Disclaimer: Not Namco, never bloody been Namco. Don't own SC2...but I might
someday! *maniacal laughter*
Alright, for future reference, this story generally will have about three chapters about each primary character and one or two chapters about the lesser characters or souls from SC1 or Soul Blade. Chapter-wise, each character's order of chapters will be in chronological order, but the story as a whole will not be.
Thanks to my first reviewers. I'm glad you like my other writing, though you find this stuff much more serious and probably better by literary standards.
Ok, this first chapter is more morbid, less action-y, but I have some very action packed chapters on the way. This one will take longer to update, though.
CHAPTER 1 – THE SINS OF THE FATHER
'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this pretty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.' -Macbeth, William Shakespeare
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rain fell like aimless bullets, spraying waves across the dirt-covered cobblestones. The woman's clothes were practically torn from her back as she struggled against the blustering winds.
She wore a torn hemp shawl and a number of woolen scarves wrapped around her neck and face. Thinner strips of cloth were pulled over her arms and shoulders. Her thinning blonde hair was flung asunder, flailing wildly. Her pale face was cold-looking and his cheeks were deeply sunken. The cold was mighty, but she endured, pulling her feet forwards and bracing them against the cobblestones of the pathway. She wore only bands of weak and worn leather pulled around her sore feet. The soles of her feet bled now, hampered by the jagged stones and debris.
London was filled with smoky fog broken apart by the downpour. There were more houses in this congested part of the city. The shops that lined the streets had been bundled away. The windows' rotting wooden shutters were bolted. There were still some shops on the sides of the various paths on days of better whether. There were wheel-less carts, makeshift stands with wooden boards for mounts, and any number of cages, boxes, crates and bags. All of these, though, had been removed or pushed into the murky stairwells of the underground apartments.
The storerooms were all emptied for the winter season. There were slippery strips of ice between the cobblestones and snowy slush where puddles had been. The snows of the season hadn't come yet, but the rain was icy enough, freezing fully upon its arrival on the ground. The denser streets gave way to grassy paths that led in various directions towards the larger buildings. Blades of grass and shriveled leaves on the ground were dusted with frost and pulled about by the winds.
The woman made her way through rusted iron gates, two swinging grilles of metal spikes dulled by time's winds. The pitted iron of the looming fence was worn and decrepit. She found herself on a smooth path of shaved stone, twisting lithely between two whitened fields of grass beneath a number of small trees. The trees' branches were wrenched in each direction by the storm, some splitting against the immense pressure. Rain-blanketed piles of leafless branches were flung uncaringly into the spiraling anarchy of nature.
The woman, glancing around with irritation and regret in her cold eyes, she proceeded up a set of broad marble stairs and onto the patio of the vast mansion that sat, seemingly shrouded in an ominous shadow of cloud, before her. It seemed to have a certain grandness about it, but also a veil that was cast upon the woman headed towards the looming set of doors between a pair of grotesque stone beasts set on pedestals flanking the door.
The door creaked open before she reached. It did not fully open, only letting a sliver of light from within peek out at the darkness of London.
"Mother! Come in out of the cold before you catch your death. We've been awaiting your return for near three hours now and were starting to become concerned."
The woman looked down at the smaller figure who stood before her. The look in her eyes was as cold as ice and twice as cynical and she stepped inside, her soaked clothes dripping on the polished tiles.
"You say 'we,' but I suspect it is merely you who has been waiting."
"Of course not, mother. Father was just as concerned as I."
"Then why is he not here to greet me? Let me guess, he is still 'confined' to his laboratory, meddling in affairs he should not be worrying about. Tell me, Isabella, am I right?"
Young Isabella Valentine's relieved expression faded as her head lowered and moved slowly up and down, nodding glumly as she helped her mother inside. She had been invited to dine with the lordly family of Earl Hallward, who lived in another great mansion in London. Members of her family were often invited to stately events throughout the city, to dine or merely converse with the other members of England's high society. Such was the popularity of the Valentines....though that popularity had been dwindling lately.
"I'm sure he is just as concerned as I, though he does not show it." Isabella tried to smile, shedding some merry warmth on her cold and obviously melancholy parent, but the heartfelt gesture failed to alter her mother in the least. Countess Valentine turned to her daughter, who continued speaking as she did so.
"Pray tell, what took you so long in coming home? Was there a problem with the coach?"
"There was no coach." Countess Valentine almost cut her daughter off with the blunt reply as she turned away, sighing wearily.
"No coach? But you left in one. Surely you did not leave the coach and walk all the way to the Hallward Mansion! It's on the other side of town, and in this weather."
"I did no such thing," her mother responded sharply, almost snapping. Isabella winced, instantly regretting her prying into the details of whatever incident had occurred. Countess Valentine regained her composure within an instant, as most upstanding noblewomen should, and spoke more gently.
"Forgive me for that. As you can no doubt surmise, I am not in the best of moods. I did indeed take a coach, but I found that I had no money for the return trip."
Isabella concealed an indignant gasp. Her family was one of the richest and most prosperous families in England...or at least it had been. For one of the Valentines not to have funds for a simple coach trip across London was simply unbelievable.
"Surely the Hallwards would've have paid for your ride."
"They offered to, but I refused. How do you think we would look if I accepted money from someone? I may have had to brave the streets of London, but my dignity remains." A thin smile crept across her features.
Isabella did not reply, watching Countess Valentine turn fully and walk as nobly as she could into the grand foyer of the Valentine Mansion, making her way tiredly down the left set of stairs that led to the gleaming, polished floor of the great hall.
The mansion's expanse stretched deep into untouched corridors. Many halls and rooms had not been used in ages, completely neglected by the owners. Now, cobwebs spawned in the dark corners of the mansion, of which there were many. The place was degenerating before Isabella's very eyes as she sat and contemplated the fact each day. She had lived life in the lap of luxury, loved by and loving of her wonderful parents. The girl was unfamiliar with hardship of any kind. In fact, the nearest thing to hardship she'd ever encountered was the brief period when she lost a prized necklace given to her by her mother, which was found within a half hour. Her life went on in a state of prosperity, but her whole world was spiraling out of control.
Nearly a year ago her father, Count Valentine, had begun spending more and more time in his personal section of the house, a danker and more imposing mess of corridors and catacombs. Somewhere in the mansion's bowels lay his laboratory, which Isabella herself had never seen. All she knew was that she did not wish to see it, as it represented the primary focus of her father's obvious addiction. Now, he would lock himself away in there for days, severed from all ties with the outside world. He was becoming reclusive and sickly as he ate and slept less and less.
Isabella, taking a deep and calming breath, followed her mother into the great hall.
Suddenly the clicking of boots against the floor could be heard, echoing eerily about as Isabella stopped in her tracks, watching her mother do the same.
Count Valentine, looking amazingly energetic for someone so newly frail, was walking briskly down the hall and towards them, looking almost giddy. His silhouette could be clearly seen heading towards his wife and daughter, though his wide eyes seemed to be looking past them both.
"Oh, hello dear." He said warmly to his wife as he passed. Unfortunately, the whole point of that warmth was lost when he breezed past her, not even bothering to comment about anything else. Isabella stepped in front of him as he prepared to do the same to her.
"Father, you look very pale. Is something wrong?"
"Certainly not, Isabella, I'm actually feeling very good today." said Count Valentine brightly, his stern tenor elevating slightly. Despite his fine demeanor, the brisk tone of voice did not conceal his pale expression, emaciated form, and obvious illness. His face was as white as snow and his cheeks were sunken and devoid of color. His eyes had no true fire in them, only an almost insidious gleam that made Isabella uneasy.
"Where are you off to?" she queried, noting that he was in traveling clothes.
"That is not your affair." he snapped, his gleeful attitude shifting in an instant.
"I believe it is. You need not conceal your life from your family. We only wish to know what has occupied you for so many days and nights, keeping you from the outside world. What need is there to keep secrets from your own flesh and blood?"
He halted, unable to think of a way to respond. She was right and he knew it, but it would not be right to tell her what he was doing. She would object, as would his wife and anyone else who found out.
"You need not know, it is unimportant." He said bluntly, turning and pulling his heavy coat tight around him as he strode up the stairs to the mansion entrance. Isabella looked after him, wishing she knew what to say that would make him stay. She wasn't sure if he even cared to know the miserable experience his own wife had suffered. He was just too busy with his own unknown life.
"We have fallen out of favor, Count Valentine," she said coldly, addressing him no longer as a relative but as an acquaintance as her expression became grimmer. He stopped before he reached the door, swiveling around to face his daughter again.
"Since when have you cared of our favor? You've always been content with your life as it is? Has your breeding made you so vain, Isabella Valentine?"
"Our funds are running out beneath our very noses, father! The letters I send to royal court and our former friends are no longer replied to. More and more members of the upper class have shunned the Valentine family. We are slowly being ostracized and you have done nothing about it!"
Isabella had challenged her father before, but it had never been about such a venomous subject. She saw her mother behind her, silent and slate-faced as she listened to the heated discourse between her daughter and husband. Isabella Valentine knew that this must cause great pain to her mother, but it had to be done nonetheless.
"We can survive on what money we have." Count Valentine shot back, turning again towards the door, "Do not worry yourself with ostracism. We do not need the world, Isabella. The Valentines have always prospered and will soon prosper again..."
He turned fully, his heavy cloak swinging behind him as he said something else that Isabella couldn't hear over the rasping metal sound of opening doors.
The door slammed behind him, the iron clang wringing eternally in Isabella's mind.
He would return from wherever he had gone...but Isabella Valentine new he would never be the man he had been when she was a child. When she was young, she'd seen a happy light gleaming in his eyes, but now all she saw was that demonic glint, hatefully glaring at her as if it had a mind of its own.
Alright, for future reference, this story generally will have about three chapters about each primary character and one or two chapters about the lesser characters or souls from SC1 or Soul Blade. Chapter-wise, each character's order of chapters will be in chronological order, but the story as a whole will not be.
Thanks to my first reviewers. I'm glad you like my other writing, though you find this stuff much more serious and probably better by literary standards.
Ok, this first chapter is more morbid, less action-y, but I have some very action packed chapters on the way. This one will take longer to update, though.
CHAPTER 1 – THE SINS OF THE FATHER
'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this pretty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.' -Macbeth, William Shakespeare
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rain fell like aimless bullets, spraying waves across the dirt-covered cobblestones. The woman's clothes were practically torn from her back as she struggled against the blustering winds.
She wore a torn hemp shawl and a number of woolen scarves wrapped around her neck and face. Thinner strips of cloth were pulled over her arms and shoulders. Her thinning blonde hair was flung asunder, flailing wildly. Her pale face was cold-looking and his cheeks were deeply sunken. The cold was mighty, but she endured, pulling her feet forwards and bracing them against the cobblestones of the pathway. She wore only bands of weak and worn leather pulled around her sore feet. The soles of her feet bled now, hampered by the jagged stones and debris.
London was filled with smoky fog broken apart by the downpour. There were more houses in this congested part of the city. The shops that lined the streets had been bundled away. The windows' rotting wooden shutters were bolted. There were still some shops on the sides of the various paths on days of better whether. There were wheel-less carts, makeshift stands with wooden boards for mounts, and any number of cages, boxes, crates and bags. All of these, though, had been removed or pushed into the murky stairwells of the underground apartments.
The storerooms were all emptied for the winter season. There were slippery strips of ice between the cobblestones and snowy slush where puddles had been. The snows of the season hadn't come yet, but the rain was icy enough, freezing fully upon its arrival on the ground. The denser streets gave way to grassy paths that led in various directions towards the larger buildings. Blades of grass and shriveled leaves on the ground were dusted with frost and pulled about by the winds.
The woman made her way through rusted iron gates, two swinging grilles of metal spikes dulled by time's winds. The pitted iron of the looming fence was worn and decrepit. She found herself on a smooth path of shaved stone, twisting lithely between two whitened fields of grass beneath a number of small trees. The trees' branches were wrenched in each direction by the storm, some splitting against the immense pressure. Rain-blanketed piles of leafless branches were flung uncaringly into the spiraling anarchy of nature.
The woman, glancing around with irritation and regret in her cold eyes, she proceeded up a set of broad marble stairs and onto the patio of the vast mansion that sat, seemingly shrouded in an ominous shadow of cloud, before her. It seemed to have a certain grandness about it, but also a veil that was cast upon the woman headed towards the looming set of doors between a pair of grotesque stone beasts set on pedestals flanking the door.
The door creaked open before she reached. It did not fully open, only letting a sliver of light from within peek out at the darkness of London.
"Mother! Come in out of the cold before you catch your death. We've been awaiting your return for near three hours now and were starting to become concerned."
The woman looked down at the smaller figure who stood before her. The look in her eyes was as cold as ice and twice as cynical and she stepped inside, her soaked clothes dripping on the polished tiles.
"You say 'we,' but I suspect it is merely you who has been waiting."
"Of course not, mother. Father was just as concerned as I."
"Then why is he not here to greet me? Let me guess, he is still 'confined' to his laboratory, meddling in affairs he should not be worrying about. Tell me, Isabella, am I right?"
Young Isabella Valentine's relieved expression faded as her head lowered and moved slowly up and down, nodding glumly as she helped her mother inside. She had been invited to dine with the lordly family of Earl Hallward, who lived in another great mansion in London. Members of her family were often invited to stately events throughout the city, to dine or merely converse with the other members of England's high society. Such was the popularity of the Valentines....though that popularity had been dwindling lately.
"I'm sure he is just as concerned as I, though he does not show it." Isabella tried to smile, shedding some merry warmth on her cold and obviously melancholy parent, but the heartfelt gesture failed to alter her mother in the least. Countess Valentine turned to her daughter, who continued speaking as she did so.
"Pray tell, what took you so long in coming home? Was there a problem with the coach?"
"There was no coach." Countess Valentine almost cut her daughter off with the blunt reply as she turned away, sighing wearily.
"No coach? But you left in one. Surely you did not leave the coach and walk all the way to the Hallward Mansion! It's on the other side of town, and in this weather."
"I did no such thing," her mother responded sharply, almost snapping. Isabella winced, instantly regretting her prying into the details of whatever incident had occurred. Countess Valentine regained her composure within an instant, as most upstanding noblewomen should, and spoke more gently.
"Forgive me for that. As you can no doubt surmise, I am not in the best of moods. I did indeed take a coach, but I found that I had no money for the return trip."
Isabella concealed an indignant gasp. Her family was one of the richest and most prosperous families in England...or at least it had been. For one of the Valentines not to have funds for a simple coach trip across London was simply unbelievable.
"Surely the Hallwards would've have paid for your ride."
"They offered to, but I refused. How do you think we would look if I accepted money from someone? I may have had to brave the streets of London, but my dignity remains." A thin smile crept across her features.
Isabella did not reply, watching Countess Valentine turn fully and walk as nobly as she could into the grand foyer of the Valentine Mansion, making her way tiredly down the left set of stairs that led to the gleaming, polished floor of the great hall.
The mansion's expanse stretched deep into untouched corridors. Many halls and rooms had not been used in ages, completely neglected by the owners. Now, cobwebs spawned in the dark corners of the mansion, of which there were many. The place was degenerating before Isabella's very eyes as she sat and contemplated the fact each day. She had lived life in the lap of luxury, loved by and loving of her wonderful parents. The girl was unfamiliar with hardship of any kind. In fact, the nearest thing to hardship she'd ever encountered was the brief period when she lost a prized necklace given to her by her mother, which was found within a half hour. Her life went on in a state of prosperity, but her whole world was spiraling out of control.
Nearly a year ago her father, Count Valentine, had begun spending more and more time in his personal section of the house, a danker and more imposing mess of corridors and catacombs. Somewhere in the mansion's bowels lay his laboratory, which Isabella herself had never seen. All she knew was that she did not wish to see it, as it represented the primary focus of her father's obvious addiction. Now, he would lock himself away in there for days, severed from all ties with the outside world. He was becoming reclusive and sickly as he ate and slept less and less.
Isabella, taking a deep and calming breath, followed her mother into the great hall.
Suddenly the clicking of boots against the floor could be heard, echoing eerily about as Isabella stopped in her tracks, watching her mother do the same.
Count Valentine, looking amazingly energetic for someone so newly frail, was walking briskly down the hall and towards them, looking almost giddy. His silhouette could be clearly seen heading towards his wife and daughter, though his wide eyes seemed to be looking past them both.
"Oh, hello dear." He said warmly to his wife as he passed. Unfortunately, the whole point of that warmth was lost when he breezed past her, not even bothering to comment about anything else. Isabella stepped in front of him as he prepared to do the same to her.
"Father, you look very pale. Is something wrong?"
"Certainly not, Isabella, I'm actually feeling very good today." said Count Valentine brightly, his stern tenor elevating slightly. Despite his fine demeanor, the brisk tone of voice did not conceal his pale expression, emaciated form, and obvious illness. His face was as white as snow and his cheeks were sunken and devoid of color. His eyes had no true fire in them, only an almost insidious gleam that made Isabella uneasy.
"Where are you off to?" she queried, noting that he was in traveling clothes.
"That is not your affair." he snapped, his gleeful attitude shifting in an instant.
"I believe it is. You need not conceal your life from your family. We only wish to know what has occupied you for so many days and nights, keeping you from the outside world. What need is there to keep secrets from your own flesh and blood?"
He halted, unable to think of a way to respond. She was right and he knew it, but it would not be right to tell her what he was doing. She would object, as would his wife and anyone else who found out.
"You need not know, it is unimportant." He said bluntly, turning and pulling his heavy coat tight around him as he strode up the stairs to the mansion entrance. Isabella looked after him, wishing she knew what to say that would make him stay. She wasn't sure if he even cared to know the miserable experience his own wife had suffered. He was just too busy with his own unknown life.
"We have fallen out of favor, Count Valentine," she said coldly, addressing him no longer as a relative but as an acquaintance as her expression became grimmer. He stopped before he reached the door, swiveling around to face his daughter again.
"Since when have you cared of our favor? You've always been content with your life as it is? Has your breeding made you so vain, Isabella Valentine?"
"Our funds are running out beneath our very noses, father! The letters I send to royal court and our former friends are no longer replied to. More and more members of the upper class have shunned the Valentine family. We are slowly being ostracized and you have done nothing about it!"
Isabella had challenged her father before, but it had never been about such a venomous subject. She saw her mother behind her, silent and slate-faced as she listened to the heated discourse between her daughter and husband. Isabella Valentine knew that this must cause great pain to her mother, but it had to be done nonetheless.
"We can survive on what money we have." Count Valentine shot back, turning again towards the door, "Do not worry yourself with ostracism. We do not need the world, Isabella. The Valentines have always prospered and will soon prosper again..."
He turned fully, his heavy cloak swinging behind him as he said something else that Isabella couldn't hear over the rasping metal sound of opening doors.
The door slammed behind him, the iron clang wringing eternally in Isabella's mind.
He would return from wherever he had gone...but Isabella Valentine new he would never be the man he had been when she was a child. When she was young, she'd seen a happy light gleaming in his eyes, but now all she saw was that demonic glint, hatefully glaring at her as if it had a mind of its own.