- Posting Speed
- One post per week
- Online Availability
- 5-11 EST weekdays, anytime weekends.
- Writing Levels
- Give-No-Fucks
- Adept
- Advanced
- Douche
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Female
- Genres
- Superhero, urban fantasy, space opera, crime thriller, supernatural
A hooded figure presided over four corners of ebony, which stuck out like obsidian shards. The craftsmanship was brutally elegant, its jagged sharpness preternatural, and it seemed as if a single wandering prod against the corner of the black table could sever a finger. Unfurled atop it were passages of haunted-white, scrolls of such resplendence that they would sear the eyes, but not her eyes. She ran her fingers over those ebony corners, savoring the delectable scent of blood that the blackness drew from their tips. Then, she sneered.
Oh, how she hated that fucking table.
It was an old, old table, past the point of being artifact, past the point of being archaic, so old that it simply was. Even in its age, it looked refreshingly new, pristine, so enveloping was its darkness that it overwhelmed the unseasoned eye. But she was seasoned, for she -- and her tired eyes -- had presided over those four corners of ebony for what seemed like, and was doomed to be, eternity. All upon the surface were indents shaped in the word of Aramaic, language etched and repeated unto the scrolls overtop it for so many millennia that they became part of the structure's face. The torturous fate of all the world's adulterers, rapists, murderers, and lawyers.
Or some similar collection of people.
She eyed the horizon, and even her senses had trouble attuning to the ever-shifting sights and sounds that had accompanied her throughout the eons. Some shifting inscrutability that took turns manifesting as clouds and rainbows and blue skies, the bestial eyes of manticores and griffins and dragons, thunder and lightning and the storm, the droning and static and hypnotic waves of new age machines, the shadow and the shadow beneath the shadow and the plane even further beyond which defied comprehension. Things beyond even her, she who was amongst the first of all.
When they had first cast her down, she had thought that, perhaps one day, she could explore that unfathomable expanse. But the ground beneath her was the same obsidian black as the table, and the burning white circle engraved upon it and all its ornate ridgings formed a seal with which to bind her for eternum.
And so, she was bored.
Not that she had never been bored before. It was in the nature of humanfolk to find boredoms after scarce minutes, seconds in many case, and in the beginning, she had been little different. At first, it took but minutes passing to gnaw at her, and then hours -- and for a long, long time, hours was a term of nightmare. Then her mind began to grow numb to the concept of hours, and only days bothered her, and then months, decade, years, centuries, and so forth. By now, it took ages, and eventually, with each new age, she would finally grow bored again.
When she did, a New Game would begin.
Between pale, brittle, gnarled fingers, she held a card as black as the table, as black as the ground upon which she sat, engraved with golden words.
RE: URGENT! HELP WANTED!
There was no real reason for Seamus Milligan to draft up a reply to this unlikely relative of this entirely fictional Nigerian Prince, who likely fired off his scam-spam with the whole indiscriminate shotgun-like approach. Maybe he wanted to get a kick out of conversing with whatever addled conman was behind the scheme. Maybe some fantastical part of his brain had conjured up the possibility that maybe, just maybe, there was a Nigerian Prince named Akabe Challa. Maybe he just wanted conversation.
He was pretty alone, after all, save for the two peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches he had prepared to sustained him throughout the next twenty-or-so hours of what was to be a lonely, sleepless night full of MMO-grinding and dating-site "window-shopping" -- where he would scan pictures of people as lonely as he was, but never summon up the courage to talk to them.
"Dear Dr. Djimon Challa,
What's good, bro! Hit me up with dem sweet juicy deets, bruh; I got the hook up!
Sincerely,
ya-boi!"
He sighed as he lay back down in his bed, closing his eyes. God, what the fuck was he doing?
When he opened his eyes again, he was elsewhere.
A field of black, and a horizon that shifted and morphed from things that he understood to things that he didn't and then back again. All around him were shadows, briefly flickering like the flash of a TV-screen. Faceless, but attentive to someone that remained in the center. A figure that presided over a table of black.
Oh, how she hated that fucking table.
It was an old, old table, past the point of being artifact, past the point of being archaic, so old that it simply was. Even in its age, it looked refreshingly new, pristine, so enveloping was its darkness that it overwhelmed the unseasoned eye. But she was seasoned, for she -- and her tired eyes -- had presided over those four corners of ebony for what seemed like, and was doomed to be, eternity. All upon the surface were indents shaped in the word of Aramaic, language etched and repeated unto the scrolls overtop it for so many millennia that they became part of the structure's face. The torturous fate of all the world's adulterers, rapists, murderers, and lawyers.
Or some similar collection of people.
She eyed the horizon, and even her senses had trouble attuning to the ever-shifting sights and sounds that had accompanied her throughout the eons. Some shifting inscrutability that took turns manifesting as clouds and rainbows and blue skies, the bestial eyes of manticores and griffins and dragons, thunder and lightning and the storm, the droning and static and hypnotic waves of new age machines, the shadow and the shadow beneath the shadow and the plane even further beyond which defied comprehension. Things beyond even her, she who was amongst the first of all.
When they had first cast her down, she had thought that, perhaps one day, she could explore that unfathomable expanse. But the ground beneath her was the same obsidian black as the table, and the burning white circle engraved upon it and all its ornate ridgings formed a seal with which to bind her for eternum.
And so, she was bored.
Not that she had never been bored before. It was in the nature of humanfolk to find boredoms after scarce minutes, seconds in many case, and in the beginning, she had been little different. At first, it took but minutes passing to gnaw at her, and then hours -- and for a long, long time, hours was a term of nightmare. Then her mind began to grow numb to the concept of hours, and only days bothered her, and then months, decade, years, centuries, and so forth. By now, it took ages, and eventually, with each new age, she would finally grow bored again.
When she did, a New Game would begin.
Between pale, brittle, gnarled fingers, she held a card as black as the table, as black as the ground upon which she sat, engraved with golden words.
Get Out of Hell Free.
REQUEST FOR ASSISTANCE--CONFIDENTIAL, CLASSIFIED!
I am Dr. Djimon Challa, the cousin of Nigerian Prince, Akabe Challa. I am contacting you… blahblahblah... your assistance is required as a non-Nigerian citizen… blahblahblah... $15 million dollars…
RE: URGENT! HELP WANTED!
There was no real reason for Seamus Milligan to draft up a reply to this unlikely relative of this entirely fictional Nigerian Prince, who likely fired off his scam-spam with the whole indiscriminate shotgun-like approach. Maybe he wanted to get a kick out of conversing with whatever addled conman was behind the scheme. Maybe some fantastical part of his brain had conjured up the possibility that maybe, just maybe, there was a Nigerian Prince named Akabe Challa. Maybe he just wanted conversation.
He was pretty alone, after all, save for the two peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches he had prepared to sustained him throughout the next twenty-or-so hours of what was to be a lonely, sleepless night full of MMO-grinding and dating-site "window-shopping" -- where he would scan pictures of people as lonely as he was, but never summon up the courage to talk to them.
"Dear Dr. Djimon Challa,
What's good, bro! Hit me up with dem sweet juicy deets, bruh; I got the hook up!
Sincerely,
ya-boi!"
He sighed as he lay back down in his bed, closing his eyes. God, what the fuck was he doing?
When he opened his eyes again, he was elsewhere.
A field of black, and a horizon that shifted and morphed from things that he understood to things that he didn't and then back again. All around him were shadows, briefly flickering like the flash of a TV-screen. Faceless, but attentive to someone that remained in the center. A figure that presided over a table of black.