Title: Fils Du Destin (Thread of Destiny)
Author: Nataku
Rating: R
Genre: Angst, horror, supernatural
Pairing: None
Summary: Yet another story to torture my original character Marourin. This time he's in New
Orleans and meets up with unexpected trouble.
Author's Note: Come; take a walk down the streets of New Orleans. See it as the vampire Marourin would. See the old fashioned French Quarter and the great cities of the dead. Okay, enough of that rubbish. I always wanted to have a kewl intro like that. But, the drills the same. I just wanted to torture him. ^_^
Disclaimer: I own Marou, please don't steal.
Warning: Later in this story, it will have torture. But for now, it's angsty fun!
Fils Du Destin
The Devil Card: This card represents a slave to temptation and physical desires. He is a seductive, evil man, dark, and powerful. He is bound by unbreakable chains of lust, bound by the wants and needs of the flesh. Bondage.
Threads of Destiny
Marourin sat on the edge of the skyscraper, looking over the city in all its grandeur. At night, it seemed to come alive.
Neon lights flashed, red and yellow glows streamed the streets.
Cars, people.
Everyone was somewhere.
He could hear them, clamoring and chattering until the sound crested into a tsunami that threatened to drag him under. Had he not had the will, he would have gone mad ages ago. The thoughts of the people were overpowering. Each individual had their own voice, some louder than others, some softer. However, all joined into a choir of mental chatter that rose up to the deaf heavens.
The wind stirred his black locks and caressed his face gently. Street trash was kicked up and sent flying in graceful patterns along the alleys and busy roads. The homeless were sleeping in filthy rags on the sidewalks, in the parks, in the alleys.
No one noticed them.
No one noticed anything in this busy city teeming with life.
Nightclubs and raves blared music at an unearthly volume. Men and women in leather and vinyl clung to each other, swaying their hips to the feral beat of the music.
There was so much life.
The very buildings seemed to throb and pulsate with the energy flowing through it. At night, everything came alive. The black haired assassin breathed in deep, the humid breeze bringing him the scents of the city.
Pollution, gas, food, people, swamps.
Death.
Yes, even in this nightly wonderland, teeming with life, death still lurked in the shadows. The city reeked of it. It was people who just dropped dead in the alleys; it was victims of homicide buried in the dank waters of the Mississippi. They all found their end in this
metropolis.
Death walked the streets dressed as black clad men in business suits that proudly belonged in big shot gangs.
Death walked the streets as starving men and women, desperate for a buck or two.
Death walked the streets as drug addicts whose minds were long since controlled by the poison.
It was everywhere; there was no running from it.
He sighed, the wind making his silky tresses sway gently as he stood up, shades mirroring what he saw. It showed a glittering world of glass and neon, cars and streets. There were motorcycles and busy, happy people.
It was a world of opportunity and chance.
Leaping, Marourin sailed through the air from the skyscraper onto the roof of the one next to it. Running, he picked up speed and momentum, leaping again to land on the next roof. His weight didn't even fully rest on his foot when he pushed off again, soaring to the next rooftop. And so he went, flitting through the night like a black shadow. Rapidly, he made his way through the city, jumping from top to top, sliding down the side of the slick glass buildings, and bounding off the concrete ledges. On the top of the tallest building, he gathered his powerful leg muscles, and sprang.
Soaring far out into the air and free falling. Down he plummeted, like a black angel from heaven. Falling to be eventually embraced by the flames of the inferno known as Hell. As deftly as a cat, he twisted his body so his feet were under him and shut his eyes. Seconds from hitting the ground, he vanished and reappeared on the roof of a nearby building.
Dropping down without a sound, he pocketed his hands and walked down the sidewalks, gazing dispassionately.
Now his shades reflected what the true heart of the city was like.
It reflected the true countenance of this festering urban wilderness.
It reflected people dying of starvation, gaunt skeletons that were only kept alive by the fire of their wills.
Street punks and gangs that would descend upon you like wolves and rip you to pieces for a couple of lousy crumpled bills in your pocket.
The city was yet another savage jungle. Bursting with life, yet with it's own food chain. The strong feasted on the weak while the weak fed off the weakest. It went on in an unending, vicious cycle.
A sudden 'click' alerted the swordsman's sharp ears and the smell of alcohol and street trash invaded his nose. Moments later, a group of street punks, about ten of them surrounded him. They had firearms and reeked of a bar. Marourin knew that he would attract attention. His clothes were of classy cut and fine material, obviously a member of the upper class. His dress style spoke of wealth.
"Hand over your money pretty boy, or else I'm gonna rip that pretty face right off your head!"
He sneered in disdain at the threat and turned to face the ringleader. Like the hungry wolves they were, the pack started closing in. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes narrowed behind his shades.
"I said hand over your fucking money!! Are you fucking deaf?!?!"
The street punk grabbed the assassin by the collar and hauled him over. Marourin found himself strangely offended by this and his left hand snaked forward, catching the kid by the wrist.
"No one touches me without my permission." his voice was icy and flat. His grip on the wrist was increasing in pressure and the boy started to whine about the pain.
"Yo! Let go of me you fucking freak! Let me go!!"
"No manners. None at all." the swordsman's lips curved upward slightly in a sadistic smile as his grip tightened even more. Now the pressure exerted was enough to start crushing the bones against each other.
"Fucking bitch!!!! LET ME GO!!!" the street punk yelled and his group was starting to move forward.
Quickly, the assassin twisted his hand, snapping the wrist he was crushing. Almost as one, the gang members attacked. He never once lost that chilling, sadistic smile. In fact, it seemed to grow wider. As lithe and deft as a black panther, he dodged the incoming blows, throwing back his head and laughing like a psycho. With a growl, he lunged forward, catching closet one in the jaw with a hard upper cut. He heard the dry cracking of broken bones and felt the blood lust surge through his veins.
With a high snap kick, he broke one of the punks' jaw and pivoted, lashing with the other to crush his skull. Then, he drove his fingers into someone's chest, curling them around the collarbone and hoisting him up from there. The swordsman sank his fangs into the exposed neck and yanked sharply back, tearing out the fragile throat. He moved on to another one, fist tearing through the boy's torso and spilling blood. Another had his chest ripped open and his heart torn out.
In a short amount of time, he had torn to shreds the entire gang. Drenched in blood, he disdainfully kicked a severed limb. Quickly, efficiently, he gathered the remains and set them ablaze, blowing up the alley so not a shred of evidence was left.
Even in a jungle like this city, one had to be careful. He cleaned off the blood and changed his clothes, carefully making sure he didn't carry the coppery scent.
Languidly, he strolled down the sidewalk, watching the neon lights and people around him.
Even in the slums the city burst with life.
Voluptuous, scantily clad women trotted down the streets with the steady staccato beat of their high heels.
Men laughed and drank with friends or brooded alone.
Even this late it was crowded. Bodies pressed on every side of him, immersing him in the scent of flesh and sweat. The low roar of so many people surrounded him. Their voices, laughter, thoughts filled his mind with their constant chatter.
Like a storm it brewed, yet he let it sweep over him. If he listened to the streams of endless chatter, he would loose his own mind in the chaos. He walked as they would walk, feet making sounds as he moved through the wall of people. So many people, his senses were almost reeling. In the humid heat of the Louisiana nights, the activities around him seemed lurid, like a dream that he was merely observing.
As he was walking, he noticed he was heading toward the French Quarter and it was like stepping in a time warp. Old-fashioned European houses and buildings lined the streets that he walked along. He gazed with a small amount of wonder at the fabulously preserved structures. Just then, in a dim corner of his mind, he noticed the crowd getting sparser. It seemed the French Quarter was not as abundant in life as down town. The assassin looked around.
The homeless littered the streets. Coughing bundles of filthy rags that slept where ever there was shelter. The cities of the dead were everywhere. Looming monuments to the deceased, gigantic above ground cemeteries, like the St. Louis or the Lafayette. Glorious were they in their cold stone beauty. It was near these 'cities' where he saw it. A small store, nothing that would of attracted attention, but he felt something resonating from it. The store was intriguing when you looked closely. The sign outside was an enigmatic piece of vines, curling up to form a border to the cryptic name of the store.
Fils du Destin. Thread of Destiny.
A plume of some sorts sprang from the lower left hand corner. He felt a small smile tug at his lips as he entered the door, the bell ringing as he opened it.
"Bonjour monsieur. I have been expecting you."
Marourin looked at the woman. She was old and graying, but with a face that was strangely youthful and lovely. Ice blue eyes glinted with the energy that even some of the young did not posses.
French.
She was a charming looking woman with long, silvery gold hair and pale skin. Gracefully, she moved about the old relics of the musty store. He glance around. there were tarot cards of all types, runes, a crystal globe, a strange bronze chess board with three sides and other arcane objects. A egg like stone sat cradled in the claws of a obsidian dragon and a carved sword lay in a counter.
"Well, why have you waited for me? What is it you want?" he said this politely, respectful of the old woman.
"Come, come and see monsieur. I will show you the path which lies before." she spread a deck of tarot cards. They were a velvety black with a intricate grey design on the back, networks of vines weaving in and out to form a complex medieval pattern. Reaching out a gloved hand, he selected a
card and turned it over.
"What the...?!" he gasped as he looked at it. It was the Devil Card, but instead of the traditional picture, it was his face staring back at him. His eyes were a glowing crimson and in his leather clad hand was a string of red rosary beads. The background of his card was like flowing blood. The boarder was a deep black.
"How in the name of Inari did you get this?"
"That is my secret monsieur." the woman plucked the card from his hand and looked at it in deep concentration.
"Trail and error monsieur. You will come upon grave misfortune, one that you will regret. The Devil symbolizes bondage, chains. He symbolizes seduction, punishment, and suffering. You walk a difficult path laced with pain."
Marourin stared for a second, deep in thought. What he heard was as lurid as the entire night was. Unreal in it's blurred edges. Perhaps it was the heat and humidity of the nights in New Orleans. Slowly, his leather-clad fingers ran over the card. His head, it felt so dizzy. He couldn't focus on anything, not even the woman's melodic voice. He blinked, vision swimming.
For a second the old woman looked like she might of thirty years ago, young and vibrant. Then she seemed to age again. Shaking his head, the swordsman looked around, the room spinning again. Heavily, he sank back into the chair, clutching his head. Like a typhoon, the thoughts crashed into him, roaring.
He could hear everything.
It was maddening!
The swordsman broke out into cold sweat, breathing heavily. An awful pain invaded his mind, ripping at it with claws of agony.
In a remote, desolate clearing, a witch doctor sat in front of a great fire. Next to him were a live chicken, a bowl, a candle, and a stone jackal. Around the jackal's neck was a long black strand of hair, wrapped around many times. Using a ceremonial dagger, he slit the chicken's neck, chanting and singing to his gods. He gathered the blood in the bowl and placed it on front of him. Then he drew a pentagram around the stone jackal, pouring the blood onto it. Yes, tonight the Black Jackal would suffer a curse. Tonight great misfortune would befall upon the devil himself. Taking one silken strand of black hair, he threw it in the fire and the flames soared, and then fell into smoldering embers. From the dying glow, smoke rose, white smoke that seem to take on the shaped of spirits. They fled to the night sky, starless was it. Not even the moon could be seen in the seamless
perfection.
The swordsman gasped. The pain! The pain! It was smashing into him again and again like a rabid lion. So many thoughts and voices, they all swirled in a maddening melee. It was like he was thrust into the stream of thoughts and drowning. Screaming voicelessly in pain, he fell out of the chair and onto the ground, clutching his head and curling into a fetal position. Slowly the pain eased. Slowly he uncurled, gasping for breath. He lurched upward and cast a wild gaze around, hurrying out of the store in a displacement of air.
Hurrying, the shadow assassin brushed by the pedestrians, just about crashing into a dark, gloomy bar. Sitting down, he massaged his temples and ordered a shot of vodka. Mind racing, Marou ran through what possibly could of caused such horrible pain. His body was whole and healthy, but his head felt like a panther was set loose and ripped it up. As the vodka arrived, he thanked the bar tender and gulped it down like a man that was the in the desert for days.
Suddenly, he felt light headed and he frowned.
Something wasn't right. He never got drunk. It was impossible for him to get intoxicated by alcohol, only off of blood could he do that. Yet his head was swimming and he was feeling...so...tired. His limbs felt languid, and weak.
Suddenly he snapped a fierce glare at the glass, sniffing, he caught the faint, almost odorless scent of a roofie. He tried to fight the drug, but his golden eyes slowly darkened and his eyelids drooped. The intense color veiled by thick black lashes. The swordsman's eyes drifted shut and he slowly slumped. Marou fell forward and lay unconscious, half sprawled on the counter. From the far corner of the room, two men, each in black clothing carefully walked up to him.
"Shall we use the sedative?" the first man eyed the knocked out assassin.
"Any more and it might kill him." the second man looked around cautiously.
"If he wakes up, we're as good as dead."
Now the second man had nothing to say. The other was right. He wasn't looking at just another man in New Orleans, but an assassin. And an extremely dangerous one while he was at it.
"Okay, we'll tranq him."
Very, very cautiously so not to rouse suspicion, they quickly shot the sedative into the ebony haired man's veins, hoping that he would not wake. Both men hefted him up, surprised at the weight in the lean figure as they dragged him out, making haste as they hurried to get the assassin to the warehouse that their boss was waiting in.
"Good work. Now lock him in the cell."
A man with cold eyes and brow hair looked at the 'prize' his men brought in.
"Beware you're ambitions and pray to your gods. For if the Black Jackal walks the shadows once more, not even they can save you." the old witch doctor walked up. He looked sick and gaunt, like his very life was drained to curse the pale man. His gaze then trailed to the shadow assassin lying on the floor. He looked normal, if disturbingly ethereal and beautiful. Almost like such a youthful and angelic face could not possibly belong to a cold-blooded murderer.
But he was. The old man knew that when the demon recovers, they would all suffer the wrath of the darkness itself.
A card lay on the floor, fallen from the assassin's pocket. The witch doctor picked it up and paled. It was the Devil's card, and on the velvety darkness was the face of the Black Jackal....
To be continued....
Author's Note: So, what do you think? Good? Bad? Sucks? You want me dead? *hides* Anyway, I'll someday if I'm not too lazy get up the continuing chapters. Like you actually want me to finish. *snicker* Same routine, please don't steal Marou and flames shall be used to roast the tomatoes that are thrown with it.
Author: Nataku
Rating: R
Genre: Angst, horror, supernatural
Pairing: None
Summary: Yet another story to torture my original character Marourin. This time he's in New
Orleans and meets up with unexpected trouble.
Author's Note: Come; take a walk down the streets of New Orleans. See it as the vampire Marourin would. See the old fashioned French Quarter and the great cities of the dead. Okay, enough of that rubbish. I always wanted to have a kewl intro like that. But, the drills the same. I just wanted to torture him. ^_^
Disclaimer: I own Marou, please don't steal.
Warning: Later in this story, it will have torture. But for now, it's angsty fun!
Fils Du Destin
The Devil Card: This card represents a slave to temptation and physical desires. He is a seductive, evil man, dark, and powerful. He is bound by unbreakable chains of lust, bound by the wants and needs of the flesh. Bondage.
Threads of Destiny
Marourin sat on the edge of the skyscraper, looking over the city in all its grandeur. At night, it seemed to come alive.
Neon lights flashed, red and yellow glows streamed the streets.
Cars, people.
Everyone was somewhere.
He could hear them, clamoring and chattering until the sound crested into a tsunami that threatened to drag him under. Had he not had the will, he would have gone mad ages ago. The thoughts of the people were overpowering. Each individual had their own voice, some louder than others, some softer. However, all joined into a choir of mental chatter that rose up to the deaf heavens.
The wind stirred his black locks and caressed his face gently. Street trash was kicked up and sent flying in graceful patterns along the alleys and busy roads. The homeless were sleeping in filthy rags on the sidewalks, in the parks, in the alleys.
No one noticed them.
No one noticed anything in this busy city teeming with life.
Nightclubs and raves blared music at an unearthly volume. Men and women in leather and vinyl clung to each other, swaying their hips to the feral beat of the music.
There was so much life.
The very buildings seemed to throb and pulsate with the energy flowing through it. At night, everything came alive. The black haired assassin breathed in deep, the humid breeze bringing him the scents of the city.
Pollution, gas, food, people, swamps.
Death.
Yes, even in this nightly wonderland, teeming with life, death still lurked in the shadows. The city reeked of it. It was people who just dropped dead in the alleys; it was victims of homicide buried in the dank waters of the Mississippi. They all found their end in this
metropolis.
Death walked the streets dressed as black clad men in business suits that proudly belonged in big shot gangs.
Death walked the streets as starving men and women, desperate for a buck or two.
Death walked the streets as drug addicts whose minds were long since controlled by the poison.
It was everywhere; there was no running from it.
He sighed, the wind making his silky tresses sway gently as he stood up, shades mirroring what he saw. It showed a glittering world of glass and neon, cars and streets. There were motorcycles and busy, happy people.
It was a world of opportunity and chance.
Leaping, Marourin sailed through the air from the skyscraper onto the roof of the one next to it. Running, he picked up speed and momentum, leaping again to land on the next roof. His weight didn't even fully rest on his foot when he pushed off again, soaring to the next rooftop. And so he went, flitting through the night like a black shadow. Rapidly, he made his way through the city, jumping from top to top, sliding down the side of the slick glass buildings, and bounding off the concrete ledges. On the top of the tallest building, he gathered his powerful leg muscles, and sprang.
Soaring far out into the air and free falling. Down he plummeted, like a black angel from heaven. Falling to be eventually embraced by the flames of the inferno known as Hell. As deftly as a cat, he twisted his body so his feet were under him and shut his eyes. Seconds from hitting the ground, he vanished and reappeared on the roof of a nearby building.
Dropping down without a sound, he pocketed his hands and walked down the sidewalks, gazing dispassionately.
Now his shades reflected what the true heart of the city was like.
It reflected the true countenance of this festering urban wilderness.
It reflected people dying of starvation, gaunt skeletons that were only kept alive by the fire of their wills.
Street punks and gangs that would descend upon you like wolves and rip you to pieces for a couple of lousy crumpled bills in your pocket.
The city was yet another savage jungle. Bursting with life, yet with it's own food chain. The strong feasted on the weak while the weak fed off the weakest. It went on in an unending, vicious cycle.
A sudden 'click' alerted the swordsman's sharp ears and the smell of alcohol and street trash invaded his nose. Moments later, a group of street punks, about ten of them surrounded him. They had firearms and reeked of a bar. Marourin knew that he would attract attention. His clothes were of classy cut and fine material, obviously a member of the upper class. His dress style spoke of wealth.
"Hand over your money pretty boy, or else I'm gonna rip that pretty face right off your head!"
He sneered in disdain at the threat and turned to face the ringleader. Like the hungry wolves they were, the pack started closing in. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes narrowed behind his shades.
"I said hand over your fucking money!! Are you fucking deaf?!?!"
The street punk grabbed the assassin by the collar and hauled him over. Marourin found himself strangely offended by this and his left hand snaked forward, catching the kid by the wrist.
"No one touches me without my permission." his voice was icy and flat. His grip on the wrist was increasing in pressure and the boy started to whine about the pain.
"Yo! Let go of me you fucking freak! Let me go!!"
"No manners. None at all." the swordsman's lips curved upward slightly in a sadistic smile as his grip tightened even more. Now the pressure exerted was enough to start crushing the bones against each other.
"Fucking bitch!!!! LET ME GO!!!" the street punk yelled and his group was starting to move forward.
Quickly, the assassin twisted his hand, snapping the wrist he was crushing. Almost as one, the gang members attacked. He never once lost that chilling, sadistic smile. In fact, it seemed to grow wider. As lithe and deft as a black panther, he dodged the incoming blows, throwing back his head and laughing like a psycho. With a growl, he lunged forward, catching closet one in the jaw with a hard upper cut. He heard the dry cracking of broken bones and felt the blood lust surge through his veins.
With a high snap kick, he broke one of the punks' jaw and pivoted, lashing with the other to crush his skull. Then, he drove his fingers into someone's chest, curling them around the collarbone and hoisting him up from there. The swordsman sank his fangs into the exposed neck and yanked sharply back, tearing out the fragile throat. He moved on to another one, fist tearing through the boy's torso and spilling blood. Another had his chest ripped open and his heart torn out.
In a short amount of time, he had torn to shreds the entire gang. Drenched in blood, he disdainfully kicked a severed limb. Quickly, efficiently, he gathered the remains and set them ablaze, blowing up the alley so not a shred of evidence was left.
Even in a jungle like this city, one had to be careful. He cleaned off the blood and changed his clothes, carefully making sure he didn't carry the coppery scent.
Languidly, he strolled down the sidewalk, watching the neon lights and people around him.
Even in the slums the city burst with life.
Voluptuous, scantily clad women trotted down the streets with the steady staccato beat of their high heels.
Men laughed and drank with friends or brooded alone.
Even this late it was crowded. Bodies pressed on every side of him, immersing him in the scent of flesh and sweat. The low roar of so many people surrounded him. Their voices, laughter, thoughts filled his mind with their constant chatter.
Like a storm it brewed, yet he let it sweep over him. If he listened to the streams of endless chatter, he would loose his own mind in the chaos. He walked as they would walk, feet making sounds as he moved through the wall of people. So many people, his senses were almost reeling. In the humid heat of the Louisiana nights, the activities around him seemed lurid, like a dream that he was merely observing.
As he was walking, he noticed he was heading toward the French Quarter and it was like stepping in a time warp. Old-fashioned European houses and buildings lined the streets that he walked along. He gazed with a small amount of wonder at the fabulously preserved structures. Just then, in a dim corner of his mind, he noticed the crowd getting sparser. It seemed the French Quarter was not as abundant in life as down town. The assassin looked around.
The homeless littered the streets. Coughing bundles of filthy rags that slept where ever there was shelter. The cities of the dead were everywhere. Looming monuments to the deceased, gigantic above ground cemeteries, like the St. Louis or the Lafayette. Glorious were they in their cold stone beauty. It was near these 'cities' where he saw it. A small store, nothing that would of attracted attention, but he felt something resonating from it. The store was intriguing when you looked closely. The sign outside was an enigmatic piece of vines, curling up to form a border to the cryptic name of the store.
Fils du Destin. Thread of Destiny.
A plume of some sorts sprang from the lower left hand corner. He felt a small smile tug at his lips as he entered the door, the bell ringing as he opened it.
"Bonjour monsieur. I have been expecting you."
Marourin looked at the woman. She was old and graying, but with a face that was strangely youthful and lovely. Ice blue eyes glinted with the energy that even some of the young did not posses.
French.
She was a charming looking woman with long, silvery gold hair and pale skin. Gracefully, she moved about the old relics of the musty store. He glance around. there were tarot cards of all types, runes, a crystal globe, a strange bronze chess board with three sides and other arcane objects. A egg like stone sat cradled in the claws of a obsidian dragon and a carved sword lay in a counter.
"Well, why have you waited for me? What is it you want?" he said this politely, respectful of the old woman.
"Come, come and see monsieur. I will show you the path which lies before." she spread a deck of tarot cards. They were a velvety black with a intricate grey design on the back, networks of vines weaving in and out to form a complex medieval pattern. Reaching out a gloved hand, he selected a
card and turned it over.
"What the...?!" he gasped as he looked at it. It was the Devil Card, but instead of the traditional picture, it was his face staring back at him. His eyes were a glowing crimson and in his leather clad hand was a string of red rosary beads. The background of his card was like flowing blood. The boarder was a deep black.
"How in the name of Inari did you get this?"
"That is my secret monsieur." the woman plucked the card from his hand and looked at it in deep concentration.
"Trail and error monsieur. You will come upon grave misfortune, one that you will regret. The Devil symbolizes bondage, chains. He symbolizes seduction, punishment, and suffering. You walk a difficult path laced with pain."
Marourin stared for a second, deep in thought. What he heard was as lurid as the entire night was. Unreal in it's blurred edges. Perhaps it was the heat and humidity of the nights in New Orleans. Slowly, his leather-clad fingers ran over the card. His head, it felt so dizzy. He couldn't focus on anything, not even the woman's melodic voice. He blinked, vision swimming.
For a second the old woman looked like she might of thirty years ago, young and vibrant. Then she seemed to age again. Shaking his head, the swordsman looked around, the room spinning again. Heavily, he sank back into the chair, clutching his head. Like a typhoon, the thoughts crashed into him, roaring.
He could hear everything.
It was maddening!
The swordsman broke out into cold sweat, breathing heavily. An awful pain invaded his mind, ripping at it with claws of agony.
In a remote, desolate clearing, a witch doctor sat in front of a great fire. Next to him were a live chicken, a bowl, a candle, and a stone jackal. Around the jackal's neck was a long black strand of hair, wrapped around many times. Using a ceremonial dagger, he slit the chicken's neck, chanting and singing to his gods. He gathered the blood in the bowl and placed it on front of him. Then he drew a pentagram around the stone jackal, pouring the blood onto it. Yes, tonight the Black Jackal would suffer a curse. Tonight great misfortune would befall upon the devil himself. Taking one silken strand of black hair, he threw it in the fire and the flames soared, and then fell into smoldering embers. From the dying glow, smoke rose, white smoke that seem to take on the shaped of spirits. They fled to the night sky, starless was it. Not even the moon could be seen in the seamless
perfection.
The swordsman gasped. The pain! The pain! It was smashing into him again and again like a rabid lion. So many thoughts and voices, they all swirled in a maddening melee. It was like he was thrust into the stream of thoughts and drowning. Screaming voicelessly in pain, he fell out of the chair and onto the ground, clutching his head and curling into a fetal position. Slowly the pain eased. Slowly he uncurled, gasping for breath. He lurched upward and cast a wild gaze around, hurrying out of the store in a displacement of air.
Hurrying, the shadow assassin brushed by the pedestrians, just about crashing into a dark, gloomy bar. Sitting down, he massaged his temples and ordered a shot of vodka. Mind racing, Marou ran through what possibly could of caused such horrible pain. His body was whole and healthy, but his head felt like a panther was set loose and ripped it up. As the vodka arrived, he thanked the bar tender and gulped it down like a man that was the in the desert for days.
Suddenly, he felt light headed and he frowned.
Something wasn't right. He never got drunk. It was impossible for him to get intoxicated by alcohol, only off of blood could he do that. Yet his head was swimming and he was feeling...so...tired. His limbs felt languid, and weak.
Suddenly he snapped a fierce glare at the glass, sniffing, he caught the faint, almost odorless scent of a roofie. He tried to fight the drug, but his golden eyes slowly darkened and his eyelids drooped. The intense color veiled by thick black lashes. The swordsman's eyes drifted shut and he slowly slumped. Marou fell forward and lay unconscious, half sprawled on the counter. From the far corner of the room, two men, each in black clothing carefully walked up to him.
"Shall we use the sedative?" the first man eyed the knocked out assassin.
"Any more and it might kill him." the second man looked around cautiously.
"If he wakes up, we're as good as dead."
Now the second man had nothing to say. The other was right. He wasn't looking at just another man in New Orleans, but an assassin. And an extremely dangerous one while he was at it.
"Okay, we'll tranq him."
Very, very cautiously so not to rouse suspicion, they quickly shot the sedative into the ebony haired man's veins, hoping that he would not wake. Both men hefted him up, surprised at the weight in the lean figure as they dragged him out, making haste as they hurried to get the assassin to the warehouse that their boss was waiting in.
"Good work. Now lock him in the cell."
A man with cold eyes and brow hair looked at the 'prize' his men brought in.
"Beware you're ambitions and pray to your gods. For if the Black Jackal walks the shadows once more, not even they can save you." the old witch doctor walked up. He looked sick and gaunt, like his very life was drained to curse the pale man. His gaze then trailed to the shadow assassin lying on the floor. He looked normal, if disturbingly ethereal and beautiful. Almost like such a youthful and angelic face could not possibly belong to a cold-blooded murderer.
But he was. The old man knew that when the demon recovers, they would all suffer the wrath of the darkness itself.
A card lay on the floor, fallen from the assassin's pocket. The witch doctor picked it up and paled. It was the Devil's card, and on the velvety darkness was the face of the Black Jackal....
To be continued....
Author's Note: So, what do you think? Good? Bad? Sucks? You want me dead? *hides* Anyway, I'll someday if I'm not too lazy get up the continuing chapters. Like you actually want me to finish. *snicker* Same routine, please don't steal Marou and flames shall be used to roast the tomatoes that are thrown with it.