Shades of Grey ((>:O))

[LaenVulpix]

OOC - Alright! This is a very detailed RP that took me OMG-Forever to work out, so it's invite only. And it'll take forever to explain it to someone, therefore They'll hafta PM me/other RPers in order to get in. Alrighty! Post time! (finally)

BIC-


As Cornelius examined his empty glass, he considered just how fecklessly the airline he was flying on had attempted to portray a sense of elegance only found at first-rate restaurants. The glass was thin and delicate, with one, single faux diamond embedded a the object's base. And now it was flecked with beads of degrading condensation, and settled on a folded white napkin, to be dismissed entirely from the mind of the glass's owner. Except that it hadn't. What made the glassware take a plunging dive in status from refined to flaunting wasn't the design, but rather the liquid that it had held. No longer than several quiet, solemn minutes ago, the carbonated dregs of a soda had fizzled restlessly in the cup's bottom, Dr. Pepper to be exact.

Cornelius shook his head to himself, a vague smile gracing his handsome, young features. His jolting, icy-blue eyes held a faraway endowment that was not seen in public, as if he was traveling across universes all while sitting primly in his airplane seat, pale hands gripping his arm rests loosely. The character seated next to him, an elastic young girl clad in a beautiful white gown that would not last the fortnight, gazed contently out of the modest window, still wrapped in the delight of looking down upon a rolling field of cottony clouds instead of looking up at them. She would lose that thrill soon enough, if she was as wealthy as Cornelius's logic believed. All in exchange for money; not the visual pleasure, but rather the knowledge that you held more than anyone you pass in the street makes in a year, all on the tip of the pen you use to scrawl on a piece of paper, or on the bar code of a rectangular piece of plastic. He knew that feeling himself, yet wouldn't describe the emotion as pleasure. Disgust, perhaps.

The boy, late into his teen years but a boy just the same, leaned back in his seat, gently tapping his head against the soft material cloaking his seat. Hair of a thin and plaint quality, as black as a raven's breast, rested complacently on either side of his face, away from his eyes, and swept back from there, neat and untangled. His face resembled that of any spoiled rich boy, soft, smooth, and innocent. But the maturity and intelligence was all in his eyes, anyways. They weren't, as the clichéd saying went, the windows to his soul, but rather the quality of himself that he wished his colleagues (and enemies) to see.

"Are you finished with that, sir? We'll be deplaning shortly."

Without the briefest pause to mark how deeply he'd been buried in the layers of his own thoughts, Cornelius smiled up at the attendant, his lightly-shaded blue eyes observed her with gratitude as he offered the delicate glassware that had started his mind wandering.

"Thank you, miss. That's a fine object; the airlines certainly are conscientious, aren't they?" he commented, plucking the white napkin from his food tray to toss when they arrived in London.

"It is nice, isn't it." The plain-faced woman allowed, unable to mask her loathing of his wealth from his seeking eyes. She was gone as quickly as she had come.

Indifferent as to how much a flight attendant he'd never see again cared for him, Cornelius straightened the tie to his suit and tightened it with a practiced twitch of his hands. How neat the sleeves of his suit were was irrelevant; thanks to the unnatural chill that was sweeping through England (so said the man on the phone, anyways), they were unceremoniously covered by a jet-black overcoat. He briefly reached inside the coat, clenching a jagged object in his fist as if to ensure it was still there, before drawing out his pocket-watch. The device declared that it was half-past one, which would be a nice tidbit of information if it was correct. Not wise to rely on a watch that runs backwards, though. Once again the soft smile brushed his lips.



--((Skipping the airport scene...you can assume he gets his stuff there on your own, right?))--


Cornelius greeted the brittle cold with a complimentary curse, quiet to begin with and flung from his mouth the moment his spoke it, into the howling wind as it beat in his ears. His overcoat fluttered out madly behind him, whiplashing against the backs of his legs, struggling to free itself from its imprisonment. In his gloved hand he gripped his single black suitcase, as his entire speech for the following day had already been carefully written into the absorbent material of his mind. His scarf writhed angrily, in sync with the motions of his overcoat, yet moving in a pattern all its own. His blue eyes afire as he shifted his attention to the landmarks he had been told to look for, Cornelius heard the taxi he had arrived in revving its engine as it accelerated down the street.

England was a decent change from the United States; the cobblestone streets under his expensive shoes held a serenity nonexistent in the smog-ridden nexus that was New York City, where his father lived, running his vastly fortunate company, in one of many identical buildings that towered haughtily over the pedestrians scurrying to their various under-paying ( you were either under-payed or over-payed in New York, it seemed) jobs. Here, at least in this part of town, only the moaning winds and inky tides of darkness were there to greet him, and the air, while cold enough to send him into gales of harsh coughing, was pure and clean.

As he turned on heel, loose pebbles crunching together beneath his feet, Cornelius lifted his stunning crystal-blue eyes towards the heavens. He settled into a pace, his free hand jammed deep into the safe confines of his coat's thick pocket, and debated which was more enjoyable: sitting before a snarling, crackling fire, with a thick, well-written novel in hand and a cup of hot cocoa nearby, or staring wordlessly at the night sky presented before him now. The stars were innumerable, and so varying in sizes that it looked like an image conjured by an imaginative artist with a paintbrush in hand; and they were wedged into a deep, inky blackness that wasn't black, but rather a lush navy-blue.

With a restive sigh heard by nobody, Cornelius turned around a corner, faintly perplexed by the lack of light when he ought to be nearing a fairly populated street by now. Yet the street signs were all as he recalled being told of them, although the last had been bent crookedly, with some of the paint chipped away in the shape of a curious insignia.

Sheltered by the crumbling remains of what were likely old apartments beyond restoration, the teenager felt his pupils dilating slowly in hopes of picking out the sharp corners of the buildings in the cloaking shadows. The only intelligable explanation for his current location, wherever he was, was that the man he had communicated with had discovered a shortcut and relayed it. Without considering how late Cornelius's arrival time would be.

In the pitch black embrace of darkness, Cornelius was freely scowling when he turned a corner and was ambushed by torrents of blinding light. White splotches exploded in his eyes as he took an unguarded step backwards, flinging up his free hand to shade his eyes. His vision took its time clearing, but the raven-haired businessman dropped his hand from his face anyways, his countenance imperceptible once more. His sharp eyes focused on the only creature inhabiting the alley other than himself; a figure draped in an assortment of deep black garments. A hood concealed the figure's gender for all of two seconds, before it chose to speak.

"You're here early, not that it really matters. Nothing else to do - why the curious expression? You seemed o know exactly where you were going and here you are."

The male voice sounded young, almost as youthful as Cornelius himself, but everything about the figure was ominous. The instinctive side of him suggested he run as quickly as possible, away from this man and the illogical light that highlighted this alleyway for no particular reason. The blue-eyed character fatefully dismissed this urge, logically concluding that it was only the man's out-of-place clothing that irked him. Nonetheless he dropped his suitcase, and the idea of bending down to pick it up never occurred to him. The sound of the metal tapping against the grimy cobblestones sent a chill down his spine, yet a cold, steely expression settled itself on its face when the figure spoke again.

"Well, this is cliché, but I have been expecting you, Cornelius, seeing as-"

"It's Raven, please." He interjected politely, although the rigidity of his posture didn't change.

"-Cornelius, would you like a drink? Something to calm your nerves?" the man inquired, gesturing behind him to a rotted barrel.

Settled atop its decaying, moldy brown surface was the same glass he had critiqued from the airplane...no...perhaps it was merely one of similar design. No debauching soda fizzed in this ornate glass, as the liquid was of a thick, crimson color that reminded Cornelius of when he had sliced his hand open using a kitchen knife when he was younger. The substance sloshing lightly in the glassware when the robed figure picked it up looked exactly like-

"Wine?" The sinister man suggested.

Cornelius felt an illogical twitch of anger at this man, certain that he was smiling from within those folds of clothing. The bastard.

"I'm fine. Can't drink yet, anyhow. And I don't want it." He said dryly, shedding his polite act as he realized this man - figure - was making him paranoid. He was never paranoid.

"Pity," The figure said in a tittering voice, marching up to Cornelius until the pale youth was at the edge of the mystical light's range. "you'd have probably accepted it if you were younger. But then you'd be useless, you'd never survive."

He made a sweeping motion, as if clearing an invisible slate. Cornelius frowned slightly at the man's hand, which was as white as the snow that frequented N.Y. The thought that there wasn't darkness behind him, but rather a solid wall, had taken form in his mind. Stepping through the wall was as absurd as taking another step back away from the light. The very illogical path his mind had taken was as frightening as this creature talking to him.

"What would you say, Cornelius Alexander Raven, son of Adair, if I informed you that we are not the only civil creatures inhabiting the Earth now?"

"Nothing. I'd walk away."

"Of course, but you won't right now, so you'll humor me. At least for the moment. Anyways, what if I explained to you that there are creatures that are imperceptible to the human eye in this world, able to travel through pockets in space to skip between worlds, if you will?"

Cornelius was thoroughly relieved to find his sense of intelligence and logic returning to him. As it did, this man's rantings made less sense. He remained silent, accepting the fact that he had somehow been forced to hold the wine glass.

"Exactly. These creatures - we'll call them Demons, for lack of a pronounceable word in any human language - can also phase in between shadows when they are "immaterial". That is, of course, to say, until they have received their "eyes". You'll understand soon enough - it makes more sense when you see it. Anyways, Cornelius-"

"Raven."

"Cornelius. Once they have received their eyes they are susceptible to attacks, unable to re-merge into the shadows with them. They usually return these "eyes" when they move through the space pockets back to their own world, but this takes much more time than simply melting into shadows, I'm sure you can imagine."

The cloaked man paused to observe Cornelius's skeptical expression.

"Well, practice makes perfect, my young friend. Experience is a marvelous learning opportunity, don't you think?"

"I think-"

"Twas a rhetorical question, Cornelius." The man, a blotch of black in the bright light, intercepted.

"I know, and I'm not quite sure it matters to me anymore, sir." Cornelius responded politely, icy-blue eyes blinking expressionlessly.

Without any pointless hesitation, the youth turned briskly around and placed one foot outside the receptive light that reflected off the ancient, stony walls of the alley. He began to take another when a vice-like hand closed around his forearm, agonizing enough to send a gasp of pain from his mouth. Feeling torn in two with his body half in, half out of the uncanny light, Cornelius turned around, an inquiry on his lips.

The question never left his mouth, transforming into a rush of air that he inhaled as his eyes widened in incomprehensible shock. The figure, one ghostly hand holding him upright, held a sword in his other, at waist length where he had run Cornelius through. The blade was made of a crystalline-like silver material, outlined in a glowing violet hue, and the hilt was the very essence that defined black. The cloaked figure sighed wearily, shaking his head.

"Honestly, such skepticism is a rather discouraging trait from someone with your fate, Cornelius Raven."

And the figure was gone - the light wasn't there...had it ever been?

With nobody holding him up, Cornelius collapsed immediately to his knees, his hands splayed on the uneven stony ground as he felt the color drain from his face. The pain in his abdomen effectively impaired his thoughts, although he did whittle it down to two. He killed me. That....bastard.

His arms finally comprehended the message being pulsed out by his brain, and buckled, and he pitched sideways awkwardly onto the dusted, dirt-riddled cobblestone path. He could feel his hands drenched in what turned out to be his own pooling blood, and felt a dark sense of hopelessness. Such an early, anti-climatic end, and it hadn't made any sense at all...what kind of murderer impales their victims on a glowing sword? To hell if he knew...and why was his vision clouding with white?

Weren't people supposed to "fall into darkness" as they fell unconscious? Or was that just the perception etched into his mind by novels?

His mind floated freely to whatever he wished to think about, which he was grateful of. If he was forced to remain transfixed in reality, with his cursed expensive suit absorbing his own blood, metallic and smelling overwhelmingly of copper, blackening as it dried, he'd probably be sick.

How amusing.

With equal amusement, Cornelius realized that someone was murmuring softly in his ear - the one not pressed to the pebble-littered street, of course. He couldn't understand a single one of the words being babbled to him, as they were of no language he had ever even heard rumors of, but he felt consoled at least. Someone was there with him...and it was pleasant, as if he wasn't actually dying, alone and cold and lost in a foreign country, but rather being rocked to sleep by his mother. The mother he had killed in birth, and thus never met. It was nice.

Cornelius shut his eyes; the light came through anyways, as did the murmurings in a lost language. His smile wasn't vague, but real and genuine, as he slipped away from the land of the living.

 

[Sem]

The celestial bodies shone brightly on the streets of London. No clouds were visible, so the full glory of the moon and stars were seen, which was a beautiful sight to behold. Although, the howling wind and biting cold made it bittersweet.

A dark figure roamed through the cobblestone streets. It wandered down roads and through alleys rather aimlessly it seemed. It didn't seem to be searching for something, but it was. The being was veiled by a dark cloak, and a hood both hid its face and protected it from the freezing temperatures.

The streets were dark, almost pitch black even. The figure held a flashlight in one hand, the tip of the battery-powered device was just barely poking out of the long sleeve, the light itself was almost useless though, doing little to illuminate the way. Lights in the houses and buildings the figure passed were all off.

The figure suddenly stopped, pausing for a moment, before dashing into an alley on the left. It passed through that alley and into another street, running down that one until it ducked into another alley on the left. The creature seemed to know exactly where it was going now, running across streets, into back alleys before pausing as it reached on particular alley.

Nothing was visible in this abyss, but there was a strong odor of copper. The being shined the light against one of the walls, revealing a barely breathing person, very young. He was covered in so much blood, amazing that he was still alive.

"I've found you." the figured said, walking over to the boy and kneeling. It removed the hood covering its face, revealing the features of a woman, in her fifties maybe. She had long, black hair, fine and smooth, one of her long bangs was dyed blue, a bright blue, and a few grey hairs were placed on her head. Her skin was pale, a bit wrinkly, and just starting to get that leathery feel. The most striking feature though were her sapphire blue eyes, old eyes, wise eyes. Her dyed bang matched her eyes, as well as an actual sapphire that hung around her neck on a silver chain. The stone was large and beautiful, reflecting even the most faintest of lights.

The flash light turned off and disappeared into the depths of the woman's sleeve. She lifted both arms in the air, sleeves sliding down her arms, revealing her pale hands. She wore two rings, one on each hand; each had a sapphire imbedded into it as well. She recited strange lyrics in a mix of the Latin and Greek languages. A small bead of light formed above her hands, and it grew in to the size of a basketball.

"Antecho." she said, before lowering her arms, the orb of light was left in the air, acting as a light bulb. What had she just used? Magic? I guess that would be the only way to describe it. Such a thing was no ordinary feat for a human being. She was a witch, or a mage, or a sorceress, or whatever you wished to call her. Witches were rare in the present day indeed, only a handful remained from the older days. As for her age? She certainly was not fifty; add another zero to the end of fifty and that's about how old she really was.

She was born in a time when witches were killed just for being witches, and there was much prejudice. There is not as much in the present day though, but such people who called themselves witches or wizards were labeled as loonies, or too obsessed with the Harry Potter books for their own good. Sorena, for that was her name, had never really read Harry Potter. She thought the ideas in them a bit silly, full of imagination though.

Sorena focused her attention on the boy in front of her. She unbuttoned his expensive shirt, revealing a rather large wound in his torso that seemed to go right through him. Blood was gushing out still, adding more to the already dried blood around him. The blood was... unnatural, and a bit alarming to her, she didn't like the feeling she got from it. She placed a hand a few centimeters above his skin and muttered the phrase, "Desino-meno." The wound stopped bleeding at once, leaving Sorena to inspect inside of it for internal damage.

"Therapevo." Her hands began to glow with white energy; the magic entered the boy's body and began its work. The injured organs within him regenerated, and the skin around the gash began to close until it left no sign that there was ever a wound there. She turned her attention to his left eye, which had been bothering her as well, it was bleeding also. She opened the lid, and gazed at the pupil; it was bright red.

"Oh, and what is this?" she gasped, "I've seen this before, but not on human children I tell you." she sighed and healed the scar on his eye. "I don't like the energy there at all." she glared. She laid him out flat on the ground, with his overcoat underneath him, protecting his back from the icy floor.

A cloth fell out of one of her sleeves and into her hand. She held it and said "Ygrasia." The cloth began to drip with moisture; water. And Sorena proceeded to clean away all the blood on the boy's body. "You're certainly a queer specimen" she whispered kind tone, a bit creepy though. "Sorena does not feel the need to go out searching for things you know, and I feel something festering within you." She continued. She knew nothing of what exactly happened to him, or what he would have to do in the future. But her sixth sense told her it was something big. She had only vague clues, his blood, and the eye.

As she reached for his left hand and she turned it over, she gasped and dropped his hand. There was... something on his palm, a symbol. A symbol that she had seen quite a few times throughout the years, in her various old books and tomes. She inspected it closely, wide-eyed, touching it, smelling it. She leaned back and pondered. "You are indeed strange." she said finally, finishing her cleaning of his body. "I will definitely have to investigate further."

She stood up and gathered his clothes, folding them as neatly as she could, what with the blood stains and all. They disappeared into her robe and she stood over the unconscious human. Sorena grabbed a briefcase that was lying on the ground nearby, it certainly belonged to him. She pointed at the orb of light still floating in the air. "Exafanizomai." she said to it, and it vanished. Sorena then put her hands together, as if praying. "Dynami." she said, it was a simple spell, but it would give her the strength she needed to lift the boy. She raised him up, placing his overcoat onto him. Then with one of his arms around her shoulder she lifted him a bit and began to walk. The witch was walking down the street looking for an Inn or Hotel of some sort.

After about five minutes the duo arrived at the entrance of a small Hotel. She muttered the word "Aoratos." and both she and the boy disappeared, turning invisible. Sorena snuck into the back of the reception desk and snatched up the keys to an empty room. Once in the room she removed the spell and placed the young man on the bed and covered him in blankets. She placed his clothes on a chair by the bed and his briefcase on the floor by the chair. The witch left the room, hoping to gather a few materials she needed for research on the things she had seen. She returned to her temporary abode located in an old part of London, in the basement of an abandoned house.

Sorena was not English by birth, but she had some of it in her. She was born In America. (OOC: XD) She had quite a few things in her, like African, as her mother was African, and her father was an English sailor. Sorena moved around when ever she pleased, or whenever her sixth sense called her to. She had been in England for no more than a month; her living area was littered with countless books, new books, old books, and completely ancient books. Among them were quite a few scrolls as well. Various herbs were also present, practically any herb you could think of in fact, as well as a few other ingredients she issued for her potions. The herbs themselves were also part of her diet, her breath usually smelled of dirt and Mint Leaves.

She was here to find a few select pieces of literature, things she read long ago. She dug through the small space, whose walls were rotting, paint was chipping; the screaming wind came through the broken window, which was boarded up. The only light down here were her various candles. Once she had found what she needed she made her way back to the hotel. The people would've been giving her strange looks, had there actually been any out and about. Sorena was definitely not a popular person, wherever she went. When she finally returned to the room where the boy was staying she was holding five large books and a couple scrolls. She gently placed them on a desk, in the opposite corner of the bed. She loved her books and scrolls, and treated them with much care.

Sorena placed a small candle she had brought and put it on the nightstand by the bed. She pointed at it and said, "Flamma." a spark flew from her finger and lit the candle, filling the room with a pleasant smell that would also help the boy recover from his unconsciousness. She sat at the desk and created another ball of light. She opened her first book and began to see what it said about the things she saw tonight. She would do this for the rest of the night until the human woke.

 

[MoonStruckDragonLass]

OCC: I swear my character is a male 'demon'. No, he has no other powers then running around in women's underware and pushing cobwebs around. He's flipping mad, PS. Most of what he does isn't going to make sense.

BIC:

The darkness. . .

It hung all around. Intermixed with the thick cobwebs, it drifted across the ceilings. Pale hands grasped and scrabbled. Bright eyes opened slowly, blinked. They were the purest blue. Dust motes, dull and grey, drifted in front of them. A porcelin face frowned.

Cheeks like a dollop of creme, curving elegantly. One dusty lock of purest gold hair lay spiraled on those pale cheeks.

This. . .

The pews were broken. The wet wood rotted damply. Stones, fallen from the broad, arching ceilings, were strewn about. Windows were broken, but the main one, the giant, stained glass masterpiece, lay untouched. Low light, from a streetlight outside, rusty and orange, filtered through the coloured panes of glass. The unnatural orange light twisted the colours, and a broken rainbow of light lay on the floor. Something was wrong with the eyes. They too, had an unnatural light behind them. Their pure blue lay broken. Slowly, those eyes blinked again.

This is no deposit for an Angel.

A tinkering laugh broke out. It echoed through the empty church like thin, shattering glass. Aware of the wrongness of the situation, it was quickly cut off.

There was a shift. Dust motes went spinning wildly. Soft, full, rose coloured lips smiled fully. It was a soft smile, to go with an extravegant face. An Angel's face. The angel tilted her face, and the bouncey locks tumbled haphazardly. It only served to enhance her beauty. A golden tiara set with unimaginable jewels made of milky cloud's light was lost among the bounty.

The angel stretched, every line and curve flawless. But as she moved, she seemed old. Had anyone been watching, they would have cringed, fearing what would pop out from under that flawless viasge. But the room was empty, save for the ethereal shape of a woman, draped in white cloth, radiating a soft light, tainted with a dull yellow gleam.

She lay suspended exactly infront of the giant stained glass marvel.

How long have I slept this time?

A pale hand glided down to work over the folds of cloth. The dust was think on them. The being grew more and more exasperated. The dust would not come off. The usually flawless white robes were a dull grey. She pounded them in frustration, then stopped.

"What have I become?" She whispered to the darkness, wonder staining her voice. It came out musical, full of milk and honey, but dusty, and cracked from disuse. Cold blue eyes stared at her fist, showing nothing.

"Showing nothing? Why, the worlds a show!" The tinkling laugh came again, unrestrained this time. The eyes remained untouched. Wings like old feather dusters, covered in cobwebs and dust, flexed and contracted. "What have I done?" whispered the voice, lower this time. Hands like pale spiders hovered, shaking in front of those cold, cold eyes, grasped at air.

The blank eyes turned to the stained glass window again, and the bloodless lips smiled. Eventualities, events, they traced lines in the air, converging, diverging, spinning in a million different colours in the empty spaces. Some sort of scuffle had happened outside. The noises had drifted inside. The angel twitched again, insect like, pupils retracting to slits as the darkness pooled around her. Cobwebs detatched themselves from the ceiling to cling to her, scraps clug and pulled and finally the angel fell, detatched from her hanging place on the ceiling. When she touched the ground, and the last of the cobwebs settled around her, she was no longer an angel, but a dark man in angel's clothing, covered by a thin veil of shadows, a floor-length cloak. The old pockets of distortion were rapidly fading away. Small breaks from this world to the next were closing themselves. They were used to alter the way the light moved and fell, slid and travelled. He used them not to travel from this world to his original place of dwelling, but to alter his apearence and give him the guise of an angel. He bent in the small pool of coloured light on the floor, a thousand jewel tones failing to touch his black cloak, but breaking his face into a million precious gems. The jeweled colours fluttered and scattered as he tilted his head as the angel had done, listening.

I've stayed too long.

He loved the intoxicating power it brought him when some human fell upon it's knees before him. He would smile, turning their faces upward with a twitch, drawing the perfect nails, the shapely, creamy hands along the jaw line, watching the awe. Sometimes they spoke. Of what was not important, as he weaved his spell over them. He was an angel! One step removed from God!

The creature chuckled again, moving about his small, dark kingdom. Eventualities, the lines, they swayed. Something had turned. Something had happened, something was changed. . .

 

[LaenVulpix]

[[OOC - 'cause Katie said I could. ;D I would say something akin to "sorry if it's short", but then I'd hafta hide from her wrath for the rest of my youthful life. -titters-]]

BIC-


Even before he was mentally capable of perceiving the fluttering idea that he was awake, Cornelius could sense the world turning on its hinges around him. The guttering sound of a candle, peaceful and hushed as it sputtered from somewhere far away, was a whisper in his ears. Its warmth was an indistinct creature brushing against his face, accompanied by an incomparable scent that sent a vivacious chill down his spine.

Cornelius unwarily reveled in these sensations, for when the first inkling of genuine consciousness tickled his mind, the first thought jolting through his head wasn't articulate at all, merely an exclamation of pain.

The youth flung himself into a semi-sitting position, pale, trembling hands braced against his head as if to suppress the torrents of pain lancing from there. His fingers buried themselves in raven-black hair, while he labored to conjure a full thought. His thoughts, however, were like peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mind, and refused to be coaxed down.

Was he experiencing a hangover? Had he --

"...would you like a drink? Something to calm your nerves?"

--somehow managed to get ahold of something alcoholic the previous night? And where the hell was he? His vision was fogged, to the point of blindness in one eye, and the other seemed hesitant to focus on anything in specific.

No, he couldn't be hungover. If anyone asked, he never lied about his age, and besides, he --

"Can't drink yet, anyhow. And I don't want it."

--loathed the taste of alcohol. Bitter and dry on his tongue. If it was necessary for a toast, or offered expectantly by someone he was expected to impress, he could mask the displeasure of course, but...

Another jolt of staggering pain severed his connection from intelligable thought. With the movements of a drunken man, Cornelius clawed at the covers that shielded him from the room's not-so-cold atmosphere. His torso was bare, but no chills of any sort covered his pale skin, giving him the question of why he had used the covers at all. He flung the rest of the thin motel sheets away, dimly aware that while a section of his eyesight was recovering, the part of his vision that the left eye should have been contributing was as undiscerning as it had been the moment he awoke.

Cornelius forced himself to stand, despite the discouraging fact that his knees refused to lock, and swung his head blearily around the room. His vision lazed, offering him only murky splotches of varying degrees of shading; after agonizing over it, the blue-eyed character walked weakly towards an open door, and the enclosed darkness it held. The bathroom.

The feeling of rough, cheap carpeting beneath his bare feet changed abruptly to a cold, hard tiling. Instinctively, he shut the door behind him, nearly leaning on it for support as it swung closed. For a brief, floating moment, he was enveloped in darkness, and although he had always preferred the cool silence of it before, he found himself scrabbling for the plastic base holding the light switch - the dim light ticked on with a lackadaisical flicker, accompanied by a monotone hum that lingered in the background. Cornelius felt his heart pounding in his ears, wrists, throat, as well as in his chest, with absolutely no embarrassment. It was as if the darkness had been attempting to swallow him, and the light, however dulled by age and overuse, had banished it.

The shaken boy craned his neck around in an impetuous observation of the small bathroom, struggling to get a word of thought in edgewise around his headache. The roaring in his ears had dimmed, at least, and the idea that perhaps the migraine would just fade away encouraged Cornelius to proceed as normal. And, typical of someone always on the move, a shower upon waking was in order.

The shower curtain was thick and a plain peach color, rough to the touch as he grabbed hold of its end to tug it closed. The metal rings holding the material up cringed as they supported the majority of his weight, while he attempted to balance himself enough to turn the hot water on. The knobs, plastic and as cheap as could be expected of a common motel, each had a sticker taped above it, entitled "hot" or "cold" correspondingly. The letters swam unhelpfully in Cornelius's vision, only serving to send a sickening jab of pain through his skull once more. Fighting back a wave of overwhelming nausea, he gripped the knob closest to himself and turned it; at least in every bathroom he'd used, that was the warm water. Otherwise - well a cold shower sounded as appealing as a heated one, at the moment. Anything that could potentially wash away the morning sickness.

The water gushed confusedly out of the bath spout until he pulled up the shower knob; afterwards, the shower head hissed for a moment, and began sputtering out lukewarm sheaves of water. Leaving a weary sigh hanging in the air, Cornelius let himself slump to the floor. His muscles felt as if he'd gone through some gristly sort of workout yesterday, between the time he deplaned and woken here, with a collage of unwelcome symptoms. His bleared right eye permitted his pants to fade in and out of focus as he fiddled with the belt buckle, naturally dexterous hands suddenly incapable of figuring out what they were supposed to do. And...was there some kind of copper-like scent embedded in the expensive black slacks? The color was off, somehow...

Cornelius gave his head a bedraggled shake and finished undressing, grateful that his headache was dissolving as if it had never existed, and stepped lethargically under the shower's heavy stream of water. The temperature was the same as it had been when he turned the faucet on, and requested no fiddling of the knobs. Not that he likely would have. Not today, at least.

Another painstaking sigh fell out of his mouth as the water first dampened, then soaked his hair, causing the bangs to fall roguishly in his eyes, before cascading off his aching body. Eyes closed, the black-haired teenager let his thoughts reorganize themselves, not letting his mind settle on one thing in particular. At some point he made use of the cheap soap and shampoo, stored in sample-sized bottles to discourage the idea of theft, but it was in a rather detached way - at least until he reached up with his hands to shift his bangs from out of his vision (both eyes were as clear as he could remember them ever being).

He froze with his hands raised in front of his pale face, although the little color that once inhabited it was rushing out as well. His right hand was fine, but the palm of his left bore a large, unfamiliar insignia that gave him the same frightened feeling that the bathroom's initial darkness had. The mark, tattoo-like in color, although it was a shade of purest black no ink could ever hope to dye skin, stretched fully across his entire palm, and was flawless in design. His skin erupted in gooseflesh at the same moment a chill crept down his spine, like a spider traipsing down the length of his body. He reached behind him distractedly, turning the single running water knob, first the wrong way, then the right, decreasing the flow of water until there was naught but the sparse bead of water accumulating on the shower head.

Cornelius stumbled clumsily from the tub, drawing a towel from the dainty wooden rack across from him, breathing in a labored fashion as memories flooded his mind, unwonted and unwanted.

His hands sought the bathroom sink, and clenched tightly on its rim, white and shaking. Another wave of nausea seized him, and only by pure luck did he avoid emptying his stomach into the wash basin. Feeling weak and...well...as if he'd lost any hold on reality, he lifted his head, observing himself in the mirror. Thankfully he was as shocked as he could possibly get, otherwise the sight of a crystalline, crimson-red cat-like eye staring back at him would've likely dropped him in a dead faint.

Cornelius suspected he had passed fainting, and driven directly into insanity. Well, at least his right eye was still that of himself, cold and blue. Maybe he was only half crazy. Marvelous.

And I believe I have a meeting, today, He realized sickly. Maybe I can call in and explain that I won't be able to make it, being dead and all.

 

[Sem]

The whole night had been rather uneventful as the witch sat in the corner pouring through all the words of her books. Her literature did indeed provide some information on the symbol on the boy's hand. It literally meant 'Chosen,' from what she could see. There are only a few vague references of it appearing in the past, it was mostly just used for various hexes and enchantments. It showing up on a human hand was rather queer.

She had stood up many times throughout the night just to look at it again, scouring the palm for clues. The boy slept deeply, but quietly through the night. She peeked at his left pupil as well. It reeked of some sort of energy, which she soon recognized as being their energy.

Sorena had seen a few weird occurrences lately, something that she's never seen in all her years of existing. They were... beings... not of this world, but from an entire different plane of existence. They had gained the ability to transfer themselves, how they did was unknown to the witch. It was a remarkable thing to witness however, the whole process of transferring takes roughly half an hour, and they are invisible to the normal human eye. She guessed the most proper word in the modern language for these beasts was 'demon' but looking into their actual name would be something she'd definitely do.

In the morning, as light broke through the ink darkness, the boy awoke, slowly. Trying to grasp his surroundings and fighting the fact that his mind was fleeing from him. He stumbled into the bathroom, and she heard the water running. Minutes later he blundered out, his face was rather plain and pale, his right arm reaching across his torso and covering his left eye. All his distress was rather amusing to her; she always had a bit of sadism in her.

"Good morning!" She said as cheerily as humanly possible, her eyes wide and a smile broad across her face, in an attempt to further irk him. "I'm hoping you're doing better than last night, because you were rather dead." her smile faded very quickly, and a look of somberness replaced the happiness. He only stared at her, still blank, but there was a small hint in his eye that he was utterly flabbergasted. He had to deal with the fact that there was a symbol on his palm, that one of his eyes was completely transformed, and now there was an old woman in his rather meager motel room saying G'mornin to him.

Sorena stood and gathered her books, closing them and stacking them on the desk. "Hurry up and get dressed, boy." she said dryly before sighing, a concerning glint was in her deep blue eyes. She brushed some hair out of her face, "I'm going out to get you some thing to munch on… we have a few things to talk about when I return."

 

[LaenVulpix]

[[OOC - I'm guessing both Daxx n' Katie are waiting for an appropriate time to insert themselves into the scene, so I'm going to continue on with meh character 'till. Sem and/or MSDL can post as well, o' course. -yawns-]]

BIC-

It was several minutes ensuing the elderly woman's abrupt disappearance through the motel door before Cornelius realized he was standing inertly in the doorway to the bathroom, cottony white towel wrapped halfheartedly around his waist, and a listless stare boring into the wall where the black-cloaked figure had stood.

A black-cloaked figure...

A racking, haunted shudder coursed through his body, and the fingertips of his right hand - one one covering his monstrosity of an eye - buried themselves deeper into his damp, black hair. Water beaded at the ends of his hair, falling into a pool of water at his feet with soft plips of sound, and he felt his own breaths coming out in unsteady, stuttering heaves. His hands were shaking, and it was with a lunging step that he managed to fling himself onto his temporary bed once again. He could feel the fabric beneath him dampening, and could comprehend the way the cloth folded beneath his weight. What he couldn't puzzle out was what was he doing here?

But that line of thinking trailed inevitably to the heart-wrenching memory he had recovered. It led back to that alley of dark light, to the figure (it couldn't have been a man...maybe a monster) swathed in black garments, and to the powerfully glowing sword that had taken a shape only to shatter everything Cornelius had ever known.

"Hurry up and get dressed, boy."

She had told him to get dressed.

That meant she was coming back, perhaps with some point of stability for his knotted mind.

Cornelius stood up.

His suitcase was propped haphazardly against a modest chair, which in turn was holding a bundle of black clothes. His own, he was certain. But like his slacks, the shade...the tint...of black that marked them was wrong.

That's from the blood, you addle-minded moron! he heard himself think, and was alarmed by how unrecognizable the tone of his own thoughts were. Stop floating around and pull on some clothes, for hell's sake.

The young man knelt to pick up the blood-splattered metallic case, gripping it tightly in ghostly-pale fingers, and set the luggage on his bed. His hands fumbled briefly on the clasps, paused, then tried again. Two muted snicks, and the black thing sprang open with the simple energy of something without a soul to weigh it down. The clothes tucked away inside the compartment were carefully folded, albeit not by his hand. Tidiness was a major key to business, but had never been an inherited trait. Such organization as he achieved came only through forced hours making his tie sit just-so against his shirt, only to have it hidden by a jacket.

But he was loosing track of his goal.

Cornelius plucked the first article of clothing he saw, and squinted slightly to identify where it went. The starched white cloth of a plain button-down, collared shirt stared back at him until he flung it over his shoulders. His left arm tucked itself into its corresponding sleeve, and the right followed...very reluctantly. He kept his luminous, crimson eye skewered shut, as if he could wish it away by refusing to use it, And buttoned the short-sleeved shirt up, leaving the uppermost two or three buttons undone. The result was a rather roguish look, but at least it was on.

Still accompanied by a vague stare that left his eyes unfocused, Cornelius tugged unenthusiastically on his plain red tie, leaving it hanging around his neck, tucked underneath his shirt collar, in a languid position. Uncertain of what to do with himself, the youth slumped back into the bathroom, dragging his soaked towel behind him like a mangled animal. The light had been left on, and he stared at himself in the small mirror's mildly-smudged glass. All in all, he harbored the appearance of a wild schoolboy, complete with fiendish black hair and unsettled eyes.

His left bore into him, as haughty as ever, and another chill crept down his spine. The pupil was slitted, like a cat's when faced with too much sunlight, and seemed infected with it's own iris's vibrant color. opposite it, it's blue counterpart was every bit as brilliant as it had been prior to his....his....incident. It was the icy blue of faded bluejeans, with none of the indistinct tone.

He acknowledged the idea that he was refusing to look at his left palm again...the pure darkness of the insignia imprinted there was too eerie to force himself to see. It reminded him of that violet-edged silver sword...and it reminded him of it for a reason. He just knew it, like how he knew that his own thoughts weren't all his own anymore. Something had changed within him, and he felt his entire world sliding out of balance. Only replace "sliding" with a word ten times as powerful. That was the idea.

Cornelius cast his eyes downwards, not-seeing his black shoes and the dirty off-white tiled floors beneath them.

 

[Sem]

Sorena walked down the hall, her steps were smooth and swift, making it seem as if she was gliding. She entered the room carrying a cup of steaming tea, which she set down on a small table. The boy was in the bathroom, staring at his eye in the mirror. He was 'dressed' but rather un-neatly. He gazed at her only once but resumed his examination of the pupil.

From out of Sorena's sleeve came a plate, it landed on the table with the tea. Various biscuits dropped out of her sleeve as well, fall into place on the plate. She picked the saucer up and offered it to the boy from out of the corner of the mirror, raising her eyebrows and waving it a bit. He didn't move or say anything, so she set it down again.

"Well then, since you're not hungry, let's begin shall we?" she said as she walked over to the window and opened the curtains, letting the morning light into the darkness of the room. She grabbed the chair from the desk and sat in it; the boy had now turned and was facing her.

"Right, where should I start... I know you have no idea who I am, and you're most likely so confused you don't know what up or down is anymore." she paused and shifted her eyes, thinking. "Well, I'll start by introducing myself. My name is Sorena, and I'm the one who found you last night and brought you here. I also might as well tell you right now that I am what one would call a witch." she snapped her fingers and there was a small flash of light, an attempt to prove her authenticity as a witch, or at least give her some ground.

Sorena looked at the boy, who was in turn staring idly at her. Whether her words made sense to him so far or not was beyond her knowledge, but she continued nonetheless. "When I found you in that alley you were barely alive. You had a large wound going through your torso, something that would kill a normal person. There was blood everywhere, but I was able to heal the wound as you've probably found out." she gestured towards the bathroom.

"There were two things I found that bothered me though, and they're bothering you too as I can see." she chuckled lightly before turning serious once more. "One is your eye. It produces a vile energy that I can't stand really, and I've encountered it before." he stood still, covering his eye. "The energy resides in beings that have recently begun visiting our world, the best word we have for them would be 'demons.'" She sighed. "Unfortunately I don't much more about these creatures, and information on them seems to be little or non-existent."

She paused for a bit, sorting out the words she was going to say next, looking in any direction but his until she started talking. "Two is the symbol on your hand." she paused for his reaction: there was none, he didn't even look at it. "I have found that the symbol basically means 'chosen.' It's a rune used mainly for spell casting and whatnot..." her gaze drifted. "Uhm... here! I have a book." She stood up and briskly grabbed one of the smaller books from the desk; it seemed to be the oldest of the books as well.

She sorted through the pages as she walked towards him before stopping and pointed to one of the pages, her index finger just barely poking out of her sleeve. On that page was the exact symbol that was on his hand. He looked down at the page only once before quickly averting his gaze. Sorena bit her lip as she looked at the page, she wiped away from of her ebony hair from her face and gently closed the book, setting it down on the table with the tea and biscuits.

"So... yes... that's basically it, I don't have much more information." she sighed again. "But I'll be doing some more research, hopefully I'll find out more. As for you though, and your predicament... I suggest keeping a sharp eye on things around you, and be alert. There are secrets that may be uncovered if we just watch." She paced about the room making sure she had said everything she meant to. "Oh! Right, and you're not rid of this strange old hag yet, I'll be keeping a sharp eye on you as well. I'll always be around and close to you in one form or another, usually a cat or a raven if you're in a public place."

She knew that her having magical abilities was not easy for him to grasp, and that it would further confound his thoughts, she cackled herself at this thought.

"So, any questions?" she asked, holding her arms out. "Also, your name would be nice, unless you would like to be referred to as Boy for the rest of our relationship." she winked playfully.

 

[LaenVulpix]

Despite his unintentional lack of attention that Cornelius had to offer the elderly woman that had mysteriously chosen to entwine her fate with his, his subconscious was ruffling through the information she was presenting. His mouth detested the idea of food, and his stomach more so, leaving him with only a dispirited stare for the woman - Sorena. He felt as if he ought to have some sort of reaction, but his body was still unconvinced that it was laying in a back ally, far from here. His gaze remained steady, but possessed the abstracted quality of someone lost in a far-off dream.

He blinked, but didn't wince away from the unexpected flash of morning sunlight that flooded his motel room as the woman tugged open the thick, plain curtains masking the window. The light washed over him, and he felt a violent sense of need for the light of day that he had never noticed before. His hours had been so imbalanced prior to his...incident...that he had no real preference for day or night, but now the question of what he would do when the sun fell beneath the horizon was unnerving. He had a feeling that his fear was well-placed, though.

When the elderly woman easily proclaimed herself a witch, Cornelius dismissed it. It went under the same glossed-over category as his death. As his entire encounter with the Cloaked Figure. It's position did not change when she demonstrated a simple example of her abilities, although he did at least grace her with a marginal widening of his eyes. That just confirmed that he had lost his footing, and fell into the land of those who have lost all connection with their sanity. For all he knew, this woman was a hallucination. This place could be a fabrication of his mind, all created to distance him from the fact that...

That what?

He had died?

"...the best word we have for them would be 'demons'..." he heard her completing a sentence that he had heard yet not yet touched upon.

As if he had been shocked, Cornelius flinched and lost what little skin-tone he possessed at the moment. Demons...demons...not the right word for them, but that was what it had called them, too. Because...

"...because the name for them isn't pronounceable in English..." he muttered, his voice hardly a whisper that died on his lips.

His ice-blue eye latched involuntarily on the character depicted on Sorena's ancient, near-decaying tome. The inky-black depiction couldn't rival the eerie, ominous value of what was imprinted on the palm of his hand, but the picture was still enough to send a brisk shiver throughout his body.

"A cat....or a raven...?" Cornelius murmured thoughtfully, turning his lost eyes to focus them on the magical being in front of him. "...I have to be at a business meeting...for lunch....to discuss....to discuss....things."

What he was meant to be discussing (the very subject he had been observing that he had no need to look over any documents, since he knew what to say by heart) had fled his mind. Probably replaced with all of the new, illogical happenings that were creating his life now.

"Corne---Raven. You can call me Raven...or Boy...Doesn't matter." He heard himself say, withdrawing his quavering right hand from its place over his left eye.

Instead of feeling out-of-place, the disturbing fact was that his new eye felt more natural than the acidic-blue one he had been born with. His sight was thrown out of line by the new clarity with which he could see. His eyesight was improved by the crimson-red "Demon" eye; the thing appearantly was affecting both eyes, in order to prevent throwing his vision out of line.

He refused to further examine the insignia on his left palm.

"I need to leave."

With that being said, Cornelius replaced his slightly-trembling hand over the unnatural phenomenon that was his left eye, and fled the room. His hand grasped the doorknob firmly, and after a second of hesitation, created by a powerful wave of foreboding pulsing in his mind, he opened the heavy, whitewashed door.