Serena;
She had arrived at the gate in the late evening; she had stopped her car and gotten out looking up at the grand house as it loomed at the top of the winding road. The sun was just starting to go down and the gold and pink streamers of light melted into one another over the tree tops behind her casting a dark shadow over the gate and the house above. The house had been built in 1875 at the very beginning of Americas Victorian era, the once fine gables and turrets, now fallen and obscure, the bright colors now faded gray and weather beaten from time and the elements. The stained glass she remembered so well as a child where now filled with holes and the shingles hung helter skelter upon their frames banging loud enough to hear even from where she stood on the road below.
She stood there blanketed in darkness looking up at the seven storied house for what seemed like hours, with its gabled roof, its old watchmans nest at the top surrounded with its old hand blown glass, the circling porches and the sweet veranda, now fallen to dissipation and ruin. Her eyes followed the long rickety wooden hand rail which followed the stairs once white it was chipped and broken now like everything else, but the stairs which where cut out of the rock itself though covered in leave and moss where still in good condition and as they led her eye down to the small boat house and dock off to her right, coach house and stables to her left she noted that although the building where worn down most where far from broken.
Her gaze followed the rocky shore of the beach to the stone wall on the edge of the old orchard which lined the road in the southerly pasture as she drove to this place. The orchard had still born Empire, McIntosh, Red Delicious and Granny Smith apples when she had traveled here as a kid. Though she and her grandparents had never stayed in the house where her grandfather had been born she had enjoyed coming to pick apples in the orchard in the fall and watching Mr. Mason press the apples into pulp and then into fresh apple cider as a girl. She remembered riding in the hay wagon and feeding carrots to the little Shetland ponies he used to keep for the little girls and tourists just like her.
Mr. Mason who used to act as caretaker for the place until he died a few years ago, shortly after Serenas own grandfather, the family Mason had lived in the old farm house which she had passed on the way here with its blazing lights had been the only sign of life there had been for miles around. She had wondered at the warm glow of the house lights as she had passed, she had not known when she had decided to come to Brook Haven that she would have such a near neighbor, but she hoped they at least kept to themselves.
Somewhere in the back there lay an old family graveyard in these deep woods, this she knew according to the property plans she had been given upon bequeath of her Grandfather Ryans estate. She knew that the cemetery lay along the border between the Farm house and her own property and one day she hoped to explore it with out risking a distraught and land greedy neighbor.
Vines clung to the stones of the high walls and tall dark trees jutted tight against the wall which ran around the property. The forest loomed close here, and it seemed the trees spoke to her, whispering their wisdom letting their words be carried upon the breeze. She looked down the broken stone wall to see the forest was reclaiming the land one fallen soldier at a time. A tree had crashed through the wall very close to the gate making the gate essentially useless with the tangle of broken limbs and opening a space to any brave pedestrian. Somewhere close by a bird called out in a coughing caw and a snake moved lazily out of a crack in the wall slithering its way out of sight again, its slick muscled body gliding between the jutting rocks where before the quiet rustling could be heard once more.
Fishing out the large old key from her purse she pushed aside some of the rambling vines which where nearly choking the old wrought Iron Gate. She lifted the large old fashioned key once more examining it before she slid it home, fitting it snuggly into the creaking rusted old lock and after a few tries she tenderly got it to turn. Standing to one side she began clearing away the vines from the rusted out hinges. It had been years since anyone had been to the old house and the vines had covered most of the gate. It looked however like some kid or other had cleared a small spot on the opposite side so they could view the house above and it was at this point she started.
Tossing her purse back in the car she then attempted to clear the debris from in front of the gate. She easily tossed the fallen branches of the tree which had taken down the wall close to the gate into the woods and out of sight. Similarly without effort she tossed aside the boulders which bared the way to motorists soon after the branches. She hummed an old Herbie Hancock tune while she worked and made a mental checklist of the materials she would need to repair the stone wall and restore the gate herself. Easily she pulled down the tangle of vines, ripping them away and freeing the gate from its wild prison with one mighty pull. The gate flew back and shuddered all over raining rusty flakes from the impact screaming with every movement it made. At least she knew it was working still, she reflected, it could only want for some oil in its hinges and some TLC to get it working properly again.
Hoping back into her firebird she drove through the gate, stopping to get out and secure the newly cleared gate with the old skeleton key once more. She drove on up the winding dark road to the house on the hill as night fell around her, where answers and ghosts awaited her asking for her to discover them and so many more.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
Nobody else got it, but Robert Frost was a pretty misanthropic son of a *****. Road Not Taken indeed. The apathy, the death, the pointlessness of it all. Did it really matter which way she went? Death was at the end of every road anyway.
His handhis real handgrabbed her shoulder. She saw it coming, allowed it. He knew that she knew and took pleasure in the trust. Rose. We can bring her in without killing her, to see a jury, have a trial. Shes not worth it.
Even here in Paragon City, the sun-shiny bastion of heroic derring-do she couldnt see the point of it. So what?
He collapsed against her, his single blue eye staring into hers, the fool just got stabbed in the chest and he was happy about it. Because it wasnt her. Stupid sentimental quack. Jameson felt the warmth of his blood spilling onto her armor and he just smiled as she started to toss his heavy mass aside to lunge at the figure in black already trying to fade into the shadows.
Operative Rosemary Anne-Magdalene Jameson stood at such a crossroad, much like Frost did; complex decision metaphor and all. Why? lingered on her thoughts. Why was it even a question?
Blood was all she could smell, her entire torso plate was dripping with it, overpowering the usually sweet smell of her Widow poison. When she wetted her lips, she could taste the bitter red liquid. She was straddling her opponent, a slightly woman dressed in black spandex decorated with ridiculous red slashes that did a fair job of covering the actual wounds Jameson had cut into her. Thigh, upper arm, knee, gut. Jameson shifted, putting more pressure on her knees, which pinned the womans clawed hands to the ground. Her long Widow blades were crossed over the crazy womans throat.
Janice Sanderson, aka The Astral Assassin stared dully back up at Jameson. The poison did it, kept her slow and sluggish, and it would wear off soon. Crazy people often didnt know their own strength and this was most certainly the case in relation to Sanderson.
Further out, the bodies of three people she didnt know or care about were cooling, three punctures deep in their chests to their hearts. One blow executions, the Astral Assassins trademark. Sanderson had just finished her latest work when they had arrived on scene. The report was half written already, the plain and neutral language came to her just as easily as her action in combat.
At approximately 2343, Operative Jameson, Rosemary received and interpreted a Class VI psychic event. Initial accuracy rating according to PSYOPMAN 12.331 was a 67%.
At approximately 2351 Jameson acquired local intelligence from a reliable source and utilized OPMANARAC SI 478.32c to gain the assistance of local freelancer: Dr. Onnoroc, Kasoh---
Jameson didnt have to glance the few feet back to see Kasoh crumpled on the ground, slowly bleeding from a similar wound to that of the civillains that the Assassin preferred to target. The future was her domain, often living minutes ahead of the people she encountered. He was still alive, but death was lingering on the edges of perception.
She pulled her suit up, checking the poison sacs as she arranged her blades on her forearms. There is only one sentence for those who murder an Arbiter, Kasoh.
Sitting up from the bed, Kasoh zipped the back of her uniform up, taking the time to run his hand up and down her side, Sure, if you go back. How about a place that doesnt require blood sacrifice to keep its system in check?
As the understanding came back into Sandersons eyes, the serial killer struggled briefly, whining about the song she heard that compelled her to kill those squandering the power of the stars. What kind of justice did Paragon City have for people like this? A little pity, some disgust if they could be bothered to care at all. Righteous rage was something their due process couldnt fathom. Leave her here and Sanderson would enjoy some padded white walls, and an escape attempt and several dead bodies when she skipped her meds. She was doing the world a favor, and acting in Recluses will.
Jameson shook her head, slicing the womans throat open, severing the neck with a second swipe. The killers blood splashed on her face, but Jameson had already forgotten the insane stalker. Retracting her blades, The Nightwidow stood up moved to her wounded lover.
She flipped Kasoh over, annoyed at the extra mass his cybernetic arm gave him. Said arm was pressed over the wound, some blue-ish medical gel seeping into the cuts. His eye took in the blood, but she shook her head, Not mine.
Accomplish the mission then? She winced as he labored out the words, not from how terrible his voice sounded, and terrible it was, but the judgment she heard behind them.
Its done.
She had been keeping track of the outcomes. After Sanderson was dead, a few flickering visions of Paragon City faded as the future leaned towards a tower in Grandville, where her terminal awaiting the report she had half written was to be typed and filed. Bracing for the rejection had been easy.
Kasoh grunted, You gonna help me back to the clinic before you go?
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
Jameson pulled Kasohs arm over her shoulders and eased the man up, To hell with Frost.
Eh?
Satisfied at the chaos in her foresight, Rosemary Jameson pulled Kasoh towards the door. Nothing. You gonna make me waffles for breakfast?
Woman, Ive just been stabbed!
Wuss. I want raspberry sauce too.
Infinity
Sam Varden 50 MA/Reg Scrap
Doomtastic 50 SS/Inv Brute
Ceus 50 Eng/Kin Corr
Cinderstorm 50 Fire/Fire Blaster
This is a weekly article, delivered to you every Wednesday. These articles are intended to be a fun exercise as well as a good resource for role-players to explore Character Development so please feel free to post your own characters reaction to the weekly prompt. So be sure to stay tuned to this blog for future installments!
Your character comes to a fork in the road, one road shows a tree lined sunny trail, the other a dark and gloomy solitary expanse of gravel. Which one would your character take, and what does he or she find there?
((This will be a multipart entry for me as I am still in the middle of writing this out. Here is the first portion of the story from Jake's perspective home alone in his farm house in Brook Haven New York.I will be proofreading and ammending and adding to this as I go along but I hope you enjoy it.))
It had been a long bad night, he had been up all hours and It had been another hot at that. His windows had been thrown open to let in the night air, the gentle breeze from off the near by lake fluttered the old careworn curtain which had been left by the previous occupants of his old farmhouse. Gauzy white things which danced like ghosts upon the sudden breeze painted a picture of repose and deep contemplation that was marred only by his indomitable presence in the large front room where he had made up his study.
After a day full of chores and physical exertion he had been blissfully tired, and after a quick shower and a hungry man dinner he finally sat down to his computer hoping that inspiration would strike his brain and make the move to this quiet and retired town of Brook Haven worth all the effort. However hours had passed and still nothing came to him, he stood up and sat back down again. He poured himself too many drinks and now nearly seven hours later there he was pacing and swearing at his laptop still.
His sock covered feet thudded dully on the rough wooden floorboards of his study, the tenth board always letting out one long creak when his weight was released. Dirty thick bottomed glasses littered the room only one still holding its precious amber liquid, the ashtray next to his laptop overflowing with cigarette buts, the tall free standing lamp in the corner casting a dull yellow glow through out the long sparsely furnished apartment.
Jake was miserable.
It had been like this for weeks now, he had come up to Brook Haven to find peace and quiet of a country town, where characters would abound and the charm of small town life could work its magic upon him. Instead he found distrust and thinly veiled hostile manners, the locals where not welcoming, nor did any seem even curious in their new neighbor. No one had come to visit him and none had even gone so far as to welcome him into town.
There where plenty of oddball characters about the place however, the two old men who sat in front of the grocery store playing checkers most of the day a Mr. Sneed and a Mr. Gruber respectfully. Who said nothing more than monosyllables and yet seemed to watch everything that went on around them. Doctor Harris, the old family practitioner who’s office seemed like a time warp back to the good old days of electroshock therapy and cigars in the waiting lounge. Harris’ Nurse Amelda Kirkwild or “Please call me Melly for short” who wobbled and warbled when she talked like an over weight bird who’s breath always smelled strongly of mouth rinse and Dr. McGillicuddy, and buck toothed Mrs. Pringle who answered phones and who never seemed far from her glass candy dish.
There where the twin sisters Jane and Mary Coats who where never seen apart and owned the local bed and breakfast. Both where always sitting in their rockers on the front porch rocking back and forth incessantly writing in their journals tapping their old ink pens repeatedly to their bloated pink tongues so now many years later there was an ever present blue stain to their lips, tongues and teeth.
Then there was Father Goodman, a large cheerful fellow in his late fifties who’s red face bespoke a liking for the ceremonial wine and who’s lecherous eye told a tale of a preference for young boys whom served as his alter boys, than the good word. Last but certainly not least was Nigel Stone, the reigning capitalist and man about town. An upright man, whom Jake was told sat at the head of most of the town organizations including the Historical Society (which almost all of the most influential people of the town belonged to). He was a tall strong figure of a man in his late sixties with a head full of silvery black hair, a thin beard and mustache with an eye for other men’s wives.
Yet with all of these bright and colorful characters, none of them had come forward to wish him welcome or had been very kind to him at all. He had met those mentioned above whilst taking his evening walks into town, and the one doctor’s visit he had had when he had first arrived when he had cut himself while sharpening his axe. It was then he had narrowly observed the circa 1932 Doctors office, with its strange old contraptions and leather belted Dental chair painted the sterile lime green. The old glass fronted cabinets still filled with Jars labeled “Cotton” “Gauze” and “Alcohol”, trays set out with scalpels and saws with devilish teeth that where a collectors item somewhere but where put to common daily use here in this world that time seemed to have forgot.
Yet even with this one visit, despite Nurse Melly’s supposed cheerfulness there seemed a reserved unfriendly air in the short visit, he was not asked to come back to have the stitches removed and Doctor Harris barely spoke three words to him the entire time he was there. In short, Jake was bored.
Now on top of it all he had writers block, no matter what thoughts plagued his mind or the occasional remembrance of Elise’s caresses touched his heart nothing was worse than not being able to write. He had for so very long been at the command of the next interview or story from the Persian gulf that now with all of this self imposed silence around him he had a hard time making a good start.
At first he had shrugged it off as lack of sleep or perhaps the lucidity of his mind when he at first tried leading this healthy new life style. He bought organic free range meat and poultry and even became a regular to the Henson’s Farm stand and orchard before he realized he couldn’t cook his way out of a paper bag. He gave up smoking for all of a week and didn’t drink at all for a while longer, but as the days went on and his writers block went from bad to worse he said to hell with it all and gave into his favorite vices once again. Besides he figured if he was going to be a miserable writer he might as well live up to the stereotype after all.
Still here he was, two weeks later, pacing the floor with the dry eyes of a raving insomniac. His head was cloudy, a melting pot of too many half formed ideas that would drift away before they would come close enough to the fore front of his mind for written realization. He needed fresh air and liberty, it hadn’t been very long since his last drink so a drive was out of the question and he was to restless to even attempt any sleep, but a walk he thought would do him a world of good.
Taking several strides to the open southerly window he peered out across the rolling green fields and the edge of the dense woods where atop a cliff alone stood the old Ryan Mansion. He commanded a view of the magnificent sight as well as the Bay with its long stretch of rocky beach which ran along the backside of the wild southern pasture and the old orchard which stood as a dark and wild tangle across the road in front of his house.
His house was the last one on the old dirt road before it went on for many, many miles lost in the gloom of the woods which bordered the old stage road on both sides. So dense where the old evergreens, sugar maples and oaks on one side and the twisted gnarled old apple tree’s on the other that he had found on his solitary rambles down the cold and lonely road that even a bright afternoon sun did little more than cast a few shafts of golden light through the canopy above.
He could walk into town, where the morning sun could shine in his face, he could walk under the flurry of the falling autumn leaves into town. He could treat himself to breakfast at the main street dinner of hash browns, maple link sausage and dollar pancakes with a side of steaming hot joe, but he wasn’t in the mood for the light and lively. He was a night person, he liked the gritty and gloominess of the old stage road and he could feel the tug of the old house today as if someone deep inside was calling to him to come and see her beauty once more.
He made up his mind, he would walk to the old wrought iron gate which sat at the end of the country road and locked him out of the expanse of the private Ryan estate. He liked to walk to the old gate peering through the bars up at the long curving road which ended with the jutting white bluffs and the old Victorian house which acted as look out over Kings Bay below. His imagination running wild with the idea of former times when the old house served as a prominent Hotel for the rich and famous whom came here to Brook Haven to get away from it all like he was doing now.
Taking up his old leather jacket and shoving his feet into his sneakers he left the house heading toward the gloomy road while the bright morning sun shine rose behind him.