-I apologize for not typing anything up sooner, I've had a busy week. And
I decided to rewrite the first half of the first chapter because I thought
of a new twist to the plot. So.. yeah, hope y'all like this .
Disclaimer: I do not own much of this, but I do own Erelah and Maureen. Not that I really care about Maureen all that much, you can have her...she's just necessary to the plot...for example...wait, I can't tell you that, that would spoil things. How 'bout I just stop talking so you can read...sound good?
It is well past dusk on a dusty and ill-repaired road. A crumpled and untrustworthy looking guardrail is the only barrier between the shoulder of the road and the cliff that drops immediately behind the rusted metal. It's height is dizzying and it is the site of an oddly numerous amount of accidents for such a seldomly used road. Some say the place is haunted, and most who make it past the steep incline without incident claim the temperature is a few degrees cooler and the hairs of the back of your neck stand on end. However, conclusive evidence of such haunting is, as of yet, pretty much nonexistent.
There are those, however, that think differently...those who know differently. One such person goes by the name of Cyrus Kriticos, but this is just what he goes by, because it is known, perhaps not widely, that Cyrus Kriticos is dead. However, this man does bear a keen resemblance to the deceased, perhaps a bit older looking, but the similarity is striking. Very few know the truth of the matter.
Stepping form his Mercedes, Cyrus' shoes crunched quietly on the gravel that lies on the shoulder of the road. He peered over the guardrail and shivered imperceptibly, having no great affection for heights. A stiff wind blew, seemingly trying to steal his silk cravat from his neck. Cyrus, as always, was meticulously dressed. His charcoal suit was perfectly tailored to his form, and not a hair on his head was graying or out of place.
A diminutive figure appeared from the car as well, taking her place beside him. She stood around 5' 2" and her frame was slight. The wind danced in her mousy brown hair that fell, slightly frizzy, just past her shoulders. She was meek and afraid looking, with a dull pain underlying it all, this being apparent as she massaged her temples. The meticulous man beside her ignored her presence and slipped on a pair of goggle-like glasses and smiled into the wind. Not bothering to look at the woman beside him, Cyrus spoke to her. "Maureen, if you would be so kind as to tell me where he is at this moment." His tone was curt, professional and to the point. It pained Maureen slightly that he would treat her so; even after all she had done for him.
Gritting her teeth, Maureen attempted to focus. She reached out and made contact with the guardrail, her body stiffening momentarily before she was able to tear her hand away. With a barely steady arm, she pointed down the road past a truck and a group of men setting up a large glass cube, among other things. "He knows you're here, but he's waiting." She also felt something else as well; a small presence that she mentally brushed away as one would swat at a persistent fly.
Cyrus smiled and chuckled. "Smart boy." Nodding, her gazed in the direction she had indicated. Relying on a silver-headed cane, Cyrus moved to the truck and climbed carefully up a ladder attached to the side of it. Standing atop the vehicle, his gazed turned down at those hurrying about in preparation. He heard the sound of an engine revving in the distance and spoke into a small microphone attached at the collar of his suit. "Everyone in ready positions, I repeat, everyone in ready positions." The ground below cleared as all scattered to their various posts. A moment later, a deep voice chanting spells broke out over several loud speakers.
Erelah had taken cover in the brush opposite the guardrail and cliff the moment she had heard the truck approaching. It was from there that she watched silently, inquisitive gray eyes peering from the shadows. Everyone was busy and hurrying around, preoccupied with whatever they were doing, and so her presence went unheeded. What, exactly, they were up to, she did not know. What she did know was that only two kinds of people came here. The first were those that were ignorant of the angry spirit that dwelt here. The second kind was those who came in search of said spirit. The former was far more common, but Erelah guessed that these were of the latter sort. Where their fate lie, she did not know, but the bottom of the cliff was always a possibility. However, since she had taken to walking this road at night, she had never come across anyone that acted like this. Deciding she had no duty to warn them, Erelah sat back to watch.
The spectral viewers that sat on Cyrus' face began to rub uncomfortably and he removed them to massage the sore spots left on the bridge of his nose. An incontent sight escaped his lips and he made a mental not to do something to make the viewers more comfortable. He was about to call out, trying to figure out what was taking so long, when his words were drowned out by the screech of tires. He looked up to see, but realized the viewers were still in his hand. About to raise them to his face, the whole truck rocked with a crunch as one side crumpled in without any visible cause for doing so. Cyrus lost his balanced and fell, being saved only by grasping a rung of the ladder. His spectral viewers and cane fell to the ground as he struggled to pull himself back up on top of the vehicle. A sickening crack rang out, followed by a loud scream.
Adrenaline running through his veins, Cyrus turned, wide-eyed, to see the source of the exclamation of pain. One of his men lies on the ground, clawing at his chest and gasping for breath. In just another moment, the door the glass cell clanged shut. It was over.
Cyrus cursed himself for having missed all the excitement. Slowly, he climbed down form the roof of the truck, retrieving his glasses and cane, stopping momentarily to examine the side of the truck. It was damaged, but still able to be driven. Cyrus' mood had turned particularly sour now and hi was ready to yell at the next person that approached him. On his way to view hi prey in the glass cell, he stepped over the man on the ground that now writhed agony.
Cyrus stood in from the glass box, his face close to the pane of glass. He slipped his spectral viewers back on and smiled at his prize that stood just inside. Royce Clayton glared back; his young face half burned and bloodied form his very own fate at the bottom of the cliff. Bloodthirsty rage was clear in his eyes, but intelligence also reflected there, apparent by the fact he did not try to beat his way through the barrier that separated them. This wasn't his first time being tapped in this fashion, but, being a ghost, he was ultimately defenseless against Cyrus' spells.
Cyrus saw the urge the spirit had to lung at him, the need to beat him to a bloody pulp, and he chuckled at Royce's fury. Picking up his cane, he tapped the silver knob in the glass, tap, tap, tap. The sound of the cane enraged the ghost further. Royce lunged, his bat swinging and making contact with the spell-engraved glass. Sparks flew about the man on the other side, but Cyrus did not so much as flinch. "Good to see you again, old friend." Chuckling once more, Cyrus removed the odd spectacles from his face and the apparition blinked away before his eyes.
Less cautious now, and dumbfounded with disbelief, Erelah stepped from her cover. While she had not exactly been able to see all that went on, she thought she know what had happened, and had not thought it possible. Caution thrown to the wind, Erelah approached the cage with wide eyes. Her fingers traced the Latin inscribed on the glass and she stared past it into the seemingly empty space within.
She did not even see the two men approach her, but they came very much to her attention when they seized her roughly by the arms. They dragged her, kicking and struggling, to a man of refined appearance. He looked her up and down, his gaze coming to rest on her face. She looked to be no older than 17 or 18 years old. Her loose, auburn hair had fallen into her face and down around her arms, nearly reaching her waist.
His glasses still in hand, Cyrus approached her curiously, looking down on her five-foot form from his height. She appeared quite harmless and he did not think that this assumption was unsafe. "Well, my dear, what might you be doing here?" His tone indicated he was more amused than concerned, and he gently tapped the viewers on her cheek.
Her stormy gray eyes held both defiance and fear, and her throat was too dry for words. She did not, however, have any need to answer Cyrus. The look of shock that registered on his face was puzzling, but told her that the reason she was here was no longer concerning him.
Lifting his glasses, Cyrus had caught a glimpse of her eye through the lens. The eye he saw, however, did not match the one he saw without the aid of the instrument. His gaze jumped between the lens and her puzzled gray eye, his jaw dropped in disbelief. Suddenly pulling himself back to reality, he fumbled with the glasses until they sat crooked on his face. Cyrus' mouth moved as if to speak, but the only sound that came from his throat was a series of amazed and stupefied gasps. A grin crept its way across his mouth and Cyrus ran a hand through his hair, mussing up his ordinarily refined appearance.
The only results of his strange actions were a few pairs of eye looking at him in a strange manner. The men holding the girl shifted uneasily unsure of what to do. Getting as much of a grip on himself as he could, Cyrus waved Maureen over with an unsteady hand. Removing the glasses from his head, he surrendered them to the psychic with a shaking hand. He stepped back to think, crossing his arms and watching Maureen. When she gave him a questioning look, he waved her on in encouragement. "Look, look..." was all he could manage to say. On of his hand strayed up to stroke his chin while he lightly chewed his lip; unaware of the fact he was acting completely out of character.
Maureen merely blinked at first, pulling the glasses below her line of vision to study the girl. Pushing them back up on the bridge of her nose, she observed Erelah again, her eyes filled with amazement. She faced Cyrus and shrugged her shoulders, having no explanation for him. The man had now regained most of his composure and stood there, grinning like a fool at this unexpected find. "Put her in the car," he said, turning away. Erelah was dragged away without commotion, the defiant look in her eyes mixed with a slight confusion.
Alright, there we are. Reviews are always appreciated, so thanks to those who have reviewed already. I saw that a bunch of fics here involve the torn prince aka Royce Clayton, so I debated about using him in the story, but he is the only ghost that fits the description I need (you'll find out more abou that later)... so, I apologize for adding to any overuse of his character.
Disclaimer: I do not own much of this, but I do own Erelah and Maureen. Not that I really care about Maureen all that much, you can have her...she's just necessary to the plot...for example...wait, I can't tell you that, that would spoil things. How 'bout I just stop talking so you can read...sound good?
It is well past dusk on a dusty and ill-repaired road. A crumpled and untrustworthy looking guardrail is the only barrier between the shoulder of the road and the cliff that drops immediately behind the rusted metal. It's height is dizzying and it is the site of an oddly numerous amount of accidents for such a seldomly used road. Some say the place is haunted, and most who make it past the steep incline without incident claim the temperature is a few degrees cooler and the hairs of the back of your neck stand on end. However, conclusive evidence of such haunting is, as of yet, pretty much nonexistent.
There are those, however, that think differently...those who know differently. One such person goes by the name of Cyrus Kriticos, but this is just what he goes by, because it is known, perhaps not widely, that Cyrus Kriticos is dead. However, this man does bear a keen resemblance to the deceased, perhaps a bit older looking, but the similarity is striking. Very few know the truth of the matter.
Stepping form his Mercedes, Cyrus' shoes crunched quietly on the gravel that lies on the shoulder of the road. He peered over the guardrail and shivered imperceptibly, having no great affection for heights. A stiff wind blew, seemingly trying to steal his silk cravat from his neck. Cyrus, as always, was meticulously dressed. His charcoal suit was perfectly tailored to his form, and not a hair on his head was graying or out of place.
A diminutive figure appeared from the car as well, taking her place beside him. She stood around 5' 2" and her frame was slight. The wind danced in her mousy brown hair that fell, slightly frizzy, just past her shoulders. She was meek and afraid looking, with a dull pain underlying it all, this being apparent as she massaged her temples. The meticulous man beside her ignored her presence and slipped on a pair of goggle-like glasses and smiled into the wind. Not bothering to look at the woman beside him, Cyrus spoke to her. "Maureen, if you would be so kind as to tell me where he is at this moment." His tone was curt, professional and to the point. It pained Maureen slightly that he would treat her so; even after all she had done for him.
Gritting her teeth, Maureen attempted to focus. She reached out and made contact with the guardrail, her body stiffening momentarily before she was able to tear her hand away. With a barely steady arm, she pointed down the road past a truck and a group of men setting up a large glass cube, among other things. "He knows you're here, but he's waiting." She also felt something else as well; a small presence that she mentally brushed away as one would swat at a persistent fly.
Cyrus smiled and chuckled. "Smart boy." Nodding, her gazed in the direction she had indicated. Relying on a silver-headed cane, Cyrus moved to the truck and climbed carefully up a ladder attached to the side of it. Standing atop the vehicle, his gazed turned down at those hurrying about in preparation. He heard the sound of an engine revving in the distance and spoke into a small microphone attached at the collar of his suit. "Everyone in ready positions, I repeat, everyone in ready positions." The ground below cleared as all scattered to their various posts. A moment later, a deep voice chanting spells broke out over several loud speakers.
Erelah had taken cover in the brush opposite the guardrail and cliff the moment she had heard the truck approaching. It was from there that she watched silently, inquisitive gray eyes peering from the shadows. Everyone was busy and hurrying around, preoccupied with whatever they were doing, and so her presence went unheeded. What, exactly, they were up to, she did not know. What she did know was that only two kinds of people came here. The first were those that were ignorant of the angry spirit that dwelt here. The second kind was those who came in search of said spirit. The former was far more common, but Erelah guessed that these were of the latter sort. Where their fate lie, she did not know, but the bottom of the cliff was always a possibility. However, since she had taken to walking this road at night, she had never come across anyone that acted like this. Deciding she had no duty to warn them, Erelah sat back to watch.
The spectral viewers that sat on Cyrus' face began to rub uncomfortably and he removed them to massage the sore spots left on the bridge of his nose. An incontent sight escaped his lips and he made a mental not to do something to make the viewers more comfortable. He was about to call out, trying to figure out what was taking so long, when his words were drowned out by the screech of tires. He looked up to see, but realized the viewers were still in his hand. About to raise them to his face, the whole truck rocked with a crunch as one side crumpled in without any visible cause for doing so. Cyrus lost his balanced and fell, being saved only by grasping a rung of the ladder. His spectral viewers and cane fell to the ground as he struggled to pull himself back up on top of the vehicle. A sickening crack rang out, followed by a loud scream.
Adrenaline running through his veins, Cyrus turned, wide-eyed, to see the source of the exclamation of pain. One of his men lies on the ground, clawing at his chest and gasping for breath. In just another moment, the door the glass cell clanged shut. It was over.
Cyrus cursed himself for having missed all the excitement. Slowly, he climbed down form the roof of the truck, retrieving his glasses and cane, stopping momentarily to examine the side of the truck. It was damaged, but still able to be driven. Cyrus' mood had turned particularly sour now and hi was ready to yell at the next person that approached him. On his way to view hi prey in the glass cell, he stepped over the man on the ground that now writhed agony.
Cyrus stood in from the glass box, his face close to the pane of glass. He slipped his spectral viewers back on and smiled at his prize that stood just inside. Royce Clayton glared back; his young face half burned and bloodied form his very own fate at the bottom of the cliff. Bloodthirsty rage was clear in his eyes, but intelligence also reflected there, apparent by the fact he did not try to beat his way through the barrier that separated them. This wasn't his first time being tapped in this fashion, but, being a ghost, he was ultimately defenseless against Cyrus' spells.
Cyrus saw the urge the spirit had to lung at him, the need to beat him to a bloody pulp, and he chuckled at Royce's fury. Picking up his cane, he tapped the silver knob in the glass, tap, tap, tap. The sound of the cane enraged the ghost further. Royce lunged, his bat swinging and making contact with the spell-engraved glass. Sparks flew about the man on the other side, but Cyrus did not so much as flinch. "Good to see you again, old friend." Chuckling once more, Cyrus removed the odd spectacles from his face and the apparition blinked away before his eyes.
Less cautious now, and dumbfounded with disbelief, Erelah stepped from her cover. While she had not exactly been able to see all that went on, she thought she know what had happened, and had not thought it possible. Caution thrown to the wind, Erelah approached the cage with wide eyes. Her fingers traced the Latin inscribed on the glass and she stared past it into the seemingly empty space within.
She did not even see the two men approach her, but they came very much to her attention when they seized her roughly by the arms. They dragged her, kicking and struggling, to a man of refined appearance. He looked her up and down, his gaze coming to rest on her face. She looked to be no older than 17 or 18 years old. Her loose, auburn hair had fallen into her face and down around her arms, nearly reaching her waist.
His glasses still in hand, Cyrus approached her curiously, looking down on her five-foot form from his height. She appeared quite harmless and he did not think that this assumption was unsafe. "Well, my dear, what might you be doing here?" His tone indicated he was more amused than concerned, and he gently tapped the viewers on her cheek.
Her stormy gray eyes held both defiance and fear, and her throat was too dry for words. She did not, however, have any need to answer Cyrus. The look of shock that registered on his face was puzzling, but told her that the reason she was here was no longer concerning him.
Lifting his glasses, Cyrus had caught a glimpse of her eye through the lens. The eye he saw, however, did not match the one he saw without the aid of the instrument. His gaze jumped between the lens and her puzzled gray eye, his jaw dropped in disbelief. Suddenly pulling himself back to reality, he fumbled with the glasses until they sat crooked on his face. Cyrus' mouth moved as if to speak, but the only sound that came from his throat was a series of amazed and stupefied gasps. A grin crept its way across his mouth and Cyrus ran a hand through his hair, mussing up his ordinarily refined appearance.
The only results of his strange actions were a few pairs of eye looking at him in a strange manner. The men holding the girl shifted uneasily unsure of what to do. Getting as much of a grip on himself as he could, Cyrus waved Maureen over with an unsteady hand. Removing the glasses from his head, he surrendered them to the psychic with a shaking hand. He stepped back to think, crossing his arms and watching Maureen. When she gave him a questioning look, he waved her on in encouragement. "Look, look..." was all he could manage to say. On of his hand strayed up to stroke his chin while he lightly chewed his lip; unaware of the fact he was acting completely out of character.
Maureen merely blinked at first, pulling the glasses below her line of vision to study the girl. Pushing them back up on the bridge of her nose, she observed Erelah again, her eyes filled with amazement. She faced Cyrus and shrugged her shoulders, having no explanation for him. The man had now regained most of his composure and stood there, grinning like a fool at this unexpected find. "Put her in the car," he said, turning away. Erelah was dragged away without commotion, the defiant look in her eyes mixed with a slight confusion.
Alright, there we are. Reviews are always appreciated, so thanks to those who have reviewed already. I saw that a bunch of fics here involve the torn prince aka Royce Clayton, so I debated about using him in the story, but he is the only ghost that fits the description I need (you'll find out more abou that later)... so, I apologize for adding to any overuse of his character.