Post by Aras|Ofelia on May 5, 2009 2:26:44 GMT -5
((In which Ofelia discovers something... unpleasant... in the woods. Directly related to this thread, though a bit afterward. And yes, I have Spirit's permission.
Comments and critiques are always welcome!))
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
-Carl Sandburg
One didn't know the meaning of the word 'bloodcurdling' until one heard the scream. The sound rent the still air, piercing the near-complete darkness, causing various creatures to scatter in panic and terror. It wasn't the scream itself that so unnerved the hearers; it was what carried in the undertones that made one's blood run cold. Agony. The voice was saturated with the unmistakable undercurrent of pain. And furthermore, the more perceptive had another reason to quiver with dread.
It had come from a human throat.
The black mamba hissed and reared, disguising its uneasiness behind an aggressive facade. Hair on the back of her neck standing on end, Ofelia suppressed a shudder but continued to make her way toward the source of the noise. She was still far away, but not far away enough to miss the distinctive report of a shotgun preceding the shrieks.
Another scream, then silence. Blessed, relieving, remarkable, uncanny, worrying, eerie, disturbing, bone-chillingly wrong silence.
Folding her arms in front of her to stop an oncoming shiver, Ofelia treaded resolutely onward. She would have to rely on the information she had to pinpoint the source, traveling in more or less a straight line, becoming the mamba in one seamless shift when the undergrowth grew too thick for human passage. It wasn’t long before she began to pick up the scent of blood in the air, gathering it on her tongue and relying on the serpent’s senses to lead her.
The metallic odor became overpowering. Ofelia shifted back to her human form, took a moment to examine the scene before her, and swore very thoroughly and colorfully.
The man was clearly dead, neck broken among numerous other injuries, but Ofelia had seen enough death in her line of work. She recognized him, vaguely; they had met before, shaken hands, talked as fellow Hunters. Polite, she recalled, but inexperienced and cocksure—a dangerous combination at best. But even that wasn’t what prompted her outburst.
She’d found the body, all right. Then she’d found the rest of him several feet away.
“Innocents.” She spat the word. The irony couldn’t have been more obvious. Whoever coined the term must have thought himself very clever. These ‘Innocents’ ran wild, abusing their power, using it to whatever ends they pleased—the very same things of which they accused the Hunters. When it came down to it, they were no better than those they so condemned.
Crouching down, Ofelia gently laid a hand on his shoulder, as if he were still alive to feel the touch. Idiot. Probably tried to fly away first, even though vultures weren’t at all known for their speed. When that failed, he tried to run – and turned his back to the enemy, or enemies. What was he doing out here, anyway? She’d have a word with the Elders about this – perhaps they would let her know why a novice was sent on an assignment, for which he was evidently unprepared, alone. Was it his incompetence, or that of the chain of command, that resulted in his demise? She hoped it was the former.
Even if he had been ill-suited for the mission, she could not help but feel pity for the dead Hunter. No matter how inept, he surely didn’t deserve what he’d gone through. Ghosts of the screams still ringing in her ears, Ofelia rose, wiping her bloodied hand on the grass.
She flipped open her cell phone. “Marie? Contact the Telsons, please. Tell them that Ofelia Qian has to—yes, it’s... yes, he’s… yeah. Maybe fifteen minutes ago. No, there was nothing I could have—what are you implying?” A pause. “Oh, just get a hold of them. It’s not like you have to be the one to tell them. And send a few people my way – you should be able to find me by the tracking device on my phone, I’ve turned it on – because you know I can’t carry him myself.”
Snapping shut the phone, she looked back at the dead Hunter and felt an odd twinge of sorrow mixed with resolve. She would hunt, not for her own advancement, but to make sure that people like his tormentors would no longer abuse their power, the gift they too easily took for granted. Leaning down, she plucked a blade of bloodstained crabgrass.
‘I am the grass; let me work.’
Comments and critiques are always welcome!))
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
-Carl Sandburg
One didn't know the meaning of the word 'bloodcurdling' until one heard the scream. The sound rent the still air, piercing the near-complete darkness, causing various creatures to scatter in panic and terror. It wasn't the scream itself that so unnerved the hearers; it was what carried in the undertones that made one's blood run cold. Agony. The voice was saturated with the unmistakable undercurrent of pain. And furthermore, the more perceptive had another reason to quiver with dread.
It had come from a human throat.
The black mamba hissed and reared, disguising its uneasiness behind an aggressive facade. Hair on the back of her neck standing on end, Ofelia suppressed a shudder but continued to make her way toward the source of the noise. She was still far away, but not far away enough to miss the distinctive report of a shotgun preceding the shrieks.
Another scream, then silence. Blessed, relieving, remarkable, uncanny, worrying, eerie, disturbing, bone-chillingly wrong silence.
Folding her arms in front of her to stop an oncoming shiver, Ofelia treaded resolutely onward. She would have to rely on the information she had to pinpoint the source, traveling in more or less a straight line, becoming the mamba in one seamless shift when the undergrowth grew too thick for human passage. It wasn’t long before she began to pick up the scent of blood in the air, gathering it on her tongue and relying on the serpent’s senses to lead her.
The metallic odor became overpowering. Ofelia shifted back to her human form, took a moment to examine the scene before her, and swore very thoroughly and colorfully.
The man was clearly dead, neck broken among numerous other injuries, but Ofelia had seen enough death in her line of work. She recognized him, vaguely; they had met before, shaken hands, talked as fellow Hunters. Polite, she recalled, but inexperienced and cocksure—a dangerous combination at best. But even that wasn’t what prompted her outburst.
She’d found the body, all right. Then she’d found the rest of him several feet away.
“Innocents.” She spat the word. The irony couldn’t have been more obvious. Whoever coined the term must have thought himself very clever. These ‘Innocents’ ran wild, abusing their power, using it to whatever ends they pleased—the very same things of which they accused the Hunters. When it came down to it, they were no better than those they so condemned.
Crouching down, Ofelia gently laid a hand on his shoulder, as if he were still alive to feel the touch. Idiot. Probably tried to fly away first, even though vultures weren’t at all known for their speed. When that failed, he tried to run – and turned his back to the enemy, or enemies. What was he doing out here, anyway? She’d have a word with the Elders about this – perhaps they would let her know why a novice was sent on an assignment, for which he was evidently unprepared, alone. Was it his incompetence, or that of the chain of command, that resulted in his demise? She hoped it was the former.
Even if he had been ill-suited for the mission, she could not help but feel pity for the dead Hunter. No matter how inept, he surely didn’t deserve what he’d gone through. Ghosts of the screams still ringing in her ears, Ofelia rose, wiping her bloodied hand on the grass.
She flipped open her cell phone. “Marie? Contact the Telsons, please. Tell them that Ofelia Qian has to—yes, it’s... yes, he’s… yeah. Maybe fifteen minutes ago. No, there was nothing I could have—what are you implying?” A pause. “Oh, just get a hold of them. It’s not like you have to be the one to tell them. And send a few people my way – you should be able to find me by the tracking device on my phone, I’ve turned it on – because you know I can’t carry him myself.”
Snapping shut the phone, she looked back at the dead Hunter and felt an odd twinge of sorrow mixed with resolve. She would hunt, not for her own advancement, but to make sure that people like his tormentors would no longer abuse their power, the gift they too easily took for granted. Leaning down, she plucked a blade of bloodstained crabgrass.
‘I am the grass; let me work.’