Nasuverse Snippets from HELL
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He burned.
He suffered.
His right arm failed him as he collapsed attempting to brace himself with his non broken arm, covered in the flames as it was, and near paralized as it had become.
Strangely, the pain from his arm was no existent. Maybe it meant he was closer to death then he realised?
He could hear the sounds of an old man laughing and a slightly younger man groan, and, during the point between darkness and consciousness, he saw one of the men place down a box with an unusual arm in it and the other pull a glowing object fromà nowhere?
Strange.
* * *
He was cornered, and the only thing he had left to fight with, was a small hollow metal tube. And while, he was able to make it nigh unbreakable, his skill with it was ratherà substandard. The blue haired man easily disarmed him with that damnable spear of his.
He placed his hand back, and the right arm gifted to him by some crazed old man, reacted to something on the floor.
Shirou felt the power course through his arm; right before what ever it was that triggered its release exploded in a bright ray of golden light, and the sleeve on his uniform burned away from his glowing arm.
Empowered by his hand, no, empowered by Gods hand. He lashed out with a kick, sending the man that had been trying to kill him far enough away that he was only a twinkle in the sky. Who needed martial arts when you have one of gods own hands!!!
The glow from his arm dimmed, leaving an arm that looked like it belonged on some gang member, then himself.
Turning he found the sight of a young woman, who had most certainly not been there before clad in a pearl white dress, with a chest plate with gauntlets and greaves the colour of purest silver with Pale Blond hair to match the angelic appearance.
Her eyes opened slowly, a startling electric blue
ôAre you my Master?ö
* * *
Behold, my Necro power knows no bounds!!! Also, Behold GodHand!Shirou ^_^
Although, I probably screwed up Shirou's personality and my description of Saber Lily <_<
He suffered.
His right arm failed him as he collapsed attempting to brace himself with his non broken arm, covered in the flames as it was, and near paralized as it had become.
Strangely, the pain from his arm was no existent. Maybe it meant he was closer to death then he realised?
He could hear the sounds of an old man laughing and a slightly younger man groan, and, during the point between darkness and consciousness, he saw one of the men place down a box with an unusual arm in it and the other pull a glowing object fromà nowhere?
Strange.
* * *
He was cornered, and the only thing he had left to fight with, was a small hollow metal tube. And while, he was able to make it nigh unbreakable, his skill with it was ratherà substandard. The blue haired man easily disarmed him with that damnable spear of his.
He placed his hand back, and the right arm gifted to him by some crazed old man, reacted to something on the floor.
Shirou felt the power course through his arm; right before what ever it was that triggered its release exploded in a bright ray of golden light, and the sleeve on his uniform burned away from his glowing arm.
Empowered by his hand, no, empowered by Gods hand. He lashed out with a kick, sending the man that had been trying to kill him far enough away that he was only a twinkle in the sky. Who needed martial arts when you have one of gods own hands!!!
The glow from his arm dimmed, leaving an arm that looked like it belonged on some gang member, then himself.
Turning he found the sight of a young woman, who had most certainly not been there before clad in a pearl white dress, with a chest plate with gauntlets and greaves the colour of purest silver with Pale Blond hair to match the angelic appearance.
Her eyes opened slowly, a startling electric blue
ôAre you my Master?ö
* * *
Behold, my Necro power knows no bounds!!! Also, Behold GodHand!Shirou ^_^
Although, I probably screwed up Shirou's personality and my description of Saber Lily <_<
He looked upon the towering flames and sighed, the heat radiating from it making him sweat and almost scorching his reddish-gray beard. He hoped he would have been able to get to him sooner, that he would not have to use his waning magic, but this was worth it. He was worth it. He sighed and prepared himself hoping he would have enough power, this land had seen very little of his people, and no one would see the use of it, that would do him no good.
He spoke then, and his clothes became a cloak, his familiars surrounded him, his spear appeared in his hand, and his glass eye shattered and light poured out from the empty socket.
"I know a Seventh Charm, If I see a Hall
Over the Feasters blazing,
Burn it never so Bright yet I can control it-
That Galdor I can Sing."
Lightning Flashed and Thunder Struck, and the fire died down. He almost collapsed then and there, the drain of bringing forth even a fraction of the Backstage nearly draining him to his limits, but this was important.
He walked over to the young boy who was curled into the fetal position on the ground, so tiny, so frail, his hair and skin were burnt in many places. He bent down and scooped the child up in his arms, trembling with excitement and worry.
It had been so long since his son had been with him that he almost thought him gone forever.
______________________________________________________________________
Saber tried to dodge the large black sword wielded by Berserker but she was unsuccessful and was sent flying back into a wall. It nearly killed her but it was enough for what needed to be done.
"Foolish Jotnar!" The towering Magus screamed as he brought the heavy War-Hammer down on Berserker's head, splitting it with a sickening crack. "You dare try to harm one of Donar's Charges?" He slammed the hammer into the servants side, cracking ribs knocking the Servant the the side.
It collapsed on the ground and quickly began healing as Shirou ran to Saber's side. His Servant looked up at him and wiped blood from his short, scraggly, beared. He smiled down at her and se blushed in spite of herself.
"Let us go my Servant, the Valkyries have not come for us yet, and the Jotnar is quickly readying itself." His servant steeled herself and picked up her sword as he rested his hammer on his shoulder. Together they charged and let loose an echoing battle cry.
"FOR THE ALL-FATHER!"
Miles away, the being called Mr.Wednesday by some of his allies smiled and sipped on his martini as he regaled pretty women with stories of almost forgotten gods and warriors. His son was living up to himself.
He spoke then, and his clothes became a cloak, his familiars surrounded him, his spear appeared in his hand, and his glass eye shattered and light poured out from the empty socket.
"I know a Seventh Charm, If I see a Hall
Over the Feasters blazing,
Burn it never so Bright yet I can control it-
That Galdor I can Sing."
Lightning Flashed and Thunder Struck, and the fire died down. He almost collapsed then and there, the drain of bringing forth even a fraction of the Backstage nearly draining him to his limits, but this was important.
He walked over to the young boy who was curled into the fetal position on the ground, so tiny, so frail, his hair and skin were burnt in many places. He bent down and scooped the child up in his arms, trembling with excitement and worry.
It had been so long since his son had been with him that he almost thought him gone forever.
______________________________________________________________________
Saber tried to dodge the large black sword wielded by Berserker but she was unsuccessful and was sent flying back into a wall. It nearly killed her but it was enough for what needed to be done.
"Foolish Jotnar!" The towering Magus screamed as he brought the heavy War-Hammer down on Berserker's head, splitting it with a sickening crack. "You dare try to harm one of Donar's Charges?" He slammed the hammer into the servants side, cracking ribs knocking the Servant the the side.
It collapsed on the ground and quickly began healing as Shirou ran to Saber's side. His Servant looked up at him and wiped blood from his short, scraggly, beared. He smiled down at her and se blushed in spite of herself.
"Let us go my Servant, the Valkyries have not come for us yet, and the Jotnar is quickly readying itself." His servant steeled herself and picked up her sword as he rested his hammer on his shoulder. Together they charged and let loose an echoing battle cry.
"FOR THE ALL-FATHER!"
Miles away, the being called Mr.Wednesday by some of his allies smiled and sipped on his martini as he regaled pretty women with stories of almost forgotten gods and warriors. His son was living up to himself.
It's not a necro if it adds substance ... I hope.
Presenting a snippet from a story that never really got off the ground apart from a few notes. An FSN/Star Wars crossover where someone managed to summon Caster Palpatine in the IV. war. Palpatine still loses, but decides to stick around.
The story was meant to be very dark (which is only fitting with a Sith as the protagonist) and rather philosophical in nature, studying the nature of the Sith and the Force ... a deconstruction of the villain and the concept of an all-present incorporeal deity powered by life, but I don't much like writing dark stories. I like bright, light-hearted ones with lots of funnies.
Since I'm never going to get further, might as well put it here:
----------
His weapon cast the only light in the darkness. The surroundings were illuminated by the deep crimson of the glowing blade, bathing the room in a sinister light, the colour of blood.
The hum of the weapon was terribly loud in the silence, but reassuring.
It was only a copy, of course. Or was it an original? Could a copy of something that doesn't exist be? Or was it merely the copy of a concept and a memory?
It was an odd line of thought. Does it even matter if it's an original or a copy?
No time for that, he has a task. An obstacle to remove, a threat to destroy before it could threaten the greater scheme of things.
And if a little vengeance could be taken along the way ... the satisfaction of a job well done and the execution of justice, well, so much the better.
He cast out his senses, reaching deep into himself, to that gateway that led outside and reached out. In an instant, he saw the space around himself expand. Every room, every piece of furniture, everything was visible in his mind's eye. And subtly, underneath it all, the echoes of emotion and of history.
Pain, fear, anger, hate, desperation, limitless ambition and utter ruthlessness. It was a bad place. The familiar fire that should be in those feelings was absent, they were cloying, thick, oily ... wrong, even for a creature of darkness as he was. The fire was absnet.
Well, then, he'd bring the fire to this place. He'd show the spider in this web of shadows the dark flames of all living things.
For a moment, he could swear that the hum of his weapon changed in pitch, almost purring in content. That was, of course, silly. It was just a weapon without a mind or will of it's own. But still ... it felt appropriate.
The blade carrying the distilled legacy of a thousand generations, culture and civilization older than the tiny civilizations on Earth itself, history steeped in the blood of countless trillions, conflicts fought so that life could thrive, change, grow ... yes, it was appropriate that it would approve. In this place ... nothing could thrive. This place where burning emotions gave way to hopelessness.
That couldn't be allowed. He was an agent of life, of change, of the relentless pursuit to prove one's existance, to scream out to the stars: 'I exist!' and force them to listen. Stillness, silence, binding chains, none of it could be allowed. None of it would be tolerated.
He sensed his target, waiting for him. A dark mind and a shattered soul, twisted worse than the spectre that had taught him his craft. That spectre was a living shadow, a dark thing, ever changing, never still ... his target was merely a shadow, existing long past the day it should have faded away.
He would finish nature's work this night.
His lips quirked in a smile, sharp, thin. A hunter's smile.
Yes, he would show them the fire of all living things this night and that annoying shadow, existing long past it's time, would be burned away by fiery rage and hatred. And in that victory, the chains would be broken.
Even as he closed, faster than humanly possible, he could sense the power wielded by that dead shadow. His enemy was powerful, skilled and old.
But he was Darth Asiduus and he would endure. Beyond reasonable limits, beyond human capacity, he would endure, as he always had. He was an agent of life and justice. For daring to defy the ultimate fate of all living things, the dead shadow would know the terrible wrath of the living Force.
----------
As a side-note: Assiduus, 3 means literally 'permanent', 'unbroken' and 'tireless' (well, it also means 'taxed' in the sense of having paid your taxes, but that's kinda irrelevant for the purposes of the story). It was shortened and violated in keeping with Star Wars tradition ... I thought it an appropriate name.
Presenting a snippet from a story that never really got off the ground apart from a few notes. An FSN/Star Wars crossover where someone managed to summon Caster Palpatine in the IV. war. Palpatine still loses, but decides to stick around.
The story was meant to be very dark (which is only fitting with a Sith as the protagonist) and rather philosophical in nature, studying the nature of the Sith and the Force ... a deconstruction of the villain and the concept of an all-present incorporeal deity powered by life, but I don't much like writing dark stories. I like bright, light-hearted ones with lots of funnies.
Since I'm never going to get further, might as well put it here:
----------
His weapon cast the only light in the darkness. The surroundings were illuminated by the deep crimson of the glowing blade, bathing the room in a sinister light, the colour of blood.
The hum of the weapon was terribly loud in the silence, but reassuring.
It was only a copy, of course. Or was it an original? Could a copy of something that doesn't exist be? Or was it merely the copy of a concept and a memory?
It was an odd line of thought. Does it even matter if it's an original or a copy?
No time for that, he has a task. An obstacle to remove, a threat to destroy before it could threaten the greater scheme of things.
And if a little vengeance could be taken along the way ... the satisfaction of a job well done and the execution of justice, well, so much the better.
He cast out his senses, reaching deep into himself, to that gateway that led outside and reached out. In an instant, he saw the space around himself expand. Every room, every piece of furniture, everything was visible in his mind's eye. And subtly, underneath it all, the echoes of emotion and of history.
Pain, fear, anger, hate, desperation, limitless ambition and utter ruthlessness. It was a bad place. The familiar fire that should be in those feelings was absent, they were cloying, thick, oily ... wrong, even for a creature of darkness as he was. The fire was absnet.
Well, then, he'd bring the fire to this place. He'd show the spider in this web of shadows the dark flames of all living things.
For a moment, he could swear that the hum of his weapon changed in pitch, almost purring in content. That was, of course, silly. It was just a weapon without a mind or will of it's own. But still ... it felt appropriate.
The blade carrying the distilled legacy of a thousand generations, culture and civilization older than the tiny civilizations on Earth itself, history steeped in the blood of countless trillions, conflicts fought so that life could thrive, change, grow ... yes, it was appropriate that it would approve. In this place ... nothing could thrive. This place where burning emotions gave way to hopelessness.
That couldn't be allowed. He was an agent of life, of change, of the relentless pursuit to prove one's existance, to scream out to the stars: 'I exist!' and force them to listen. Stillness, silence, binding chains, none of it could be allowed. None of it would be tolerated.
He sensed his target, waiting for him. A dark mind and a shattered soul, twisted worse than the spectre that had taught him his craft. That spectre was a living shadow, a dark thing, ever changing, never still ... his target was merely a shadow, existing long past the day it should have faded away.
He would finish nature's work this night.
His lips quirked in a smile, sharp, thin. A hunter's smile.
Yes, he would show them the fire of all living things this night and that annoying shadow, existing long past it's time, would be burned away by fiery rage and hatred. And in that victory, the chains would be broken.
Even as he closed, faster than humanly possible, he could sense the power wielded by that dead shadow. His enemy was powerful, skilled and old.
But he was Darth Asiduus and he would endure. Beyond reasonable limits, beyond human capacity, he would endure, as he always had. He was an agent of life and justice. For daring to defy the ultimate fate of all living things, the dead shadow would know the terrible wrath of the living Force.
----------
As a side-note: Assiduus, 3 means literally 'permanent', 'unbroken' and 'tireless' (well, it also means 'taxed' in the sense of having paid your taxes, but that's kinda irrelevant for the purposes of the story). It was shortened and violated in keeping with Star Wars tradition ... I thought it an appropriate name.