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Post by Rad on Jun 18, 2011 14:49:03 GMT -8
███ Etienne Night
Full name: Night has no recollection of his true name and instead goes by the pseudonym of ‘Night’ which he derived from the surname of his deceased legal guardian; Florence Nightingale. Coincidentally, this alias is identical to the surname of his original name: Etienne Night.
Age: 16
Gender: Male
Social Class: He’s a slum dweller.
He lives it rough and sleeps on the streets wherever he can find shelter. Fortunately, his employer occasionally permits him to utilize the company’s shower facilities so that Night can still retain a satisfactory degree of cleanliness. His boss wants him to look presentable but Night's poverty means that he often has a scruffy beggar look.
He currently resides with Alice in an apartment in one of the slum districts. He considers it his obligation to take care of most of the chores and bring in income from his occupation as a delivery boy. He’s eternally grateful to Alice for taking him in. His favorite feature of his new abode is the shower which he considers a luxury fit for kings. However, despite this new privilege Night's tattered clothes still exude a scruffy and unkempt look.
Occupation: Night works as what his colleagues call a ‘fail-mail’ delivery boy. Unlike the regular-pay workers, Night’s income depends solely on the generosity of the mail recipient. Anything that is unpaid for and unstamped, suspicious or has a name without an address is categorized as ‘fail mail’ which the main post office workers consider too much of a hassle to deliver. Additionally, the delivery of such items will often conclude without adequate pay (if any is to be received at all) so they are usually disregarded by those who have a salary and quota they need to maintain.
Thus, the transport of such items is left to the desperate (such as Night) who will grasp at any potential chance of earning their next meal. The revenue for such deliveries vary from a sound beating, nothing, a small amount of change or, if lucky, a whole turkey for Christmas. Generally, the turnover depends on luck and can be influenced by a number of things, including the contents being delivered or the recipient’s mood and what they have to spare. Basically, it acts as the mail delivery system of the poor and barely produces enough profit for its laborers to purchase a meal at the day’s conclusion.
Relationships:
{Parents} Murdered in a serial killing during the day of Night’s (Age: 5) Birthday celebration. He can’t recall their names and can only remember their faces because he witnessed their deaths.
{Guardian: Florence Nightingale} Florence was brutally killed in a mugging.
{Friend} Alice Jeanette Garret; The two met by chance on the streets of the slums. Night will say anything to see Alice smile. {Alice is roleplayed by Ellie}
APPEARANCE ███
Due to the numerous errands Night completes as a delivery boy, his skin tone is naturally tanned. The best way to describe it would be that Night has olive skin. His hair consists of a combination of brown and bronze strands which generally fall in disarray, and, on occasion, conveniently obscure his left eye. Although both his eyes are a captivating shade of emerald green, a genetic mutation causes the iris of his left eye to have a slight golden glow around the pupil.
Night is neither short nor exceedingly tall. He has a rather scrawny figure which is the combined result of his meager diet (which sometimes consists of only a single meal a day) and his job (which requires him to run around often and carry heavy objects from time to time).
Unfortunately, due to his lack of money, Night doesn’t have many options when it comes to what he wears. His attire basically consists of whatever he has managed to salvage from other people’s trash. This gives him the oh so common scruffy beggar look.
███ PERSONALITY
One of Night’s defining characteristics is that he’s an infallible optimist, a trait which often gives others the impression that he’s a gullible simpleton. Night also consistently regards others as being more important than him, often complying with a scam of his own volition despite being aware that he is being conned. This self belittling aspect of his personality is possibly attributed to his only remaining memory of his childhood when his dying mother accused him of perpetrating her demise, saying that he didn’t deserve to live.
Despite being desperately poor, Night is exceedingly generous with his cash, always convincing himself that others need it more than him. He also adheres to a strict code of chivalry, frequently citing that he is obligated to do something under the stipulations of common etiquette or due to his duty as a gentleman. In short, Night strives to be a gentleman; something that gets him into adverse situations on a semi-regular basis.
Night isn’t the type to judge; no matter how an individual’s actions contradict his personal morals Night will maintain his composure and refrain from commenting. If he forms an opinion about someone’s attitude or personality at all it will certainly be positive. If someone displays a bad habit or disagreeable temper Night will think of a reasonable excuse for them to prevent himself from reflecting negatively on the situation.
Although Night has a natural aversion to most drugs he is enamored with Rouge. Perhaps the only thing preventing him from being a user is his knowledge that he could never accumulate the money required to satisfy an addiction. Nevertheless, despite the low pay he receives as a delivery boy, Night adores his job. His definition of being a delivery boy connotes bringing happiness to another rather than the more accurate denotation of delivering mail.
A quirk of his is his obsessive phobia of death. Night perceives death as a sentient yet intangible entity was always stalking him, eliminating anyone who he formed an attachment to. This fear is partially due to a nagging suspicion that Night himself is to blame for the deaths of those dear to him. Another source of terror for Night is his debilitating phobia of the circus and clowns.
Unfortunately, akin to his schizophrenic mother, Night has an alter ego which awakens when he is under the influence of Rouge. This alternative personality is a figment of his conscious which instigates him to commit treacherous crimes motivated by the emotions that his normal self keeps suppressed. Providentially, the Rouge’s ability to induce memory loss prevents Night from spiraling completely into the abyss of insanity since all the memories of his misdeeds fade with the Rouge as he becomes sober.
{Note from Etienne: “You may wish to believe that the innocent ‘Night’ is the true me since his personality is more dominant (and certainly exceptionally pleasant) whereas I appear merely as a malevolent Rouge-induced persona. However, have you ever considered the fact that in his ‘normal’ state ‘Night’ lacks a number of memories and is thus essentially missing fragments of himself? I, on the other hand, retain all my memories and consequently exist as a ‘whole’. Furthermore, let us not forget that he is restrained by a stringent code of gentlemanly conduct whilst I am free to do as I wish and need only my own heart’s desires to guide me. He suppresses the emotions which motivate and normally fuel the actions of fellow humankind whilst I permit my emotions to fly unfettered and thinks the thoughts he so endeavors to deny. In this way, which of us is more human? Hah, and let’s not disregard the symbolic coincidence that ‘Night’ is simply a part of the name ‘Etienne Night’. So, dear reader, please decide for yourself which one of us is real and which of us is just a shadow?”}
HISTORY███
{Traditionally, Night’s parents and ancestors were of the Knight class. However, once the last heir of their charge denounced the obligatory bond between master and knight his parents decided to move to America to begin a new life. Etienne was born soon after they arrived in America. However, whenever he wanted to spend time with them or play with his parents it was always ‘I’m sure you have better things to do.’ Or ‘I’m sure you don’t mean that you want to spend time with us. Your tutors would be disappointed if you skipped your lessons.’ It almost seemed as though he were an unwanted accident.}
Etienne meandered amongst the motley of people who were indulging in the sights and sounds of the carnival. Unsurprisingly he was alone again, left to his own devices by his parents despite today being his 5th birthday. Really, what justification did he have for hoping that today would be any different? His parents were a young couple, hopelessly in love, why would they spend time with him when they had each other? He was just an obstacle, an annoyance they had to attend to every now and then. Upon arrival, mother and father had instantly hurtled toward those age specific attractions, leaving Etienne with a thick wad of cash and instructions to ‘enjoy his special day’…alone.
Etienne led a sheltered life of luxury, free of worry, free of adversity but also free of friends. Mistrustful of the public education system his parents had hired an assembly of private tutors to oversee his education. Study, study, study, in the end there was never any time for him to act his age. Through lack of time alone, Etienne was effectively confined to the manor house. If only he had siblings he wouldn’t mind so much, but all the company he ever had were the servants and his tutors. His parents, well that was out of the question, they never permitted him to participate in their social gatherings. Maybe he was a merely hindrance to them?
The sound of glee and happiness echoed in his ears and a group of young children brushed past, their laughter lingering in his ears. He had to escape this place of torment! Breaking into a run, Etienne hurtled through the alleyways between the gawky tents, fleeing from the omnipresent laughter of the people. It was useless of course, this was the carnival known for the mirth and merriment that was its task it create… the cheerful atmosphere was everywhere. Ultimately however, he happened upon a deserted clearing between the tents where the carnival noises sounded distant and muffled. The effect was almost surreal.
A single stall was situated in the center, manned by an old geezer with a forlorn expression on his face. Evidently not many people bothered to pass through here. Glasses of crimson liquid lined the shelves of the attraction and above the stall an awkward neon sign flashed ‘Rouge; The Amazing Miracle Drink.’ Well, whatever it was, Etienne didn’t really care as long as the substance was edible. Tired and thirsty, Etienne scrutinized the containers of Rouge with a hungry look in his eyes. Sticking his hands into his pockets he approached the old man.
-x-
Arnold Smith scrutinized the young child walking towards the stall, pondering where the parents were and why they had left their kid unattended. Perhaps the brat had simply ditched his parents…yes that was it. It was typical behavior for brats like him! He probably thought he was better off without them! Hah! Well, the cunning creature had certainly managed to wring some big bucks out his father before he took off by the looks of things. The pockets of the punk’s posh outfit were practically bulging with cash. So now it was time for Arnold to work his magic and con the child out of the money the kid had tricked from whatever poor sod of a father he had. Talk about retribution!
“Excuse me, sir. This miracle potion of yours, is it drinkable?”
“Ohohoho! What a question lad!” Arnold chuckled, a wide grin spreading across his face “now what use is a miracle potion if it ain’t drinkable? Now lad, let me tell you a secret, not only is this potion drinkable but it’ll grant you any wish you desire! How about it? For the mere price of fifty bucks! Any wish you desire! Now do we have a deal?” (Of course, fifty bucks was extreme. The regular price was only twenty.)
“This some sort of magic trick?” Arnold saw a disbelieving look flash in the kid’s eyes and for a moment he thought the jig was up. Nonetheless, regardless of whether he knew it to be a ruse or not, the child reached into a side pocket and withdrew a bundle of cash. He then easily removed a fifty from the bunch and handed it to Arnold. DAMN! This kid was LOADED! Maybe he should’ve asked for more…
He watched as the kid gulped down the whole bottle, all the while wondering how much he could have gotten. Wiping the Rouge from his lips the child paused, turning to face Arnold without really perceiving him, a blank look in his eyes as he mumbled something inaudible.
“Speak up, kid! Want more?”
“Do you…want to see a magic trick too? I can…make you disappear…all you have to do…is close your eyes…”
What an annoying kid. If he didn’t want anymore he should just leave. Oh well, Arnold already had his money, might as well humor him too. Closing his eyes, Arnold said “better be an amazing trick, kid.” That was the last thing he said as something smashed against his skull.
-x-
Penny Summerton sat on a bench, encircled by her friends and basically just enjoying the jolly atmosphere the carnival always brought to town. She was one of the popular girls at school, confident, dignified, always smiling and afraid of absolutely nothing. Today, like always, she was surrounded by an entourage of friends, all of them chatting and enjoying the candy and sweets the local stalls had to offer. Nothing was out of the ordinary, until she saw him, a solitary figure standing amongst the tents, melancholic emerald eyes gazing at her.
The kid was about her age…no he was definitely younger. There was something disconcerting about him too! One eye (the left one) was tinted a strange shade of gold around the pupil but that wasn’t the aspect that troubled her. No, what unsettled her was the loneliness and sadness those eyes conveyed. Oh heavens! No one should be unhappy on a day out at the carnival…no one should be ALLOWED to be unhappy on a fine day like this. It was with these contemplations in mind that she took off after him as he turned and sprinted away, following him into one of the circus tents colored a red and white peppermint pattern.
Inside the tent, the boy stood facing her, a bemused grin on his face as he said “Hi, my name is Etienne. Wanna play?” There was something oddly innocent and childish about the way he voiced the request and Penny couldn’t help but introduce herself and agree to a game. There was a large circular wooden board in the center complete with metal leg and arm holds. Pointing out the contraption to Penny, Etienne elaborated that that was the thing they would be implementing in their little game of ‘rescue the captive’. Complying with what she considered to be only a harmless game, Penny allowed Etienne to secure the fastenings with lock and key. It was only once Etienne extracted a knife from his pocket with a gloved hand that Penny began to have her doubts.
“What are you doing?!” She shouted, a little louder than intended as a frown gradually spread across her face.
“Ah, such an ugly frown that dares distort your face. Well milady, let me fix that frown for you…I won’t allow anyone to frown on my birthday.” His face was right in front of her now, a grin revealing a set of pristine white teeth. Lethargically, the boy moved the blade to her face, gradually slicing a curved line into her flesh. The pain was excruciating, Penny couldn’t help but scream, whimpering in resignation as the boy completed his work and withdrew the blade.
Unexpectedly, her outburst had failed to aggravate her tormentor and the boy only smiled as he said “Ah, hear that scream? Sounds like the rollercoaster must be a lot of fun.” Of course, they were at a carnival complete with haunted houses and thrilling amusement rides. Her shrieks would only harmonize and melt into the background of people enjoying themselves. Penny was just realizing the extent of her predicament as the boy retreated from view behind her back. “You know…these patterns and engraving on this board, don’t you think they resemble that of a dart board? I’ve changed my mind, let’s play bulls-eye.”
The boy appeared again, circling his prey in the manner of a vulture. Once he was satisfied that his victim no longer possessed the volition to retaliate, he ambled towards an ominous metal cabinet which stood idly to one side. The thing appeared not to be locked and thus the boy was able to throw open the doors with ease, peering inside a moment before stepping aside to provide Penny with a view of its contents. An assortment of knives glimmered in the depths of the cabinet and as an expression of horror crossed Penny’s face the boy gave a gleeful laugh “Ah! How thoughtful! Look at the toys they’ve left for us to play with!”
-x-
Pat Marque studied the model train in the display of the transport exhibit; back turned to the lad whose piercing gaze he could almost feel physically penetrating his back. Pat was the 5th child in a family of eight children, meaning that he was almost never alone, something that irked him immensely. Now, today, when he had finally distracted his siblings enough for him to enjoy some time of peace and solitude there was an annoying kid following him around. What a creep! Was he going to be stalked all day?
His stalker was a few years younger than him and clad in respectable attire that was ruined by some splatters of what appeared to be crimson paint. There were a few kids running around like that today, after all the paint-ball game was using red paint this year, but somehow Pat had an inkling that the boy’s mother wouldn’t be too happy when she found out. The clothes looked new and rather too expensive to be thrown away after a single outing at the carnival. Cautiously, Pat turned around…
“You like trains? Wanna play a game with my trains?” This unforeseen outburst came from right beside him and with an expression of Shock, Pat toppled backwards onto his back side. Since when had the kid walked up to him anyway?
“If I play with you, will that get rid of you?” Wincing, Pat glared at the child, too angry to feel ashamed for yelling at such a young boy.
“Sure…I guess” the kid looked crestfallen but Pat didn’t care. He was already looking forward to spending time on his own “but please put these blindfolds on. I don’t want people to know where I’ve hidden my toys.”
-x-
They had been meandering for a while now, something Pat had noted due to the gradual diminishing of carnival noises and the feeling of grass turning to gravel underfoot. Seriously, this kid must be severely paranoid to go to such great lengths to hide his toys. He was still blindfolded, an aspect that made him feel slightly helpless as he stumbled along. Abruptly, his foot snagged on a short of metal rod and he almost tripped, yelling “Oi! Are we there yet?!”
“Yea…we’re here but don’t take your blindfold off, I don’t want you to see where I hid them.” What an odd kid. As if Pat cared, all he wanted was to be left in peace and quiet as soon as possible. There was a scuffling of gravel at Pat’s feet as if the boy were fidgeting and fiddling with something…an underground passage perhaps? It stopped soon enough followed by a long period of silence. Pat was getting irritated now; he just couldn’t shake the suspicion that he had been duped.
Removing his blindfold Pat gazed in bewilderment at his surroundings, in particular the railway track upon which he was standing, ‘so this is what the kid had meant when he said trains’. As confirmation to Pat’s postulation a train whistled somewhere in the distance, making Pat break out in a cold sweat ‘that was close…what exactly had the kid been planning…’ attempting to move his feet, Pat perceived with shock that they were bound with a hodgepodge of chains, shackles and handcuffs, the sort commonly featured in a Houdini act. Some keys were also scattered a fair distance down the track…perchance he might reach them if he lay down…he was running out of time!
As the train swerved into view Pat wondered if he would survive.
-x-
Michelle opened her eyes, squinting at the scene which enclosed her. She and her husband were seemingly surrounded by an assembly of cages, some empty, some containing growling beasts. How had she gotten here? Oh yea, that’s right, dear little Etienne had wanted to show them something. He had led them into this circus tent and they had all enjoyed a delightful picnic (minus the strange tasting tea). Michelle smiled; Etienne was such a considerate child she was certain he would grow to be a true gentleman too, that thought made her happy.
Gradually, as whatever spell of drowsiness that had engulfed her began to weaken Michelle noted that both her hands and feet were handcuffed. Her husband, (still sleeping) would face an identical situation when he awoke and Etienne…oh heavens WHERE WAS ETIENNE?? Dread gripped Michelle as she frantically searched the setting with her eyes. Oh heavens, what villain had done this? What fiend had taken her sweet Etienne? What was he doing to her darling Etienne?
“Mummy, I’m right here.” Huh? What was Etienne doing atop the liger cage? It almost seemed as though he was preparing to open it…was he? It looked like he was being plagued by some grievous headache too, clutching his head in such a way and muttering “argh…its influence is fading…” Eh? What influence? “Mummy, I really enjoyed the picnic with you and daddy but the kitties got jealous…now they want to have a picnic with you too.”
-x-
{Victims of the Carnival slayings:
Arnold Smith – beaten unconscious then drowned in a pig’s trough filled with Rouge.
Penny Summerton – stabbed multiple times and left to bleed to death.
Pat Marque – tied to a railway track and run over by a passing freight train.
Michelle & Tom Night – mauled to death by escaped zoo animals.
Un-named Kid – Found atop a liger cage with a rifle. Too traumatized to remember anything.}
-x-
Of course, as is customary to standard procedure, the police department investigating the incident questioned Etienne. However, questioning someone who can’t remember a thing is both pointless and, in such an occasion when the victim is a child, quite pointedly cruel. After some time of getting nowhere the kid even managed to escape. Looking for him in a city like the Big Apple would have posed more of a challenge than looking for a needle in a hay stack so the police didn’t bother. Obviously, the kid was too young to be even considered as a suspect and he wasn’t any help to the investigation either. Looking after him was a nuisance. The kid didn’t even know who he was and no one had stepped forth to claim him. He might have originally been homeless anyway.
Strangely enough, those tutors and servants never reported him missing although they came to confirm the identity of his parents. Their employers had never written a will and with Etienne out of the way they were free to abscond with their masters’ fortune. The fact that Etienne had lost his memory was an act of providence itself.
It was thus that Night was taken in by a penniless and homeless nobleman of which there were quite a number around due to the economic slump. These people didn’t know how to work and previously depended on their investments. Well, now that their investments had failed they were out of house and home. They had effectively been reduced to pathetic jobless denizens of the slums who begged for a living. That was how it was for Night in the early years, begging and sleeping on the streets until he finally got himself a job as a delivery boy. Eventually, this occupation pulled in enough cash to make a small laughable bank deposit.
Yet, the depression had begun and banks throughout the city were being robbed or closed down left, right and center. Making a trip to the bank was foolish, both due to the recent surge of bankruptcy amongst banks and the increase in violence in such areas. Oh well, they were poor, lacked education and were thoroughly ignorant of current events. Night had an errand to run for the post office that day so he sent Florence to the bank…he never came back. They found out later that he was accidentally killed in a mugging. It was to be expected. There were desperate individuals lurking around banks those days.
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Post by Rad on Jun 18, 2011 15:09:49 GMT -8
███ Adrasteia Moirae
Full name: Adraesteia Moirae. The meaning of the name in Greek is the equivalent of ‘inescapable fate’. His original birth name, Aidan Myers, remains unknown to most.
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Social Class: He’s the personal butler to the sole heir of the Veritas fortune. Although this position should classify him as a member of the lowly servant class his association with both the Veritas and Exousia noble families earns him the same degree of respect as a member of the lower-Bourgeois.
Relationships:
{Best friend} Gin Nightingale {Deceased}
{Mother} Rose Myers {Deceased}
{Father} Stephan Myers {Death by Suicide}
{Adoptive Father} Medica Moirae {Missing. Assumed to be Murdered}
{Legal Guardian} Butch Mccod {Framed for a crime he didn’t commit. Executed}
{Benefactor} Caelum Veritas {Died Under Dubious Circumstances}
{Master} Memini Veritas. {Currently 14}
Fighting style: Adrasteia prefers the use of a gun in combat. However, without a weapon his movements consist of punches and kicks which are often too predictable to the extent that he can never win a fight without his gun.
APPEARANCE ███
Since his employment as butler into the Veritas estate, Adrasteia’s attire generally consists of whatever his capricious master has coerced him to wear. However, if provided with a choice, Adrasteia Moirae would prefer any branded fashion which exudes a façade of wealth and authority. This preferred choice of attire is sourced from his enjoyment of indulging in a superior sense of self-worth rather than the pure pursuit of fashion itself.
He has an imposing height of 187cm and is slim but well-built, after all, the man likes to exercise. Although his height is largely attributed to genetics, his build and body structure was the result of the life-style he led. Due to his previous introverted habits of living in darkness, his complexion is similar in pallor to that of his Master and other citizens of elevated social order. He also has a head of ebony hair, slightly curled, and void-black eyes to match.
███ PERSONALITY
According to his Master, Adrasteia has perverted tendencies, noticeably that of being a ‘sadist’ who indulges in the suffering of others. A peculiar personality quirk is his phobia of anything that looks like, smells like or tastes like cherries. In the presence of such things he becomes completely useless. He also claims that he adores rats, even going as far as to have a tame albino rat despite his master’s wishes. However he also often alludes to applying rats as his main experiment victims. Also quite contradictory to his claim is his adulation of serpents and felines, both of which are known to feed on rats. He appears to be fond of his master Memini Veritas, yet as Memini alleges, Adrasteia can only display his affection in sadistic ways such as forcing Memini to eat food he hates, teasing him and setting Memini up to be made a fool of in front of girls.
Currently, his one great aspiration in life is to protect Memini and aid him in becoming an admirable young man and is assisting him in investigating the conspiracy which led to the collective assassination of the Exousia, Nouvelle and Veritas noble families.
He’s aware that Memini’s medication is actually ‘Rouge’ but is cautious of accusing Kratos Exousia of conspiracy at this stage since there is no substantial evidence. Applying his knowledge from his former apprenticeship to his adoptive father and apothecary, Medica Moirae, Adrasteia has devised a substance (he adds it to Memini’s tea when he isn’t looking) which partially negates some effects of the Rouge (namely addiction and further memory loss). Unfortunately the potion has severe adverse side-effects and often instigates temporarily derangement, has hallucinogenic effects and induces vivid nightmares when used by Memini which sometimes causes Adrasteia to ponder if his master wasn’t better off WITH the effects of Rouge. Adrasteia is still investigating a more effective cure but hasn’t yet made any progress.
Adrasteia is also an avid believer of fate and destiny and many of his choices in life were made established on this belief. In the past this has made him dangerous and somewhat criminally deranged.
His favorite food is apples which he often emphasizes are the original fruit of temptation.
HISTORY ███
{Adrasteia was born in a quaint little village located seemingly in the middle of nowhere, away from the bustle of roads, markets, towns and other villages, a place occupied solely by a small community of farmers who worked tirelessly on the unrelenting land. Nevertheless, regardless of the effort and physical expenditure on the part of its inhabitants, the land always yielded just enough resources to achieve a mere level of self sustenance. Surprisingly, despite their poverty, those who lived in that hopeless place would never have been seen with a frown distorting their features, something which one may attribute to their ignorance of the vast world which awaited them out there, beyond that sea of hills and sky. In short, Woolshire was where they were born; Woolshire was where they would die, Woolshire was all they knew. Hardly anyone ever set foot outside the village boundaries during their lifetime and even if they did…well, there was nothing of interest to be beheld; just infertile land stretching out over the hills as far as the eye could see. A varied diet, one of the necessities of life, was sustained by the simple exchange of produce between the villagers and, in the end; there would rarely be anything left to take into town. Thus, to the simple people of Woolshire money was no longer necessary and thus the complete lack of a road to anywhere was irrelevant. In these conditions of peace and harmony the villagers lived, one generation after the next, an eternal cycle which repeated itself as tirelessly and endlessly as the people worked …however, perhaps it was also this isolation that instigated the subsequent tragedy which decimated the population of Woolshire…that is, in other words, wiped it entirely out of even the most detailed of maps.}
It was summer again and beneath the clear azure sky a skylark sang, its silhouette clearly distinguishable in the bare branches of a parched tree. Seven year old Aidan Myers, as Adrasteia was known as back then, stood some distance away, slingshot angled at his unsuspecting victim, tongue licking his dry, cracked lips, killer intent reflected translucently in his ebony eyes. The elastic was taunt, stretched to its full potential as he readied himself to deliver the fatal blow. Abruptly, his peripheral vision discerned some movement to his left and before he could defend himself the creature had shoved him to the ground shouting “SHUTTUP, don’t kill it! Idiot!” Kicking off his assailant, Aidan staggered to his feet, a look of disappointment evident on his face “Shuttup? I ain’t even talkin’ DAMMIT GIN!” Glaring at his friend Aidan picked up his slingshot, now broken and clearly useless, simultaneously hurling it at Gin in his annoyance. It fell on the hard, baked earth, splintering in two. “No rain, no food. We haven’t had rain for over a YEAR, Gin.” “Doesn’t mean we have to be barbaric…” was the reply.
That broke the tension and with a laugh Aidan sprinted off, calling over his shoulder as he did so “Time to fetch our rations from the village elder. Hurry up Gin or I’ll take yours!” Jogging and racing, the two passed a ditch, the concave dip made of the same cracked and moisture-less earth as the surrounding landscape. At its lowest point a dome constructed of clay and brick had been built over an opening in an attempt to minimize the scorching effects of the sun. This was once a pond sourced from a stagnant underground pool, the opening to which had months ago been blocked by the prior mentioned structure when the pond had finally dried up completely. Fortunately, another opening to the stagnant underground pool had been effectively transformed into a well situated in the center of the village-hall, hidden from the harsh glare of the sun. With no other openings and no river nearby the continuation of the pool’s water supply was achieved only when rain fell and soaked into the earth where gravity would pull it downwards until its trajectory ended in the accumulated water. There was no rain now, hadn’t been for a long time and the stagnant pool was already drying up, fast.
{So now you know what started it all, a drought of unforeseen proportions, but, the community was tightly held by bonds beyond friendship and in any crisis the entire population would band together, fending off the enemy with all they had. Likewise, in this instance one learned and knowledgeable old-timer had had the foresight of storing food over his fifty or so years and now that store of food had finally been put to good use. They could have avoided tragedy and the old man could have been lauded as a hero for generations to come…but we all know that’s not how it works, not in reality at least. In reality, one thing naturally leads to the next and in such a backwards village as Woolshire you don’t expect to find technology. Old food kept in the basement is simply old food kept in the basement and with old food (fifty years old at that) there inevitably follows disease, famine as well in this instance, and with disease and famine there easily comes…death.}
Aidan awoke to the glare of sunlight shining through his windows and the smell of disease rampant in his nostrils. Coughing ensued, not from him but from his mother in the adjacent room. Sighing heavily he dragged himself to his feet, a look of grim determination on his face. The elders and adults would be meeting today to discuss the strange plague which gripped the village… An image of the dead and decomposing bodies he had witnessed being carted off yesterday flashed in his mind and he almost gagged. ‘People have already died’ he reminded himself. Silently, he made his way to the kitchen. A bowl of soup stood on the table, its contents made from the stale food that had triggered the deadly sickness. Hungrily he wolfed it down. It was either starve or die of sickness. He’ll rather not starve and the fact that the storage of diseased food hadn’t been destroyed yet meant that others felt the same.
Satisfied, he rose to his feet and snuck out the front door, tailing his father’s figure to a dilapidated hut which stood on the outskirts of the village. Just standing outside at the back he could already hear everything but he wanted to see everything too. Crouching down he perceived a crack in one of the planks to his left and eagerly shifted towards it. Inside the hut was a gathering of six people, mostly men and one old hag. From the general hubbub taking place it was possible to discern that these were the only healthy adults left in the community.
Then, as a wooden box was prodded into view the noise died down and the wizened old lady spoke “This is my husband’s collection of green paper and metal discs. Out there…(here she swept her left arm in a wide half-circle) they call it money. As you know, my husband was a traveler who stumbled upon our settlement in his youth so I trust in his knowledge of the outside world. A few days ago, on his death bed he told me that with this ‘money’ it may be possible to purchase ourselves a miracle so I want the fittest amongst you to journey to the city and…”
The rest of the words were lost to Aidan who was already sprinting to Gin’s house in excitement. An open window beckoned him and with an energetic leap he vaulted over the ledge and into Gin’s room. It was deathly silent, disturbed only by the sounds of rapid and irregular breath. Gin was sprawled in his bed, a pained expression on his face, his clothes wet with his own sweat. It was evident that he was in the grasp of the disease. Stumbling backward in despair Aidan could only whisper in horror “no…he was…fine yesterday.”
{So there you have it! A whole village struck down by a fatal illness…yet…there was still hope. Nonetheless, these hopes relied on money and, call me prejudiced, but these country folk had no idea what they were even dealing with! They were sitting ducks no matter where they were, just waiting for some con artist to snatch them up in his jaws.}
The donkey-led cart halted outside the village hall, the exact spot from which it had departed a few months earlier. An overweight stranger sat inside, his face glistening with sweat as if it were he and not the donkey who had been pulling the contraption. A meter-tall closet-like-thing sat beside him, made of metal with its doors securing locked (thrice) it gave the appearance of containing something of immense value. Shortly, the donkey driver (one of the villagers) dismounted and proceeded to lead the stranger off the cart. Once his feet were firmly planted on the ground it was immediately possible to fathom the true build of the man. Short chubby legs, round imposing stomach, buttons straining despite the reinforced stitching, neck a thick trunk, budging cheeks colored rosy, huge oily nose positioned on his face dead center, squinty eyes almost permanently closed by swollen eyelids. ‘Why, he’s just like a pig!’ would have been the first thought to cross your mind.
“Name’s Taylor, Taylor Black” he grunted, extending a hand to both Aidan Myers and his father, “I had initially thought I would have a better reception than just you two, being the man here to save your village and all.”
“Yes, and we are awfully glad at your coming but my son and I are the only healthy ones left. The rest are all…”
“Dying to meet me.” Black finished the sentence for them, chortling at his own insensitive joke. “Well then let us commence with the miracle work immediately!” Fetching a string of keys from his pocket T.B unlocked the doors of the metal closet, revealing its contents. Bottles and vials of a swirling crimson concoction lined the shelves, emitting a faint scent of cherry; Rouge had finally arrived in Woolshire.
{Hailed as a miracle worker and hero, Taylor Black left the village of Woolshire adorned with the best of Woolshire’s material goods. The village had worshipped him and when he had left, demanding the best of all that he desired, the inhabitants willingly gave it all away without a second thought. In fact, the village was effectively stripped clean, reduced to nothing, but the people were grateful, after all, they had been salvaged from the throes of death…or so it seemed.}
The sky was grey, obscured by clouds stuffed full of rain. To the villagers it seemed like one miracle followed the next. Finally, after three years, the drought was, at last, over. Yet amidst the day, in the morning, Elvis Grey had died, completely without warning.
Aidan Myers lay on the parched ground outside, waiting for the droplets of rain to hit his face. As he eavesdropped on the conversation happening inside the house he shuddered. Amongst the survivors, Elvis Grey had been the first to contact the plague, followed closely by Aidan’s mother. Before his thoughts could return to those dark days, Aidan closed his eyes, indulging in the sensation of the breeze brushing his face. Unexpectedly, a loud coughing started inside the house followed by the crash of breaking porcelain. There was shouting inside, angry voices. A door slammed and a hand grabbed Aidan’s shoulder, dragging him up and shouting “RUN!” It was Gin.
“What…have…you…done…now…Gin?” Aidan inquired, panting breathlessly, once a considerable distance separated them from the house. When no response ensued he scrutinized his friends, normally pale, even at the best of times, Gin now looked more like a ghost, petrified eye staring blankly at the earth. “Gin…?” Some distance away someone coughed, startling Gin who gave a small leap backwards. “Only Mr Simmons, I can tell from his voice. It’s okay Gin, he wasn’t one of the adults at the house.” Aidan explained, only to see his friend turn a peculiar shade of green.
“Oh my gosh…” Gin whispered, “Let’s go find Ms. Jackson!” The suggestion was abrupt, taking Aidan completely by surprise as he was yanked forcibly to his feet.
“What the…hey Gin! What the hell?” Aidan protested in vain, dragged along by a frantic Gin, “Jeez man…you’ve played some hateful prank haven’t you?” No reply. “Okay Gin, tell me later…actually I’ll hear about it anyway when you confess to Ms. Jackson.” Aidan smirked; sure that Gin had committed some vile taboo and now wished to confide in the lass.
Soon they spotted Ms. Jackson; Aidan was just about to call out to her as Gin shoved him behind a tree. “Ssshhh! Just watch.” Gin instructed Aidan, an expression of fearful exhilaration on his face. Together they watched from behind the trunk as Ms Jackson paused, a look of distinct shock on her features, coughed for a while, and then dropped down, dead. “I’m next…” Gin murmured voice almost inaudible as the rain finally commenced its descent.
{The villagers had believed in the miracle cure known as Rouge. That gullibility was their demise. That con artist had tricked them good, that crafty old devil, whatever concoction he had prescribed had only removed the symptoms of disease whilst the ailment itself slowly drained the individual of life. In the end, everyone dies. No wonder he high-tailed it out of Woolshire real quick. However, even in this tale of woe there is at least one miracle…the illness had never managed to consume two individuals so that at the end of the day Woolshire still had a population of two. They were Aidan Myers and his father, Stephan Myers.}
The candle-light dimmed, soon to go out as Aidan slumped forwards on the kitchen table eyes scrutinizing the burning candle-wick whilst his mind traveled through space and time back to the good ol’ days…when Gin was still alive. True, when everyone died it had left him and his father with an entire village in their hands and all the good that came with it but of what use was that when everyone else was dead? They had even spent a week just digging graves for the deceased. He closed his eyes, remembering how his father had looked upon his return from the city, where he had initially promised to purchase some technology to work the land.
In his mind he witnessed his father crash through the front door on the night of his advent, an unruly glare displayed by blood-shot eyes, his black hair a tangled mess, his face unshaven and swarthy with dirt. In his left hand he clasped the handle of a briefcase, barely cognitive of the fact that the handle was all that was left. In his right hand he grasped a bottle of delightful Rouge. Behind him, in the darkness, a cart could be perceived in which crates upon crates of bottles filled with Rouge glinted ominously in the half-light.
In his memory, Aidan Myers saw himself lunge at his father, proclaiming in a hysterical voice, “Don’t you remember what that poison did to EVERYONE we cared about? Don’t you care anymore?” This attempt, pathetic to some extent, was greeted with a swift kick to the stomach which sent Aidan crashing into the wall. Gradually his trembling body slid to the ground, crouched over in a fetal position, gasping in pain. At this his father laughed, it was the loud cackle of a maniac. Injured, both physically and mentally, Aidan glared up at the creature his father had become. For a moment the laughter stopped as lips moved into a snarl. Footsteps echoed in the confined space as Stephan Myers advanced on his son, there was no escape. The glass bottle of Rouge was lifted and there was a brief second of hesitation before it was sent hurtling towards Aidan’s face. The candle-light flickered and went out as the scent of cherry mixed with the stench of blood.
{What is there to calm human grief? Rouge. What is there for those left behind? Rouge. What is there to numb the mind? Rouge. What is there to eliminate human attachment? Rouge…indefinitely.}
All supplies run out eventually and in time the crates of Rouge had all disappeared, the crimson liquid within vanishing down Stephan Myer’s throat. That’s why he was gone now, leaving behind his son to wait at home. He was off to the city in the same donkey cart, off to the city to mortgage his land, off to the city to sign the contract that would forever leave them in a debt that was impossible to repay...all for the sake of purchasing more Rouge to fuel his addiction ‘So much for my birthday present’ Aidan thought despairingly to himself. He was turning ten the next day.
Gradually, the front door creaked open; it was Stephan Myers, plain old Stephan Myers, no Rouge, no contract and looking like he had just bawled his eyes out. Walking towards Aidan, he embraced him, whispering “it’s alright, son. I won’t leave you in debt. I’m sober now. Now get some rest.” Perplexed, Aidan gazed up at his father; although he was at a complete loss as to what to say he obediently got up, and walked to his room, collapsing on his bed in a daze. Perhaps things were on the verge of getting better.
He didn’t remember exactly when he succumbed to sleep but next thing he knew it was morning. Sunlight flowed in through the open window, illuminating everything in a brilliant golden radiance. It was deathly quiet. Rubbing his eyes, Aidan proceeded to the kitchen, a chair was absent from the table. Yawning, he wondered if his father was already at work in the fields now that he was no longer under the influence of the Rouge. Maybe life was returning to normal again…it was only then that he noticed the swaying in the next room. The door to this room was ajar and silhouetted by the light streaming in from the wide window was a corpse…swaying from a length of sturdy thick rope.
{Once you’re hooked, that’s it. Rouge won’t let you go. Not until you’re dead.}
It was dusk; an entire year since the day he was left all alone. Generally, Aidan wouldn’t be lurking the cemetery ground at this time but tonight was an exception. Tonight a low rumbling emanated from beyond the hills and at this vantage point it was possible to distinguish the origin of this peculiar noise. A large metal container with what he supposed were windows was being hauled along by another metal structure on wheels. There were no horses and sight and no matter how hard he contemplated the matter Aidan found it impossible to comprehend how the thing could move, and move so rapidly at that.
Presently, the car and trailer stopped and a tall, skinny figure stepped out, waving nervously at Aidan. The stranger was a middle-aged man with a balding spot on the top of his head where his brown, mousy hair had fallen out. His overall appearance gave off an amiable yet submissive atmosphere despite his considerable height. He was also short-sighted and required a thick, unattractive pair of glasses at all times which perched now, as it always did, on his protruding nose. His eye, if one bothered to look, where of a light green flicked with bits of hazel. The man was an apothecary named Medica Moirae, and with his advent Aidan’s life would change once again.
{Medica Moirae never quite understood what it was that motivated him to adopt the child he saw at the cemetery that day, surrounded by those morbid homemade grave markers. Maybe it was his own desire to fill the void left by the death of his only son. Maybe it was because he was impressed by the boy’s knowledge of local herbs. Maybe needed someone to whom he could pass on his trade. Or perhaps it was even for selfless reasons. Perhaps he simply took sympathy in this mangy, unkempt child who was the only one left, whose only means of sustenance were wild vegetation and rats. Whatever it was, by the end of the day Aidan Myers had assumed the name of Aidan Moirae and as he departed that wretched place his own soft voice could be heard above the drone of the vehicles “Woolshire…population: zero.”}
“Genetics, this chapter discussed the unique coding sequence of deoxyribonucleic acid found in each individual responsible for the specific phenotypes of that individual. Examples include but are not limited to eye color, height, bone structure and immunity…” Here Aidan Moirae paused in his reading, a disconcerted expression on his face “so when I survived that mysterious disease it wasn’t due to fate…it was due to genetics?”
“You’ve voiced the same inquiry before, son.” Medica Moirae uttered in a rather matter of fact manner “and despite what notions Woolshire may have permitted you to entertain… in this world of science and technology there exists no such thing as fate. Here, I’ll dictate once more the fundamental theory of disease, in particular the conditions which caused your particular outbreak whilst you write.”
As Medica dictated the words, Aidan’s mind wondered elsewhere. He had a reliable memory and could remember the words of the previous dictate to the extent that his words formed on the page faster that they flowed from Medica’s mouth. Years had passed since his adoption and he was now a healthy adolescent of thirteen. Contrary to his uneducated and slovenly self of years ago he could now read and write with an air of sophistication and had, indeed, been often praised by Medica for intellect and admirable calligraphy. In a space of merely two years he had devoured a significant portion of the available reading material, wolfing down information as if his life depended on it. However, he still held beliefs what Medica often disparaged as obsolete and a hindrance to his studies. Aidan’s conviction in the existence of fate and destiny was just one of these.
{Medica Moirae was a brilliant teacher and the speed at which Aidan learnt was fundamentally attributed to his teaching style and technique. However, his knowledge was solely the inheritance of his forefathers and he himself had never deemed it relevant to attend a university or any other official education of the sort. Nonetheless, despite his lack of a formal education, Medica Moirae aspired to establish a clinic in the city and achieve grand fame and fortune. However, the city already had Rouge and with a one-sip-can-do-it-all miracle potion like that where was the need for so many other chemicals which didn’t do quite so good a job? It was always, ‘but I have Rouge’, ‘doesn’t Rouge have the same function’, ‘but Rouge is so much cheaper’, ‘but isn’t Rouge better’ or something along those lines. One day it’ll break your heart and the next day your resolve will be gone too. That’s how even a logical man like Medica succumbed to the allure of Rouge. Inevitably this also coerced him to commence a life of gambling and debt in order to fuel his addiction.}
Aidan Moirae sat reading on his bed in the trailer he now knew as home. Above him, the electric lights shone brightly, providing light to the entire interior of the vehicle. A pot of soup boiled on an electric stove, bubbling away, its contents fit for two despite the fact that Medica had been gone for over a week now. Sighing in resignation, Aidan pondered what would have happened if he had intervened to prevent, or at least delay, Medica’s addiction to…no…that was impossible. His confrontation with Stephan Myers still lingered in his mind and once again he felt the conviction that this was fate and that nothing he could have done would have had any sort of impact. To hell with it! He wasn’t even Medica’s real son. What sort of say in this did he even have?
At that moment a knock on the door interrupted Moirae’s contemplations and a gruff voice demanded “Debt collectors! Open up!” ‘Yeah right,’ Aidan thought, ‘more like loan sharks.’ Still, he had dealt with these characters before, all they wanted was to take some chemicals, some cash, food, clothing, metal, as long as they didn’t take any books he didn’t mind too much. He could always just go begging again. He unlocked the door but at that moment the strangers barged into the trailer, each loaded with either a gun or a knife. ‘Oh hell! What had Medica gone and done now?’
“Dammit! He said it was a girl! Our client has no need for a boy.” The one who spoke was exceedingly tall, his head almost touching the trailer roof, he was also exceptionally muscular and wasn’t afraid to show off his biceps in his sleeveless shirt. A tattoo of a serpent lunging for a bright crimson apple covered his left arm. His right hand held a gun.
“We could always sell his organs on the black market?” A scrawny one suggested, indicating Moirae with his pathetic crafts knife “this specimen appears fairly healthy.”
Muscle-man was scrutinizing Moirae, perhaps pondering what price his organs would fetch, perhaps wondering why there was a complete absence of fear. As their eyes locked he seemed to understand the message that Moirae’s eyes were trying to communicate ‘I accept my death because it is my fate. No one can escape fate.’
At this Muscle-man smirked. “Well then, let me change fate for you little man.” And with an effortless movement he grabbed Moirae and threw him out the front door. Turning to his accomplices he said “The contract said ‘girl’. That means the old man lied. Our client was expecting a girl; it’s obvious that he doesn’t have any need for a boy. So we go back to our boss man and tell him that the old geezer lied. Got that?” there was a unanimous nodding of heads as Muscle-man redirected his attention at Moirae and said “meanwhile we’ll take possession of all this shit, so run little man, run away and never come back.”
{Betrayal is harsh but it’s even harsher when it leaves you with no place to go and not a penny to depend on. Yet, such a circumstance does have one comfort, that is, in your struggle to survive you don’t really have time to dwell on the betrayal at all.}
It was still a few years before the depression but the denizens of the city were already weary of scammers/con-artists alike and reluctant to donate to any charity case, no matter how desperate the one begging superficially appeared. For Aidan Moirae it had been eight days of drinking from puddles and scavenging in trash cans. He had also been begging but what did he have to show for that? He was bruised and battered and had accumulated only a little more than a dollar. He was hungry, tired and, worse still, completely incapable of rinsing that despicable taste of rotten cabbage and moldy bread from his mouth. Still, he supposed he should at least be grateful that he had found something to eat that morning.
It was almost time for night to descend upon the city and as the light faded from the sky the city took on a morbid shade of grey. It seemed like all the color was leaking from the world, leaving behind only a bland and hollow shell. Limping along amongst the thinning crowd Aidan’s gaze fixed upon a crimson glow in the distance, the sight was almost surreal and for a brief moment he mulled over whether his eyes were deceiving him. Entranced by the luminescence, he staggered towards the source until he halted before a roadside stall manned by a tall individual in antique attire with an ancient top-hat perched on his head of crimson hair. In front of him was an assortment of cups, each approximately the same size and each containing roughly the same crimson liquid. The sign above him suggested ‘Rouge, 100mL cup. $1. Cheapest anywhere.’
“Well lad, are you here for some Rouge? Perfect thing to cure hunger, I guarantee it. And look there in your hand, why isn’t that $1.25 you’re clasping? Why that’s perfect for 100ml. Look! Here! I’ll even give you more for the full $1.25” and with that he took two cups and pouring liquid from one to the next so that in conclusion one contained slightly more than the last. “Well now, what do we say to that?”
At the sight of the tantalizing liquid Aidan realized how thirsty he felt; placing his change in the merchant’s hand he reached for the cup of Rouge. However, it was at this moment that recollections of his mother, father, Gin and Medica flashed across his mind, their demise all instigated by the crimson concoction swirling in the glass cup before him. With a snarl of disgust he struck the Rouge from the merchant’s hand and ran.
Without realizing where he was going, Aidan had stumbled into a deserted alleyway, trash cans lining either side of the bland concrete walls. Gradually, as his eye adjusted to the darkness Aidan perceived a scurrying movement amongst the garbage.
Rats. He licked his lips.
{It wasn’t real Rouge that the merchant was selling, or, at least, it was a heavily diluted sample of Rouge. If it had been a standard concentration of Rouge the scent of Cherry would have already sent Aidan retreating into the sanctuary of the surrounding alleys. Still, regardless of how dilute or concentrated it was, Aidan had triumphed over the enchantment of Rouge.}
The boy was present again today, ebony eyes peeking out from under a head of scruffy black curls, an analytical gaze fixed on the fluid movement of the knife as it sliced through skin and flesh. To Butch Mccod, the attention was all rather disconcerting. It was true that other youths would frequent his back-alley slaughterhouse, gasping as he loped the heads off cattle or dissected a pig with a surgical precision but their fascination was the gore rather than the technique. For this particular kid it was altogether a different story. It seemed he reveled in the movement of the knife more than anything else. Another thing was…he was almost always there, just watching from the fence, nothing more, never jeering or saying a word, just a silent, respectful witness to the animals’ suffering.
Sighing at last, Butch Mccod approached the lad, surprised that such an unprecedented action on his part procured no reaction from the child. “Whatcha doing always watchin me like that?” Butch inquired, genuine curiosity evident on his features as he crossed his arms in what he hoped was an authoritative manner.
“Learning.” Was the reply.
{From this initial confrontation Aidan Moirae was apprenticed to Butch McCod who, in his solitude, found the company of another to be something of a blessing and for a while the slaughterhouse was filled with more laughter than blood. However, everyone has their troubles and trouble for them was about to come knocking on the front door.}
The slaughterhouse was closed for the night, the great iron doors bolted shut with lock and chain. Everything had been washed for the day and yet despite the absence of blood the foul stench still lingered in the air. Nonetheless, the overall atmosphere within was most amicable as Butch sat at the table with a close circle of friends, eating tender pieces of steak, cigarette smoke tainting the air as they played a game of poker. Aidan Moirae, now sixteen, stood in one corner of the room nonchalantly observing the scene before him and occasionally signaling to his master at the card table. Yes, they were a pair of cheats. Butch hardly ever lost a game of cards.
At that moment a clanging of metal against metal resounded. Someone was banging the lock against the door. “Go get that, will ya?” “Yes, Master.”
A familiar figure stood at the door, a piece of rolled-up parchment tucked under an arm. Although years had passed he hadn’t changed in the slightest. “I have business to attend to with Butch McCod.” Taylor Black grunted, “I require a seat inside.” He evidently failed to recognize the robust adolescent Aidan had become, to hell with that, had Black ever really cared about the tragedy he had brought to Woolshire at all?
“Of course, sir, please do come inside.” Aidan responded, his eyes empty of emotion, his mouth twitching at the edges. Ushering the visitor inside, Aidan presented him to his master at the card table. “Master, this is Taylor Black. He alleges that you and he have business to discuss.”
At this introduction, Taylor Black held out the parchment to Butch, the portion that had been resting under his arm already dampened with sweat. It looked like some sort of official government document. “You’re behind on your monthly payments, Mr McCod. The uptown fat cats are willing to pay good money for this here spot of land.” Gesturing at the paraphernalia which lined one wall of the slaughterhouse he continued “the modern world is all about industry. You should know that these traditional methods are already antique, old-fashioned. It’s all about machinery these days. Did you really expect to profit from just…simply this? At any rate, I expect you and your assistant here to vacant these premises as soon as possible so I can make the necessary arrangements with my clients before someone else comes along.” He snatched one of the cigarettes from the table, took a puff, coughed, and then proceeded to walk away.
At this insolence Butch McCod flew into a rage, snatching a cleaver from the wall and rushing at Taylor as if he were a bull enraged by a flash of red. It took all Aidan’s courage and strength to restrain him. “I’LL KILL YOU!” Butch screamed after Taylor Black’s retreating figure, “It’ll be easy! I could lop off your head in one swing!”
“Murder is crime, my good man.” Taylor Black taunted from afar, “You’ll face capital punishment for that!”
As Aidan watched the abhorrent man saunter off, a single thought repeated itself in his head ‘he’s just like a pig.’
{Aidan Moirae had already made up his mind.}
Taylor Black held a piece of paper in his hands, the words written in Butch’s rough messy script conveyed ‘Meet me in the alleyway. You’ll know which one it is by the sight of used cigarettes. I have an offer for you.’ Glaring at the piles of cigarettes which littered the ground, T.B gave an indignant sniff; the air was tainted with the stench of cheap cigarette smoke. Why had he even come here? What could Butch possibly offer to him that could be worth his while? As he finished his train of thought he spied a tall figure in a coat advancing upon him, gloved hands holding a menacing metal cleaver. No one else was in sight.
It had been wrong all along for him to come here. The alleyway was enclosed on three sides, with walls at his left, right and back. It was also too narrow to attempt an escape by getting past his assailant. ‘No escape’ was the final thought to enter Taylor Black’s minute brain as the cleaver swung, cutting easily through the thick layer of fat and cleanly severing his head from his body.
The corpse twitched and lay still, already emitting a foul, putrid stench. Repulsed, Aidan Moirae kicked the severed head of Taylor Black in antipathy.
{Of course murder does not go unnoticed, even when the crime is committed in some random back-alley to some repugnant individual abhorred by all. Of course, a murder inquiry ensued, to which the ‘culprit’, it seemed, was swiftly found.}
Aidan Moirae stood in the witness stand, an expression of remorse on his features. “Please, describe again your memory of that night and the subsequent events, Mr Moirae.” The judge ordered, scrutinizing the kid through his spectacles.
“Um…on the night of Taylor Black’s advent I was…”
“No, child that is not the evidence we require from you. We already have a reliable description of that night from all those involved, we have also heard your own story from the beginning, that is the night of Mr. Black’s advent, to the end. Regarding what has transpired we only require one testimony from you now. Were you or were you not with Butch McCod on the night of the murder?”
“…no.” a hush fell on the audience gathered in the court and a whispering commenced amongst the jury. All fell silent again at the sound of the gavel.
“Then, in light of all evidence: the motive, the bloodied cleaver with no other fingerprints than your own, the lack of an alibi, the blood stained coat, the note discovered in the victim’s clutched hand, the cigarettes found at the scene, the threat you voiced to Mr. Black on the night of his advent… I find you, Butch McCod, guilty of murder and sentenced to capital punishment.” A great hullabaloo rose up from the crowd at the judge’s decree.
As Butch McCod was led away in chains he cursed, shouting “I’ll murder you, Aidan Moirae. I will! You traitor! I’ll get out and I’ll kill you! You framed me didn’t you?!”
As the people dispersed, now that their entertainment had ended, the judge turned to the whimpering and confused child who stood in the witness stand. Shaking his head, the judge said “and after all your pleas in his defense. That ungrateful brute. You’re all alone now aren’t you?” his tone was apologetic, almost as though he felt guilty for sentencing Aidan’s only guardian to death. After all, despite Aidan’s demeanor, his height in particular, and his claims that he was at least sixteen, the way he acted like a confused and frightened child was similar to someone much younger. ‘Poor child.’ The judge thought.
“I’m…all alone now.” Aidan muttered.
{Of course, Aidan often visited Butch in prison in those few days before his execution. However, his attempts at conversation were met with screaming abuse and a generous flow of profanity on the part of Butch. It led the guards to wonder why Aidan even bothered to come at all. In the end, they deduced that the poor soul probably had no one else in the world to turn to, and once Butch was gone he wouldn’t even have someone to yell profanity at him. He’ll be left alone to fend for himself. All alone in the big harsh world.}
The full moon shone down upon the predator and his prey, now a mere corpse decomposing on in the alley. A leather purse swung from his killer, a seventeen year old youth with ebony curls and eyes to match. Aidan was a thief, but not just any thief; he was also a serial killer who dissected his victims with a surgical precision. His actions had initiated quite a stir in the suburbs and uptown alleys where he lurked and many doctors and surgeons were already being investigated for criminal activity. Whether he knew it or not, this was the night that he would, in some ways, be made to pay for his misdeeds.
A shadow fell across the alley, and a voice boomed “Ho! So the Phantom Surgeon is nothing more than a child! Glorious!” the speaker was a youth who, strangely, appeared to be of approximately the same age as Aidan. A reckless gleam shone in his emerald eyes and his long, luxurious black hair was tied back in a single plait. The attire he wore and the way that he held himself up to his full height without a hint of fear suggested his wealth and authority. But then again, the absence of fear might also be attributed to the elegant revolver he held steadily in his left hand.
‘Left-handed demon.’ Aidan thought, remembering Woolshire’s legend of those who were left handed ‘that revolver’s probably just for show. I mean, look at its elegant design. I bet my life he doesn’t know how to use it.’ Removing his blade from his victim, he prepared to throw it at the stranger when the sound of a shot resounded and the blade was flung forcibly from his hand.
“Unwise to bet your life on an underestimate.” The youth smiled, showing his abnormally sharp canines. “The blade is such an old-fashioned method of assassination, professionals use guns these days.”
‘Demon’. Aidan thought, saying “So what? Are you about to turn me in now?”
“Actually, that thought hadn’t even crossed my mind…until you mentioned it. No, I have my own agenda with you. Name’s Caelum. Caelum Veritas. I’m the heir of the Veritas fortune and I’ll like to hire you into my services. How about it? Wealth, extravagance, a clean slate. I’ll even personally instruct you on how to use guns.”
{Aidan could have refused but admittedly he was getting tired of his current life-style. Additionally, Caelum’s appearance seemed almost like a providence of fate. Of course, he couldn’t refuse.}
Adrasteia Moirae slouched languidly on the comfortable leather couch in the reception area of a magnificent five-star hotel, awakening from the memory of his first encounter with Caelum. It had been years ago and he had a new name now, shedding his old one like a snake sheds a layer of old useless skin. He smiled at the thought.
Moirae’s attire today consisted of a formal suit of some new German fashion brand called Hugo Boss, a simple black silk tie, a pair of plain black trousers and a pair of elegant leather shoes. All were branded, but that was unimportant, he was indifferent to fashion but liked to indulge in the air of authority such things exuded. He was waiting for a delivery, some important envelope from his benefactor and friend, Caelum Veritas. Thanks to him, Adrasteia’s hands were more soaked in blood than ever, but no one knew it. He brutally murdered anyone who ever happened upon his true identity as a hired assassin.
In due time, the envelope was delivered. To ensure privacy, Adrasteia retreated to his room. Opening the envelope he perused the message inside:
‘By the time you peruse this, my final message to you, it is probable that I have already met my demise. However, amongst the Veritas family I estimate there to be at least one survivor.’ Enclosed with the letter was a color photograph of a child with blond hair and pale blue eyes. On the bottom right corner was stamped the insignia of an ebony revolver, the name ‘Veritas’ inscribed in white ink. On the reverse side of the photograph the word ‘protect’ was written in a neat and elegant script.
{Adrasteia Moirae
Current age: 24.
Employed into the Veritas Estate at the age of 21.
Personal butler of Memini Veritas, sole surviving member of the Veritas nobility}
{“I survived because I was destined to meet you.”}
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Post by Rad on Jun 18, 2011 15:26:25 GMT -8
He wishes he looked this mature: 
███ Memini Veritas
Full name: Memini Veritas. Derived from Latin and means ‘I remember [the] truth’.
Age: 14 He's 15 now.
Gender: Male
Social Class: Part of the nobility class whose annual income relies on rent from their respective estates. Due to the economic slump caused by the depression the Veritas fortune suffered a considerable blow as rent values took a nose-dive. However, it’s still enough for him to live a life of luxury in the Veritas mansion located uptown.
Relationships:
His parents are both deceased, murdered in fact.
{Brother} Caelum Veritas {Deceased under Dubious Circumstances}
{Butler/Best Friend} Adrasteia Moirae {Currently 24}
{Legal Guardian} Kratos Exousia {Currently 25. Under the influence of Rouge}
{Dearest} Biance Desmeraise; An argument started it all. However, Memini now views Bianca as an elder sister (if not more) and his adoration of her is so immense that he'll do anything for her. Memini also considers Bianca to be an example of the 'ideal lady'. {Bianca is roleplayed by Fufu}
{Childhood Friend} Sabrina Matthews; Although in the past Memini viewed Sabrina as an older sister and best friend he currently has almost no memory of their past relationship. However, despite this, it still seems that he cares for Sabrina somewhat and even attempts to remember events involving her in his past. They met due to family connections when Memini was much younger. {Sabrina is roleplayed by Wolfy}
APPEARANCE ███
Memini is of a short yet slim build, his height is, at this time, only 128cm now 131cm. He has blonde, silky, shoulder-length hair which is self-cut into a rather haphazard fringe at the front. He doesn’t trust hairdressers, and especially not his butler Adrasteia, to do it for him. He has a set of what people call ‘angelic’ pale blue eyes, a feature he frequently utilizes to his advantage when around strangers. He’s a natural born liar. His face is rather androgynous and this feature, when combined with his height, silky hair, large blue eyes and soft, soprano voice naturally make Memini easily mistaken for an adorable ten year old girl. (Much to his disgust)
Memini’s attire consists of only the most fashionable brands. He’s an incurable spend-thrift who capriciously wastes his fortune on the pursuit of concurrent fashion trends. When at home he likes to wear tailor-made archaic costumes which follow the Victorian era’s design and will frequently pretend that he lives in a time where the aristocratic class reigned supreme.
Memini once arranged to have the Sigil of Lucifer tattooed on his left wrist. However, calculating that Memini would be too terrified to look during the procedure, Adrasteia Moirae arranged for the proposed design to be altered into one of Hello Kitty. Memini hides this ‘disfigurement’ with a personalized platinum and gold watch manufactured by Chopard.
He’s left-handed. Just like his deceased brother.
███ PERSONALITY
Memini is obsessed with how others perceive him, particularly since it is now his responsibility alone to continue the ancient Veritas lineage. He is exceedingly self-conscious of his ‘distasteful’ height of a mere 131cm. To him, height is a more sensitive topic than weight and age are to a lady. Due to this fixation on personal presentation he squanders his fortune on the latest fashion of the day, often unconscious of just how ridiculous it occasionally makes him look. It seems his mind isn’t yet mature enough to comprehend that it is actions rather than appearance that truly matter.
Although Memini has prodigious abilities in the field of mathematics and economics he’s an utter failure in other academic areas, going as far as to label ‘America’ as ‘Japan’ during a geography mini-quiz. What’s more, his obstinacy and arrogance makes it difficult for him to accept mistakes and learn from them. In fact; he’ll frequently makes the same blunder more than twice. Yet, to his credit he has figured out that even without the economic slump, the Veritas family couldn’t have amassed their fortune from their estates alone. This discovery prompted his quest to uncover the truth of the Veritas fortune in additional to his investigation of the mass assassination of the Nouvelle, Exousia and Veritas noble families.
Despite being one of only two known survivors of the tragedy, Memini has no existing memory of anything preceding his awakening in the private hospital complex owned by Kratos Exousia. He can’t even remember his parents’ names. It is Adrasteia’s conjecture that directly after the incident someone injected Memini with a highly concentrated quantity of Rouge which consequently induced the coma he struggled in for an entire year.
Although he is yet to uncover any substantial evidence, Memini tenaciously believes that the key to his memories can be discovered in the poorer parts of the city. For this reason he spends a good deal of time traversing the slums and suburbs, away from the company of others of his same social order. Mentally, he’s still a child and as such is ignorant of the conventions of higher society which possibly contributes to his aversion of that sort of company. He’s often quite blunt with his words; refusing to mitigate his responses and just speaking his mind.
Unlike most individuals born into elevated society and contrary to his own arrogance, Memini Veritas has no prejudice towards the poor and underprivileged. In fact, he’ll often idolize those born beneath him on the social ladder (unless he hates them). However, this peculiarity has created an unspoken hatred of him amongst some higher-society citizens who consider him to be a disgrace. However, most keep their mouths shut due to trepidation of the Exousia noble family with which the Veritas are affiliated.
Contrary to his claims that he trusts no one, Memini’s discretion is inconsistent and his mistrust of others is significantly more concentrated higher up the social ladder. Despite his assertion that he distrusts Adrasteia Moirae the most, Memini actually confides and relies on him more than any other individual.
Unfortunately, Memini Veritas also has a personality quirk that, when his guard is lowered (generally as the result of being cajoled or inveigled), he has a certain innocent gullibility that allows him to completely trust even a random stranger he has just met on the streets.
He loves cherries and often uses them to torment Adrasteia Moirae.
Memories ███
I don’t really have any memories…what’s left is pretty pathetic really. From what I’ve been told I suffered a tragedy that left me in a coma for approximately a year when I was nine (I awakened when I was a little older than ten). Oh, and that’s right, my entire family died in that tragedy…I’m the only survivor, the last of the Veritas. How does that make me feel? I can’t really pinpoint the exact emotion to tell you the truth…just let me say that not remembering someone or something almost makes it feel as though the missing piece of the puzzle never existed in the first place.
As long as I can remember…okay, more accurately ‘ever since I was ten’ Kratos Exousia of the Exousia lineage has been my legal guardian. He’s plagued by the same past; lost everyone he cared about in that tragedy, everyone except me. Isn’t that great? However, to be honest I don’t really trust Kratos, he seems too indifferent to the whole ordeal, and his physiognomy is always arranged into a serene smile whenever I see him. Still, his reputation generally keeps my own enemies a safe distance away. I should be grateful.
Kratos is also the one who assigns doctors to my care; apparently I have some deficiency that can only be cured by medication. It comes in the form of a tantalizing crimson liquid, carrying the faint scent of Cherry. Delightful. Anyways, they always appear once a month to check on me, prescribe the same medication then go on their merry way. Being a doctor must be one hell of a tedious life.
Hang on; I haven’t gotten to the best part yet! I was eleven when I met Adrasteia Moirae. Best day of my life, the end! I’ll never tell him how much he means to me. It’s the one secret that I won’t confide in him.
Oh yea, shortly after that things became kind of strange, my perception of reality would sometimes become warped…it was also when the nightmares started…
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