“Kale,” she greeted him in a too-rough voice, one that almost disillusioned the outward beauty, “Welcome.”
Linn waved a hand at the cat-nymph as Kale attempted to ignore the chill sprouting in his spine.
The door opened again. From the inside, the bell that jangled revealed to Kale a tall-cloaked figure.
Linn’s smile wavered and then faded almost immediately, attracting Kale’s attention. His calloused hand flickered to one of the belted knives. Alert, awake, he thought to himself, no surprise can alarm one who is waiting for it.
Despite himself, the Bentheart heir found himself intrigued. He’d never seen Linn’s smile flicker unless there was danger. Real danger. Escaped-pixies-from-the-back-ate-some-animals-from-the-zoo-and-the-cops-are-on-their-way danger.
“Did you want me for something or not,” murmured Kale without much heat, his eyes never leaving the stranger in the doorframe.
“Wait and see. For now, I have fun to attend to.” If it was slightly more alarming that Linn had matched his volume, the young man was in no mood for the older woman’s games.
“You are Linn?” The heavily Transylvanian-accented voice was slightly scratched, but not as bad as the cat-woman’s. It was running over itself constantly, running over syllables in a way that seemed inhuman. Like the new-comer didn’t do much communication with humans--ever.
Kale gritted his teeth, remembering, the scent of prejudice heavy on his tongue.
“I am Linn, unless if I owe you money,” answered the faery, leaning carelessly against her counter, fingers wrapping around a whiskey bottle on the marble and flisking the lid open with her thumb. “If that’s the case, then this bottle is Linn. Drink away until the wealth pools in your stomach.”
The tall-creature snorted. “‘Temperamental’ was what they told me. ‘Half-mad’ was no where in the description.”
“Who isn’t half mad, in this business?” she asked philosophically, suffering one of her many random mood changes. Magic hummed in the air, and gold glasses shimmered up from the perspiration on the whiskey bottle. Linn funneled the man-made poison into them, one by one; removing his cloak, the stranger accepted it without comment.
Kale noticed he sniffed discreetly at the liquid before drinking it. In spite of himself, he felt a pang of admiration for the new-comer. Smart.
More than one person found that Linn’s brand of ‘debt settling’ hadn’t taken with them.
Permanently.
“True enough, that,” said he, recognizing the pause in the conversation, and Kale looked at the stranger for the first time now that his hood was gone. He had blue-green skin with the occasional ripple, hinting at scales, and there were many thin white lines on it that looked like scarred spider webs. There were tiny, pearl-like scales on his forehead. The dragon looked nearly classy in his high, dark-red turtle neck and dark jeans. The wine glass sat like it belonged to him in the taloned hand.
Kale spat the whiskey in his face, not entirely by mistake.
“Linn!” He snarled, “You’d better have a reason for bringing this---this--”
“Henry needs your help, Kale,” said Linn calmly, ignoring the flicker of surprise from the stranger--How did she know my name?--and continuing with, “trust me.”
“Trust,” said the sign-cat-nymph, who had--most uncharacteristically--been remarkably well tempered the past few minutes.
Kale sighed, forcing the anger back down to its hole. Control. Alert. Awake.
“So what do you need, exactly?” asked the slayer flatly, now in his official capacity.
“I was told,” said the creature with a glance a Linn, who nodded, “that you were a slayer of the evil, not a judge of the good.”
“That,” responded Kale, “depends on how you define ‘good’, stranger. The code of ethics I answer to is… unique. So if you’ll forgive me”--no one could have ignored the smile on his face, or (for those who knew him) how hard it was to keep it there--“we’ll talk philosophies later.”
The dragon answered his grin with half the effort.
“Works for me,” he said, to Linn and Kale both. Then, “When can you start?”
“Today.”
***
“So what is it like, this Tavern of yours?” Asked Kale, the ends of his coat brushing against his ankles in the windy city.
“Older than you think,” Henry replied.
Waiting for further description due to the strange and very quick response, the Slayer found himself disappointed.
Walking through the richer parts of town with a Dragon at his heels was not much to the young man’s taste. They walked for many miles, having ignored Kale’s own collection of vehicles (everything from beaten-down Cadillac to newest-release Jaguar, depending on the needs of the job) and many taxi cabs since.
“You will no doubt notice,” commented the creature with the dark Transylvanian voice, the magic of his cloak hood making his chin seem goatee'd and pale. “That I am ignoring your brand of air-poisoners, brother.”
Kale’s gaze lifted from the ground slowly. “And why is this,” answered the slayer, slightly annoyed now, “‘Brother’?”
“Because you are working for my family now,” said the dragon, ignoring with flair the temperament of his new employee. “I will not have you look down your boot straps at the tradition of our blood, sir. Not while you remain in my employ. Now, I had no intention of dishonoring Linn. Such would’ve been unwise, I think--there is more to that woman than there appears to be. I’ve been alive for hundreds of years, so I ask you to forgive me if I dishonor you; but that’s no human woman, Kale.” Henry paused thoughtfully as Kale’s bones went frigid.
He’s right, realized the slayer, feeling sick to his heart. Why hadn’t he seen it himself? Nobody knew how long Linn had been alive. Nobody knew anything about her, other that she came with a pocketful of twinkling magic and that she paid the rent on time. Kale didn’t even know her last name. Stupid, stupid!
“Not,” added Kale’s new boss hastily, “that there is anything wrong with not being human. Regarding you…. The scent of your anger is so strong. It makes battle against my heart, and I would not have it so. I ask you disregard your former opinions on the subject of my people. Whatever experience you have had that has made your soul bleed anger such as this must have been terrible; I realize full well what I ask…. But attempt, please. You will insult the family of the Wealtow.”
What Kale did not know, what Kale had not been taught, was that the truth of a Dragon is absolute. For Henry to advise Kale was a gift and attempt at friendship; at great worth among his own people. Kale did not realize this. All Kale saw was criticism from a monster.
Of course, it was the obligation due to dull employ to remember the unpaid bills on his unsteady kitchen table. The flickering electricity, soon to go out. The hot water he used more often than he should. The cell phone used for emergencies only. Everything, it seemed to Kale, was on a timer these days.
Oddly, the last thing that came to mind was his mother, taking him to a baseball game with a creature much like this one. Remember this man, Kale, she’d told him. Remember that there are as many handsome, evil people as there are ugly, good-hearted ones. Never, ever trust your eyes. Promise me.
Never trust your eyes.
“Of course,” answered the slayer, and surprised himself by meaning the response. He hadn’t expected to. Alert, awake, control, Kale told himself yet again.
The dragon clapped his talons together.
“Excellent!” Henry said, who seemed relieved. “Now, it’s cold.” Closing his eyes, he breathed steam onto his hands. Sparks flew from his snake-like nostrils. “Shall we get a taxi?”
***
“Well,” said Henry, and Kale could hear the pride in his voice, “here it is.”
Looking up at the sign, the slayer had to stifle a snicker. “Older than you think Tavern? Really?”
The dragon winked. “It makes for a good joke for newcomers, human.”
“Oh,” said Kale, realizing, “You never told me what your problem was. What am I looking for, exactly?” Henry’s smile slipped a little.
“Get used to the environment first,” he answered. “Things around here get a little--”
“Please! Please don’t! I promise you, you’ve got the wrong man! I swear on the Dead!”
An old man, so pale he looked on the verge of death, was being dragged out of the bar by the back door by two large, un-glamoured, and angry-looking dragons. His tweed coat was being dusted by the dirt; a pipe was fidgeting its’ way out of his gloved hand.
Henry raised a hand with a pleading look at Kale. Had the slayer noted with amazement that the Dragon was shaking in fear, the pupils of his large eyes small; he would perhaps have stopped.
All he could see was that helpless vulnerability. Almost against his will, Kale pictured again the screams rising from the heat of the fire, so long ago. The pain wrenched in his gut like death.
The old man caught his gaze. “Please!” he coughed, still struggling, “Help me! I’ve done nothing wrong!”
Kale gave a roar and punched the nearest dragon in the pearl-scaled forehead. Instantly, a street fight broke out between the two (for who would not respond to being struck in the face?).
As they brawled in an honor worthy of mature-rated video games, the old man’s face crinkled into a smile. Tearing off his glove in triumph, he pressed it to the other Dragon’s hand.
The big dragon struggled for a few moments and then stopped totally.
“You told me you were different!” Cried Kale admist the fight, barely audible, “You told me--!”
Time stopped for everyone in the area but the Dragon and the old man. The old man proceeded to breathe on the immobilized Dragon’s face. A huge breath, it took all his focus.
Then, he breathed in.
Ten seconds, the bottoms of the guard’s feet slowly went from green, to light green, to grey, finally settling on a mottled white. The stench of burning flesh filled the air as the color spread up.
Twenty seconds; it had reached his midriff now.
“Color-stealer,” spat the Dragon with effort, “I hope you burn in the eternal fire.”
“Perhaps,” answered the gentleman pleasantly, “But I’m sure you’ll beat me there.”
Thirty seconds, it had reached his lungs, this grey color, then his shoulders, his head; finally the forehead.
Forty seconds and was entirely covered. Entirely motionless.
Entirely dead.
It was only the color that was gone from the Dragon. He was just a white, motionless thing.
Eyes blazing as the color from his victim swirled in frozen time, he reached out and touched the pearls of the Dragon--who turned to dust.
The color settled into the man, who turned younger and younger, brighter and brighter, the colors so vivid it would hurt your eyes.
No motion, still, from the surrounding world.
He walked over to Kale, whistling cheerfully, pulling him apart (with some effort) from the dragon he’d been fighting.
“Ah,” the Color-stealer said expressively, “and who is this, Henry?”
Henry did not reply. He was still frozen.
“Mm. You should reply when someone talks to you, son. It’s rude not to.” A grin was spreading over his face; a triumphant one. “See you soon, poppet.”
Pocketing the pearl-scales from his victim, the Color-stealer vanished without a trace.
Time resumed.
Kale’s blow struck home, slightly off target to his surprise, but the other Dragon quickly stopped and ran to the remains of his friend.
Kale had stood, slowly, noticing the old man and other Dragon had vanished.
The guard he’d been fighting sunk to his knees; Kale was shocked to notice the golden tears as the talons sunk into the pile of ashes.
“By the heathen Gods, Kale,” said Henry, sparks flying from his breath, the dark eyes flashing, “Do you have any idea what you just let escape?”
< Message edited by Lady Veryon -- 11/15/2011 11:56:58 >
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