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A Tale of Two Brothers

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A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Thu Dec 29, 2011 8:14 pm

Balthazar had always thought it above himself to take a vehicle anywhere. For real long stretches, it was acceptable, but for such a pleasant stroll through the powdery Moscovian snow, thin layers of frost crunching underfoot on the paving of the sidewalk, it seemed, first off, such a waste to expend fuel upon such an enjoyable venture. The suited man, cigarette lit and in hand, always preferred journeying to his destination on foot.

It was good to be home. For what was for a few months the heart of Rou Kamarov's criminal activities was now a place that Tartarus had barely seen but still called home; even as a leader of RIOTE, the shady dealings were all somehow connected to the lower, dirtier ranks of the organisation, but everything on the main streets seemed so fine. Truly a city worthy of being called capital of the great nation of Drachma, lead by Sekretar Vanity, one of their own indeed.

Alongside it being such a waste to throw away valuable sightseeing time, Balthazar's body was a machine; and as a machine, it constantly needed oiling and testing. The chimeric flesh knitted together by those despicable doctors was resistant to most climates, be it frost or heat, but the Ciliegian-knit suit jacket was not so durable. As such, testing the bounds of both his body and his attire, the Bearer had since decided that, even if he could stand the cold, he should probably make haste lest he wanted the fine work of tailoring to need repair, or, possibly, replacement. It was his finest suit, after all.

Fitting, even, for an occasion such as this! The man's mouth stretched into a grin, and he raised the cigarette, turning a street corner and taking a long drag as he highlighted his destination. The twinkling, falling snowflakes dotted the starry sky, the gargantuan balls of hydrogen indistinguishable from the small frost crystals drifting down through at this distance.

The landscape saw naught but a white half-moon on the horizon; there was enough light from it and the street lamps to light the man's path, and whilst a younger Rou Kamarov would have perhaps needed a torch, or some other beacon for guidance, Balthazar's awareness and enhanced ability allowed him to reverse-trace those stemming from his destination, purely by the scent of the foods they'd last taken within them.

Having been ordered - most unusually - to dress in his finest suit - offended, almost, considering that he did so ninety percent of the time, and it went thus far unnoticed - and make haste towards one of the most renowned restaurants in all of Moscow, Balthazar was puzzled. Upon pressing his leader for orders further, the great Chaos gave forth but a single fact in response; he was to consort with the new blood. Perses. Apparently rather an odd one, too.

Balthazar had held the rank of Tartarus for long enough to know how to deal with fresh meat; but this man held a rank parallel to his. He was clearly gifted in one way or another; perhaps a great militant? Maybe an adept intelligence agent? Or perhaps he had a knack for alchemy or alkahestry so great that Aurelius and Hild could simply not turn the man away?

Questions fired like an assault rifle, back and forth, bullet-like question marks ricocheting around the walls of the deepest sanctum of his mind, but Tartarus assured himself they would all be answered soon enough. The darkest depths of the underworld were his to uphold; and if ever RIOTE took a prisoner that needed breaking, he was the one to call. He held renown enough that he shouldn't question his orders; this would be something worth his time and trouble. The leaders knew not to trouble him with simple trivialities.

Drawing close to the restaurant, Balthazar released the last puff of smoke upon the air, letting it drift away for moments, wrapping itself around the fresh, crisp snowflakes, before it dissipated and intermingled with the air, wispy, creamy white-grey clouds slowly fading from existence. The smell hung fresh in both the man's nostrils and mouth; without a single care further, he flicked the butt of the cigarette into the road, before a hatchback's bonnet collided with the still-burning remnant of the 'cancer stick', causing it to shatter into a cloud of papery ashes maybe fifty metres down the road from where the chimera was standing.

His eyes flicked up to the title of the restaurant as he tipped his fedora further down and adjusted his loose tie; the black longcoat he wore draped over his shoulders and buttoned up was another measure taken to ensure the longevity of his designer suit jacket sitting just inches beneath.

The gold, embossed letters were aligned in an italic print, and pleasing to the eye against the almost perfect white paintwork of the restaurant's fronting; L'Orgoglio di La Ciliegia. The pride of La Ciliegia. Smirking, the man hoped it lived up to its reputation, with the sounds of a warm fire crackling just through the door, the small room tainted with only the faint aroma of cigar smoke. Truly, it felt like he was standing miles away, sailing on a boat, clutching an eye-glass, looking over at the island itself. Soft, slow piano music, played live by a man in pinstripe trousers and suspenders hung gently on the air, creating a perfect atmosphere. Balthazar arched his eyebrow. High-class; even for RIOTE.

Now to only wait for his cohort... fingers straining beneath the black leather of gloves, pads and palms gently caressing the same of the opposite hand, and revolvers hanging heavy in his two opposite pockets... Balthazar just hoped that this Perses had the same taste for violence as he.

"Speed up, why dontcha'?"


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Sun Jan 01, 2012 7:33 am

It was an unusual order.

Meet with Tartarus, get to know him, and enjoy dinner. . . . Extremely unusual orders. He was supposed to be a herald of destruction (in a sense), working to lay waste to whatever opposed the path of RIOTE. But, tonight, he was meant to . . . something. Something that was not in his area of expertise.

Alright, so maybe that's all slight exaggerations, but still: Mayhem and murder were the suitable things he enjoyed and dispensed with ease. Maybe, given he hadn't met Tartarus before and his only guide to identifying him was that he was followed by a trail of ash and smoke, his evening friend savored such things as well? Tartarus was the world of torment in the afterlife, the cesspool were sinners were sent after being judged. A man with such a title surely was as black-hearted as any man could be.

'Well now, only one way to find out. Meet the man in person'

His thoughts had idled him, it seems . . . as he had stopped (or slowed down his pace to an eventual halt), a little odd considering he was soon going to be late. But, then again, why was he in rush? Moscow was well on the way to recovery, the majestic sun was shining the last dim rays of the hour, thin layers of frost coated all surfaces with (mostly) white snow blanketing the ground.

A beautiful scene, yes? And here he was, adorned in a suit of midnight blue and appropriate-colored trousers, black dress shoes and with a black overcoat to keep himself warm. A darkly-dressed individual, as the dusk emerges, with hair swept back and matted(combed, technically, but he had to improvise one) down, with only his right slightly malformed hand gloved and making sure his hair didn't start springing back up.

Now, his attire was by no means a symbol of opulence. No, but they were nice clothes, representative of his somewhat comfortable financial status, and were meticulously maintained so as to not have more than speck of issue. Either way, as much as he'd rather go out of his way to purchase a very lovely formal attire, he had better things to do with his wages than spend it for extravagence's sake . . . and what could Perses possibly spend his non-essential funds for? Charity. Mostly.

But, enough of that! The restaurant, his directions instructed him, was close-by. . . . To be completely honest, he wasn't much a fan of dining out, so, upon sighting the locale in which he was to meet and associate with Tartarus, let's just say he was a bit taken aback. Joy, he was going to meet a man who was a titleholder and therefore capable of as much destruction as himself in a fancy restaurant? . . . Somehow, something inside of him begged him not to enter, over fears that this lovely place was going to be torn apart if he kept to his appointment.

However, orders were orders. Oh, and Chaos's words about Tartarus suggested he was dangerous . . . well, the whole 'ashes and smoke' suggested enough already, but . . . he opted to not come unarmed. For now, he was still using that antique of a shotgun, tucked safely away beneath his clothing (guess), his knives were secured, attached to his arms, legs and elsewhere on his person. Oh, and there was that anti-cavalry blade he snuck with him . . . since he couldn't bring the claymore, that one had to do.

Enough about him and his small inventory of weapons: The Xingese-Drachman made his way towards the restaurant . . . L'Orgoglio di La Ciliegia, was it? Quite an appearance it had, though he was not a member of the higher classes . . . it seems he would enjoy this event, be it meal or a skirmish.

There seemed to be a man waiting, impeccably dressed . . . blonde hair? No, perhaps what caught Hei's attention the most was the fellow's grey eyes. . . . Eyes that held the world in contempt, or were those eyes that held himself higher than the rest of the world? Wait, those were the same thing, in a sense. As his own crimson orbs gazed upon the waiting individual, he approached, steadily pacing onward and halting a reasonable distance from the fellow.

"Tartarus, I presume?" he inquires in his now-native tongue. Though it was only months when he first awoke in these lands, Drachman had become his primary language, and he spoke it effortlessly, and here he spoke kindly . . . gently. Well, it was a calm and soothing tone of voice, he supposed. No need to be crass, not in this place. After all, tonight was going to be one of entertainment ... he hoped, of sustenance or of violence would depend on what happened now.

Last edited by Hei on Sun Jan 01, 2012 2:27 pm; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Misread a couple of lines from your original post: This is why I shouldn't post at three in the morning.)


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Sun Jan 01, 2012 1:24 pm

"Tartarus, I presume?"

Noise. Balthazar's eyes flickered open, and a smirk picked up on his face, as he finished yet another cigarette, flicking it away into the road to accompany the last. "Well, ya know what they say about presumptions, eh?" With a warm smile of camaraderie, Balthazar pushed himself off from the wall, and the bearer offered his hand to the Xingese-Drachman. "Good ta' meetcha', Perses."

He paused for a moment, before letting out a little chuckle. "Ya know, I was never really one for this codename bullshit. Call me Balthazar, it's as real a name as I'll ever get." With a slight grin, he rubbed the back of his head, not understanding just what he'd said and what it actually meant; 'don't label me after the underworld, instead call me the name of one of the Babylonian kings of old!'.

"What can I call ya, buddy?" He shifted closer, gesturing for the pair to move through the light snowfall towards the warm, beckoning front of the restaurant. "Other than Perses, that is." He ended the sentence with a chuckle, the man seeming as deceptively charismatic and warm-hearted as ever, despite his plethora of much darker secrets...


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Mon Jan 02, 2012 6:19 pm

Well, the first thing that Tartarus had done, besides respond to his question, was flick the cigarette he was smoke into the road. . . . Not that Hei had anything against those who smoked, but still flinging the cancer sticks through the air might still present the possibility of it hitting somone in the f-

Why did he care now? None of his business, none of his business.

"Ya know, I was never really one for this codename bullshit. Call me Balthazar, it's as real a name as I'll ever get." was the next thing that Tarta- . . . Balthazar had said, a request not to refer to him by codename? . . . Peculiar, first time he met a title bearer who didn't want to be called by their title. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

"Very well, then" he responds with slight smile.

His evening companion then posed another question while gesturing for both of them to enter the restaurant. Seeing as how Hei preferred to be a bit courteous to others, the Xingese-Drachman already grasped the door's handle and held it open for the other.

"What can I call ya, buddy? ... Other than Perses, that is." the question was punctuated with a chuckle. . . . This personality didn't quite match with what Hei interpreted when he looked into Tartaru- Balthazar's eyes, so it was mildly unsettling. But not enough to cause him to show anxiety. No, his 'friend' must have some reason to act like this . . . they all had their reasons. Membership into RIOTE's higher echelons of service seemed to necessitate some form of mental instability, but they were all functional (mostly) human beings out in public.

So, Hei just accepted this personality, whether it was a facade, a facet, or the real thing.

"Hei. Hei Jin. Or at least, that's the name I best connect with, nowadays." he responds, calmly and warmly once more. His words probably caused more than one meaning, but he meant it simply that he had memory loss . . . and at the present moment, not too many people knew about that. Still, it didn't occur to him that his phrasing of the response would cause a slight bit of confusion (for most other people), and instead the two made their way inside the restaurant. Perhaps continuing the conversation while proceeding inward, perhaps not.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Tue Jan 03, 2012 2:17 pm

"Hei. Hei Jin. Or at least, that's the name I best connect with, nowadays." Hei Jin. Balthazar arched an eyebrow. A Xingese name... and yet his Drachman was so fluent. This man was just full of new surprises, it seemed... but he'd have to wait to see what the night had in store for the pair of them to get to know Perses, his comrade, any better.

With a smile, nodding, he gestured for the pair to step into the restaurant; and so they did.

Immediately greeted by a waiter in a white shirt, a bow tie, and sporting a pencil-thin curly moustache, Balthazar moved up and smiled. "'Evening. Ya' finest table for two, if ya'd please," The man looked at him with an estranged stare, before raising his hands and shaking them in response.

"I do apologise, sir, but the rules say that you may only sit down to eat if you have a reservation," Balthazar nodded, slowly. Well, they had a reservation. They had a reservation everywhere. They were two of RIOTE's finest officers, dammit, lieutenants to the man who controlled even the Sekretar of Drachma. With a growl, Ayden turned around and lowered his voice.

"You know who we are," And what a shame. He didn't want to show Perses that side of his uglier personality just yet. "Find us a damn seat, or I swear to god I'll have the council shut this place down," He said, drumming his fingers along the menu stand that the frightened man now grasped, his expression paling as he clung onto the wooden pole for dear life, nodding rapidly. Apparently, he hadn't quite gotten the message from the demeanour of the pair. Balthazar flashed him a quick, falsified grin, and took two menus from the stand, and following the shaky man as he turned and took them into the corner of the room, to a reserved table, beneath an elegant black wall-mounted candle-holder, from which a dim aura of orange-yellow light radiated, before the man removed the white, triangular plaque from the table's surface, quickly stuffing it into his pocket.

"Y-your table, s-sirs," He said, having not really noticed the stature of the two men far surpassing his own. Balthazar nodded, and as the accented man hissed at two waiters in what sounded like Cerisian, they too, scared to all hell, came over, and pulled out two chairs. With a nod, Balthazar sat upon his, chuckling to himself as one of the waiters and the man with the moustache quickly vacated their vicinity.

He turned over a hand, gesturing idly to the other chair. "Please. Sit, Hei." Flashing another smile at him, he moved into a chuckle, lowering his head and looking shiftily from side to side. "Y'know how it is... want anything done, gotta' get it done ya'self, right?" The sentence moved quickly into a louder chuckle than before, almost booming, offsetting some of the people sitting closer to the pair.

The waiter stood, trembling, still holding Perses' seat for the night out for him. Balthazar sat, grasping a napkin and pulling off his coat, to reveal the aforementioned finely-woven Ciliegian suit, setting the raincoat and jacket on the chair behind him, loosening his tie some more, and slipping the napkin into his collar, a freshly clean-shaven, thick muscular neck visible now the man had shed his outer layers of clothing. He looked around at the candle-lit atmosphere, the lights in the roof dimmed, the piano player agitated and somewhat startled by the entrance of the two men; maybe he knew who they were. The smell of smoke was even trembling at their very presence; it had faded somewhat. The very environment had bent to their will and pleasure... and Hei may have not, but Balthazar certainly enjoyed it. Made him feel... powerful.

And he liked that. He liked it a lot.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Wed Jan 04, 2012 5:36 pm

Amusing. Balthazar was an incredibly forceful man ... or demanding ... or an incredibly good actor ... or he was actually a very dangerous and insane individual who hated to wait for anything, and craved power and flaunting it. Or something.

Hei didn't know what exactly to make of his companion's behavior. Especially since they were in a foreign restaurant in Moscow, Hei didn't have too much sympathy for the workers . . .

Eh, either way, the Xingese-Drachman just smiled (in approval?) of what was going on and just went along with whatever Balthazar did. Not any complaints from him. Honestly, he felt a little too mellow . . . too relaxed. That annoyed him a bit, considering his blood was like a geyser, constantly bubbling and waiting to burst out in steaming fury. . . . But he couldn't break loose without reason, now could he? . . . He couldn't tell if he liked Tartarus, or disliked him yet, so maybe there was a chance for venting. Hopefully.

"Y'know how it is... want anything done, gotta' get it done ya'self, right?"

"That's certainly one effective way to do things." Hei responded with a smile, ... one a bit too wide to show that most of his teeth seemed to be sharp, which caused a bit of gulping from the unfortunate one still holding out his chair. "Ah. No need to hold the chair, you can go." he was still a little sympathetic to those clearly suffering, it seemed. Ah well

The Xing-Drachman removed his coat and neatly set it on the chair before taking a seat, he wasn't quite a capable one, undressing while sitting down. Oddities, habits, quirks. Ah well, not that it mattered.

"I take it you have not been in Moscow for some time. Where have you been? And have you enjoyed yourself wherever you were?" he inquires with a smile. A bit of conversation, perhaps the last bit, before the worst part of tonight . . . deciding what to eat. After all, Hei was familiar with ... this ... kind of place. To be honest, foreign cuisine was not something he enjoyed often.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Thu Jan 05, 2012 5:07 pm

"I take it you have not been in Moscow for some time. Where have you been? And have you enjoyed yourself wherever you were?" Images flickered before Balthazar's eyes. Blood, hewn flesh, shredded sinew; the smoke, oh god, how he loved, how he adored the smoke. It spoke to him in ways that not much else could; between the fire and the death, the smoke... it was the perfect counterpart. Balthazar was able to step onto a battlefield, take a simple whiff of the aroma, and could estimate terrain, weaponry, and the amount of casualties, simply from his sense of smell. That learned at picking apart the various stenches of weaponry, explosives, and death, it had long since become an art to him. Like wine tasting; except the only red spilt here would be the lifeblood, the very essence of those that dared to stand in his way.

"Well, I suppose ya could say that," A sickly grin stretched onto his face as the man grasped a pre-placed short, thin glass of frosted water, engravings of streams and rivers along the side, with prestigious and 'meaningful' Cerisian idioms and phrases. Balthazar absorbed this, his deadly-steady fingers simply lowering to it, and raising the glass, complete with cool liquid, ice cubes, and all; in an instant, he tipped the entire thing back into his mouth. The liquid trickled down his throat, and he made short work of it in a single gulp; two crunches later, he swallowed once more and did away with the ice-cubes, before sighing. "Nothing quite like it... old habits die hard, I guess?"

It was true; he felt relieved, accustomed, acclimatised, having forgotten somewhat about the little 'incident' with the waiter and his pratty moustache, still at the door, doubling back at least three times a second to make sure the pair were occupied; it was getting annoying, catching the man watching over them like a nervous hawk. He quite possibly knew his job rested on the line if Balthazar or Hei so much as complained; and the Drachman ex-convict was considering doing just that. Except... more his own personal form of... 'complaint'.

The environment had calmed somewhat. People were ignoring them; tending to their families, their meals, their Armani watches, their fine jewellery, their social lives, all layered over with an icing of sweet, sweet bullshit that the general populace seemed to just love to swallow. That, however, was another issue for another time. Tonight was a night of comfort, camaraderie, and brotherhood. To new beginnings.

Ravenous, the man - if he could be even called that - tore off a piece of bread from the similarly pre-placed presumably 'hand-woven' basket in the table, from a long stick of ciabatta, and held it into the air in front of him, smirking. "To brotherhood," He murmured, before extending his tongue and sliding the piece of bread onto it, gulping it back, similarly to the water and ice, in but a second.

He could smell the blood. It was pumping, fresh, like a fire-hydrant, in most of those around him. Even more so within his comrade's veins and arteries, although he had been marked as a non-target, even if he was angered to within an inch of his sanity; Balthazar was not to harm this man. Highest orders from the highest of the high; his 'best' behaviour. That meant no blowing people up.

The quaint environment continued similarly, silently, for a few more minutes, settling after the debacle at the entrance. After Balthazar had finished scanning the area like a true analyst, going through each and every member of the public, isolating possible threats, and stamping them down a moment later, he turned back to Hei and put on the most brilliant falsified smile of the night so far. "Well. Shall we get drinks and menus, then, my friend?"

They had a meal ahead of them. And matters to discuss... of paramount importance.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Sat Jan 07, 2012 5:42 am

There was a distinct pause between his question and Balthazar's answer. Such pause, naturally, drew Hei's attention to the fellow, curiously observing him. Although it was just a couple of moments, the Xingese-Drachman . . . noted there was something about his companion. He didn't know what, but it seemed like Baltahzar was drawn in thought for a bit, before steadily giving an answer.

"Well, I suppose ya could say that."

Well, that was largely unhelpful for a response. It answered the second half, which seemed to be what caused that . . . moment of reminiscing. However, he still got no answers for the first question. Alas, perhaps Baltahzar did not wish to reveal such info, and if he didn't wish to do such, he surely had his reasons. Hei just noted to check again later if that was a sensitive topic or that the fellow just only recalled the second question.

That was about when he had lifted his small glass and drained it in one gulp. He also chewed up the ice cubes and swallowed those as well, giving what seemed to be a satisfied exhalation. "Nothing quite like it... old habits die hard, I guess?"

"Hah. Quite, as that phrase goes, and nothing wrong with that." the Xingese responds with another smile. Such a habit didn't disturb him the slightest (though it drew some glances from other patrons . . .), so he thought nothing of it. Instead the Xingese decided it was best he take a drink as well, since the shift from the cold outdoors to a fairly warmed restaurant was doing wonders to him . . . that and he seemed to be nursing the beginings of an illness or three.

Just as he placed his glove-clad hand around his own glass, he heard Balthazar murmur while already tearing a piece of the available bread that he didn't recognize.

"To brotherhood," murmured his grey-eyed companion. An interesting notion, toasting with baked bread? The Xingese already raised his glass once those words were uttered, and held it out to his companion. "For our victory." He states plainly, his crimson eyes gazing directly at the grey orbs across from him and his mouth curling into a smirk . . . yes, he referred to RIOTE's succesful resurrection. They had come back in force, and they would stay a major power in the grand scheme of things for quite some time. He noted his companion practically inhaled the bread, not that that was peculiar to him. In fact, it didn't take long from him to empty his glass either. Heck, he just practically dumped the whole glass into his mouth ice and all. No spill, no mess, just a quick drop and if he weren't in a highly public place with class like this, he would have chewed the glass up too. One swallow, no chewing, no fuss, just water and ice being taken in one go.

Just as he finished and set his glass down, Tartarus spoke once more, drawing Hei's attention to him,"Well. Shall we get drinks and menus, then, my friend?" Peculiar. Did they not already have menus? Unless his eyes deceived him, there were two that Balthazar had snagged earlier during that ... incident with the unfortunate man, now lying atop the table towards the side. Why on earth did he suggest getting menus, then, if they already had so-What kind of a smile was that? It just looked funny, since his companion's face didn't seem suited for such large and genial smiles like that. Maybe slight grins or smirk, but a smile? That just looked weird. . . . Or maybe that was just him? Eh, if it was a smile, truly, from Baltahzar, then so be it. He just accepted it at face value.

"Ah, yes. A lovely drink 'sides water sounds most pleasant, and . . . hrm, I might have to ask your help in what to order for dinner tonight, I've not had the pleasure of eating Cerisian cuisine." he responds in kindly tone.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Sat Jan 07, 2012 1:55 pm

A snap of his fingers; Balthazar felt the air crackle ever-so-softly between his gloves, letting it resonate gently with a hiss. His alchemy couldn't come into play; his specialty... would remain thus far hidden. His revolvers hung over the side of the chair, just obscured in a Ciliegian-knit hand-woven and rather expensive jacket; only Hei would be able to see them considering distance and angle. But even stripped naked, bare, of his earthly, conventional, material possessions and weaponry, his greatest asset was still sitting beneath inches of leather.

In an instant, a waiter appeared with three, separate, smaller menus in each hand. Drinks, desserts, and appetisers; so they wouldn't have to ask each time. Quivering ever so slightly - Balthazar had seen his boss, the man with the moustache, utter a few words of warning before the man walked over - he set the menus down at each end of the table, and produced a waiter's notepad and a pen, and held it, absolutely ready. The man was tall; he had a large, intimidating frame. Tartarus, however, scanning him up and down, could break through the visage easily; the man was afraid, and just wanted to do his job without getting hurt. "C-can I take drinks?" A Cerisian accent on Drachman itself. Heh. That made the blonde-haired shirt-wearing man stifle a chuckle.

Balthazar inclined his head gently, looking towards Hei as he spoke, ignoring the waiter for the moment. "Ah, yes. A lovely drink 'sides water sounds most pleasant, and . . . hrm, I might have to ask your help in what to order for dinner tonight, I've not had the pleasure of eating Cerisian cuisine." Balthazar adjusted his napkin ever so slightly, tucking it further into his collar, pulling the knots of the tie loose.

"Well that's what our friend..." The weaponmaster shot a quick look towards a chromed nametag. "...Max is here for, I guess," A burst of low chuckles, Balthazar looking from the waiter to his blue-suited companion. "And Cerisian cuisine is just excellent, especially at this establishment. Max here can vouch for that, most definitely," Balthazar concluded, nodding. The waiter did so too, vigorously, his shaking nerves further evident by the second. "I'll take a double measure of Creig scotch." The 'man' spoke, waving his hand, idly, as he picked up the appetiser menu from the table, glancing towards the larger, leather-bound catalogue of food they'd surely browse over later...


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Wed Jan 11, 2012 4:40 am

OOC: Lame post is lame >______< And I don't mean lame as in it sucks, I mean lame as in handicapped or stunted or diseased.

"Well that's what our friend ... Max is here for, I guess.

And Cerisian cuisine is just excellent, especially at this establishment. Max here can vouch for that, most definitely"
spoke his dinner companion, with some degree of enjoyment. He enjoyed power, it seemed. Well, given his earlier display of inner personality and all that jazz, it wasn't too hard to figure that much out, it's just that . . . eh. Hei calmly takes a quick look through the drinks menu, considering as Balthazar placed his order.

"Shot of tequila'd be nice. Not too picky how you serve it, so hah: Surprise me." he speaks, humorlessly. Though there is the hint of a smile at the end of his phrasing. He didn't drink much in terms of variety, much like he didn't eat far outside of just what he bought in bulk. So, this was going to be an interesting experience. And unfortunately for 'Max' that gesture of politeness and friendliness was marred by the fact that his teeth were mostly sharpened and had a sinister look to them. Besides, he hated making nit-picky decisions over things, at least not when there was so much uncertainty involved. Usually, he just killed whatever it was that plagued him with this much doubt, and that solved the problem by making it permanently stop pestering him.

"Oh, and perhaps more water. Just in case." comes a sudden quip, an addendum attached to the original request, as the Xingese-Drachman thoughtfully adds the afterthought to the thought of quenching thirst thoroughly. This, after he also takes into his hands the remaining appetizer menu still sitting on the table's surface. Hooooo boy. Appetizers. Now, he forgot who's exactly paying for this ... but he knew he had a stomach of a black hole, and his companion was probably no light eater . . . might've been safer to just order one of everything and enjoy. But, no. That wouldn't fit the atmosphere, and he had no idea what was good or bad in this damn menu . . . hrm. The Xingese-Drachman paused a bit, leafing here and there in the damn thing in his hands, more waiting on his companion a bit . . . though, if worst came to bear, he'd just ask for a suggestion.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Fri Jan 13, 2012 8:02 pm

"Shot of tequila'd be nice. Not too picky how you serve it, so hah: Surprise me." Balthazar arched an eyebrow. Unorthodox. Although, he supposed that RIOTE weren't exactly your run-of-the-mill terrorists, especially with Aurelius' rather... odd desires in mind. And the ten leaders were even stranger, himself included. He smirked. He'd leave the man to his vices; he much preferred scotch. Civilised, the perfect drink for a man of his tastes. Some would call them 'skewed', 'sick', 'twisted', 'sadistic'; he said 'mis-interpreted', 'artistic', 'creative', and 'addictive'.

"Oh, and perhaps more water. Just in case." The waiter shuffled off. Water was always good. Balthazar presumed the man would return with a jug. They tended to, at the finer inner-city establishments such as this fine one. He admired the atmosphere for a little while longer, eyes locked on the incandescent blazing wick of a candle sitting in a holder drilled and screwed into the wall. His gaze was fastened, absolutely unflinching and unwavering as his eerily pale grey orbs stared down an inanimate object, not the single signs of bloodshot scleras, pupils shrunk to the extent where they were almost darkly slit-like... even despite the smoking, the drinking, the killing... he was a refined man. A refined, well-dressed individual, who held his head high and had no time for idiocy.

He was part of a circular pattern. He almost viewed himself as a companion to Chaos; whereas everything, traditionally, stemmed from the beginning, total disorder, it came to an end with destruction. Lead into nothing; and unto individuals was released but darkness. His namesake came from an entity representing the deepest, darkest part of life. It was fitting; Aurel had plans, and he was a sharpened nail for his black hand of death. An enforcer. Aurelius created ideas, visions of peace through these far-fetched means... peace through destruction. And what did Balthazar do?

He destroyed.

It wasn't the whole picture, obviously; one of many complex cycles, a large portion of which Balthazar had no bearing on. That was the way RIOTE worked. Every one of the ten leaders knew a portion of the plan, and together, only a few individuals, and perhaps, just Chaos himself, knew the inner mechanics and reasoning. The little girl couldn't fathom much beyond sycophantic adoration for the odd figure; Balthazar, in his own way, couldn't bring himself to do anything but kill. It was his use. And he knew, eventually, that he'd outlive it; and he just waited, wished for the day that he could brush against their fine leader in combat, and let the outcome present itself.

Balthazar pondered development as the waiter scuffled off. In RIOTE, his skills would undoubtedly reshape; they had already almost monumentally courtesy of Aurelius and his back-stock of Stones. He had the power to destroy, utterly crush, stretch, and break. He could compress particles to the point where they contained enough explosive force to knock over a pin or topple a building - and with ease. It was alchemy; simple, basic, applied physics. One of the most fundamental laws; conservation. 'Energy is never lost.' His alchemy stayed true to this. All energy sucked into his grasp was compressed, then forced outwards in a shockwave of devastating proportions. He was the bloody scythe of RIOTE; he was Tartarus. He was the destroyer.

And where did Hei sit, the man pondered? If he could be called that. The pair were individual. His view finally faltered, and the candle became insignificant; Hei quickly became the point of interest. Analysis, consideration, depth, scanning, surveillance... but only for a moment. He took a snapshot - as he had been since he'd happened upon Perses - and saved it for later overview, before flashing that charismatic smile. The candle wouldn't notice his intent glaring. The Xingese-Drachman would.

"A fan of tequila?"


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Tue Jan 17, 2012 4:20 am

The Xingese set down the menu for a bit and opted to flex his fingers a little, as well as stretch out his arms. To be honest, his right arm was just about finished healing ... a miraculous feat, considering it wasn't that long ago when it got blasted with a lightning bolt and the flesh was practically charred. Sure, it was a bit stiff, but a bit of stretching and some exercise with it over time would ease it up a little.

His actions brought his eyes towards that of his companion . . . a glare. Or something. Either way, he was staring back for whatever reason, and it was the least bit of gentle friendliness. No, that expression was a dark one, but he couldn't interpret what it met. It could mean many things, he had somehow aggravated his companion or he was thinking twisted thoughts, or something else entirely. Still, the Xing-Drachman opted to meet that expression with one of his own, a true smile. A splitting grin. An expression that denotes joy and happiness to others, usually. In his case, a whole mouthful of perfectly aligned and razor-pointed teeth, serrated like those of a shark, with the exception of the molars that weren't visible in the smile. Needless to say, other patrons who saw this maddening grin hastily turned away, trying to block that image out of their minds.

He hoped, of all things, that Tartarus was upset with him, for whatever reason. It had already been more than a week since the war. A week since his fractured memories were returning to him. An odd sensation, pretty much giving him text-book schizophrenia. He KNEW that he was suffering from massive issues with his mind, he KNEW that his mood had violently shifted back and forth to morally apathetic murderer who butchered with glee to righteous, uptight and loyal citizen and soldier of Drachma, he KNEW.

And by god, he didn't give a damn.

It was like a cleansing experience, all that mental and physical agony. His mind, once blank, exploding with details he never thought of. His body, ever constantly rejuvenating itself, mending those horrific wounds ever so slowly that the existing flesh was already beginning to putrefy until he carved it out. Cleansing in that he no longer cared. A wholesome experience that reawakened the inner being.

Yes. He was Perses. That was a name. A title. A gift, bestowed upon him by Chaos. He was named for a Destroyer. He would bring Ruination to all, tear them all to shreds, crumble their realities, raze their lands, and shatter the sky itself to bring about absolute . . . CHAOS!! He, the Destroyer, worked hand in hand with the being across from him. The all-consuming black pit where wreckage and the worthless go. Tartarus. They did their work, often independently, to bring Chaos. Their work was similar, and they must've enjoyed it. Yes. Why else would they have been named as they are? Why else would they be sitting here right now?

Why else would Hei Perses want to rise up and tear Balthazar's Tartarus's head off? It mattered not to him, anymore. He had brought so many ends, so much ruin and devastation. Torture and death. Bathed in blood, the Xingman had marched across the battlefields to slaughter everything that dared stand in his way. He would rend them all into non-existence, cast to the gaping jaws of Oblivion.

And why? Because. That's what he did. Orders were inconsequential. Purpose was meaningless. Commands, useless. Imperatives, pointless. He was just an Engine of Destruction, bloodily efficient at getting the job done when it needed to get done. RIOTE's ideals interested him, though, so let's not get ahead of ourselves. He killed in their name, but not for RIOTE's sake. No, he killed just for the heck of it. And right now, he wanted to rip the face off his companion.

Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. LIES! They were LYING to each other RIGHT this very moment!! What good would this dinner be? Both of them were beasts of war! BEINGS OF ABSOLUTE DESTRUCTION. No doubt, both tortured individuals with cruel pasts, but no longer caring about what had become of them! No, there was only one thing that they surely agreed on: Destruction was exquisite. The past is nothing, the future is empty. And all that's left is to smash the present. THIS is what Hei wanted. Not some fancy dinner, not a pleasant evening.

He wanted a BLOODBATH. He wanted everything to just DIE. This establishment to burn to the ground. EVERYTHING WITHIN A MILE RADIUS TO BE REDUCED TO FLAME AND ASH. Hell, he wanted them BOTH to die now. It would be a wonderful coda to his extended life. A brilliant end to the career of madness. Reducing the area of life and structure, claiming and splitting those lives with Balthazar, and finally both of them ceasing to exist here and now.

He- ... He- ... He-

"A fan of tequila?"

. . . was most supremely disappointed. Balthazar wanted to keep the charade going, Hei wanted to brutally make it stop. He wanted all lies thrown aside, them both to reveal what cruel and twisted men they were. Because they would both enjoy it, attempting to take each other's life and destroy everything here. But ... alas. Even if he had such particular tastes and interests, there was one integral part of him he could not deny. When approached with politeness, he responded in kind. A conditioned response, I suppose you could say. Another part of that abominable mind of his that if he could, he would viciously stab to death, cannibalize, then proceed to kill everything else in his brain that doesn't agree to what he likes.

"The Esparian drink is quite interesting, I can't say I'm exactly a ... fan of it. But it certainly is enjoyable" he resumes speaking, eyes gazing straight into Balthazar's. They both understood each other. They both could see through each other's eyes, the windows of their pitch-black souls, and see that this was all just a farce. A magnificent comedy. But one would see that the other wanted to prolong the farce, and the other could see that the one did not want this lie to exist any longer.

And poor Max was about to need to change his pants, or at least throw himself out the window as he noted the intense glares and stares of each patron ... that and Balthazar's harsh and psychotic attitude with Hei's eerie and manic displays. Yeah, suicide was looking to be a good option for the poor man.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Tue Jan 17, 2012 5:40 pm

Balthazar could see it in his eyes; the anger, the fear, the confusion, the strain... blood vessels were reddening, the small orbs becoming shot with crimson behind that which he could make out of the dull irises. No matter how far he seemed to reject the codenames, they came back, haunting, looming over each other, position and rank far transcending this faux-relationship, the falsified bonds the pair shared.

And Balthazar, the deepest black pits of the underworld... inquired. He queried, questioned, asked... that same question. Over and over again. They were fighters; killers, murderers, warriors, destroyers, commandos... and so, why were they not killing? Why did they have to maintain and sustain this facade of bullshit oh-so-thick, why did they have to play the mind games, when, realistically, they were in the best place possible to paint the walls a deathly crimson? Any travesties would be swatted away by Aphrodite or Chaos... RIOTE owned Moscow. No-one did anything monumental without their approval and say-so. Balthazar and Hei were obviously viewed as necessary evils to Aurelius' rather odd yet methodical ethic codes... Tartarus knew all-too-well of their leader's catch-22 situation. He was required, necessary; he knew that once he had outlived his purpose, he would become expendable once more.

A smirk. Balthazar nodded, ignoring Hei's response completely. His pale grey irises lit up with wildfire; they'd play, screw around for now... start the massacre small... but together, the pair had potential. They could level buildings, raze towns, obliterate cities if they pooled their resources hard enough. Balthazar's charisma would get them out of any situation... so why the hell weren't they doing what they did best?

His smirk, his smile, his expression, those eyes... altogether, they said one thing. They gave a simple, solitary message; one even a chimpanzee with single-digit IQ would be able to understand. One that idiots would fathom. 'We have common needs... why not indulge ourselves together?

Balthazar's eyes fastened and stapled themselves to a target, honing in; his pupils shrunk and turned to slit-like shadows in the light, specks of dim illumination dancing across those grey rings. Cranial mechanics were... interesting, to him. Using his alchemy, charging particles, he could cause anything from compressive headaches or migraines, to a blood clot or oxygen blockage... and his party piece, of course, getting in someone's head and turning their brain to bloody mush or simply blowing their head open from the inside. Literally, they were left more than decapitated, with a shredded, gritty crimson-pink paste all that would remain of them, blended and swirled sitting upon the floor.

His compressions generated heat; this much, he knew. But they would be imprecise from here; inaccurate. That... that wouldn't do. He could set this entire place aflame with a click of his fingers and enough strain... but, hopefully, Hei was a good judge of playing to the level, call and response, waiting for each other's signals and triggers... if he broke someone's nose and Hei called down a carpet airstrike, then that would be... rather unsuitable.

The insanity and madness glistened in his eyes one final time; Max, the waiter, was returning to their table, shaking and trembling, an uneasy smile upon his face below greasy hair and bloodshot eyes. The guy couldn't have been more than nineteen, twenty... such a waste of a life, really. He was probably still in school locally. Sucked to be him.

No display of acrobatics; his shark blood kicked in once more, and he could smell it. The fear. Even if he was bound, blinded, and beaten, he'd be able to sense the man coming from a million miles away... Balthazar was the most elite of trackers, courtesy of his 'rebirth'. Everyone's fear smelt different; for some people, it was sweaty, bloody... for others, it smelt slightly like excrement or urine. It depended exactly on what they feared most; humiliation, torture, pain, death... it all varied. Balthazar knew he was the only one impervious to this - for he feared nothing, truly and completely. Even with no power, he would find a way to rise above the masses and crush them all.

Balthazar rose to his feet, straightened his suit, and re-adjusted his tie, pulling it up to his collar. He grasped his black jacket, and pulled it back on; he knew he should be garbed appropriately if they were going to just walk into the fray. What if FSB turned up, and he didn't get a time to play with his Nine Circles, re-align them? Now that would make for a bad first impression.

Holding up a hand, he gestured for Max to stop in place; his face turned a deathly, white, and, slowly, feeling the air and fear crackling beneath his fingers, the terror thick and smothering, like a blanket of poison gas... he pulled his gloves from his fingers, one by one, and set them atop the table, barely centimetres from his empty water glass. One hand grasped the knuckles of the other, and with a series of cracks, tilting his neck from side to side, Balthazar did... well, whatever that particular process did, perhaps expelling or dissipating air inside the joints in the loudest way possible.

The waiter still didn't realise, a false smile upon his face. Balthazar made the warmest, friendliest gesture he could possibly muster, a faux grin set also upon his visage - offering a hand. To shake. The teenager, happy that his fate wasn't sealed just yet, set the tray down on a nearby empty table, and moved over to grasp the blonde man's hand; the terrorist pulled him into an odd embrace, and, suddenly, everything flickered before Max's eyes. He saw it all; absolutely everything. Images flickered before his mind... this man didn't just make a gesture like this for no reason. A word whispered, uttered upon the world, from trembling lips: ""

Crack. A yowl of pain. Balthazar's foot had swept the waiter's aside, and pushed him down to the floor with all his weight; gravity had done the rest of the work, and, in a single fluid motion, the man removed his boot from Max's landing area, and brought it upwards in a hook, then slammed it down - straight onto the pale teenage boy's leg. The bone broke with ease; a single snap, all of the man's strength hefted into a single limb, and Max was lucky all that was on the receiving end. Had he used his concussive alchemy, the kick could've been made a whole lot stronger.

Although, it didn't make much difference in the end; the restaurant was suddenly filled with screaming. People backed into corners; took refuge behind tables. Some fled for the exits, desperately trying to clamber over others and shear through segregating ropes, only creating more panic in their total confusion; why had he done this? What was his motivation? What had the boy done?

Eyelids fluttering, the teenager screaming, eyes bulging almost totally out of his head, his lungs seemed not to give way til the final moment. Balthazar arched his eyebrows and cocked his head back - impressive! The man was probably a player of some sort of wind instrument. Fairly good capacity for screaming... he liked that. He liked that a lot.

Knees to the waiter's chest knocked the wind out of him; the horrific sound was cut to a stop and replaced with a series of wheezing grunts and a magnificent groan as all of the air was forced out of his belly and chest, flooding out through his mouth. He gargled; blood and vomit began to accumulate at the back of his throat, spurting upwards in jets which simply landed and dribbled out of the catatonic boy's mouth.

Spindly, bony, dangerously-shaped fingers moved forwards, an intimidating, impending grasp moving closer to the boy's face; he raised his hands to try and stop Balthazar, kicking his one good leg against the floor of the restaurant, but all the energy was forced out of him, and the man, feeling the particles crackle beneath his fingertips, simply managed to pin him back. Panting, staring straight up into those pale grey eyes with the greatest look of fear the blonde chimera had ever seen... the terrorist lowered his hands.

He curled his fingers inwards, leaving only oddly-shaped, obtuse, and almost thinly malformed thumbs outstretched. They pointed downwards after the man flicked his wrists, willing it so, and slowly began to move inwards as the man began to whistle pleasantly one of his most familiar tunes; to which the lyrics, which he began to hum later, would go 'oh I do love to be beside the seaside, oh I do love to be beside the sea~!'.

Thumbs touched closed eyes as he scrabbled at the man's wrists and grip once more, but it was futile. Fingers turned pale with impression as they coiled and wrapped around the boy's face and cheeks, the waiter using everything he could to resist, screaming, kicking and slamming his legs, limp and functional alike, against the floor in his final death throes. The restaurant wasn't totally vacated now, but the screams of his audience peaked as Balthazar shot a look back towards Hei. He hoped Perses was enjoying this.

Tartarus. Blackest pits of hell. Eternal suffering; he didn't judge. He just chose, and delivered... and... so what? Maybe he'd make some mistakes, every now and then. Didn't everyone? Perhaps not mistakes as painful as this for another party... but... but...


Thumbnails forced forwards, breaking the corneas; goo and putrid liquids spurted out, aqueous humour and another jet of black fluid spraying out and spattering across the madman's face, simply from the vicinity of his reddening, rosy cheeks. The screamings reached a peak as the waiter scratched at his cheeks and face, pulling off skin, breaking his own nails... turning his face into a shredded, deathly-white mess. After the final push, the home stretch, he felt his thumbs penetrate the teen's eyes absolutely and completely, and his body totally gave way; he collapsed, motionless, as Tartarus withdrew his thumbs, covered in a putrescent mix of sludges, grey matter easily discernible amidst the white mush that had once been the teen's sclera. The body laying upon the floor, eye sockets slowly welling up with blood, Balthazar sighed, grinning to himself, and returned to their table, raising a napkin and wiping down his nails.

Master of charisma and public audience, Balthazar winked to Hei. He stepped out, treading purposefully on Max's torso, using it as a stepping stone - a few ribs made distinctive crack noises - and held up his hands, shouting. "WELL!?" Silence. Screams quietened; nothing but hushed chirping. "WHO'S FUCKING NEXT!? NO APPRECIATION FOR MY WORK!?" Anger easily visible by his huffed breath, the blonde man only hoped he'd be able to use his further tools... the Nine Circles, Ruin's Finger, his chimeric abilities, perhaps even just his body to a greater extent... he calmed for his next shout; it was still elevated in dynamics and noise, but no longer crazed screaming. "For those of you feeling sorry for this little greasy-haired fuck," He turned around, and expelled a globule of foamy, frothy spit from his mouth; he'd worked himself up... he needed to train his cardio some more. "Make sure you take it as a life lesson that I never appreciate getting my drinks late... capiche?"

He returned to a nearby seat; the table the drinks had been set upon, taking his whisky, and knocking it all back in one, letting it burn down to his gut and sit pleasantly in the darkest pits of his stomach - fitting, considered what he embodied. Letting his pants calm, with the darkest, wildest grin upon his face, he smirked up to Hei and adjusted his fringe and tie once more; revolvers hung heavy in his pockets. "Your turn. Make 'em scream."


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Shula Brighton on Sat Jan 28, 2012 3:49 pm

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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Mon Jan 30, 2012 5:03 am

'We have common needs... why not indulge ourselves together?' was the look that came to him. His immediate response was to glare back.

A glare of sheer hate and seething fury, crimson orbs sharply staring back into the depths of his dinner companion's eyes. Both of them were monsters, abysses, things that each had become on their own time and by their own choice, and now both were letting each other see the true extent of depravity that each had.

His message, through malevolent eyes, was a clear response to the initial question.

'Oh really, fucking Sherlock?'

That was then mitigated, mostly, by the following chain of events. His companion removing his gloves while beckoning with a venomous smile the unfortunate 'Max.' Hah. The kid was a fool, coming so close to him with ease. Such foolishness only invited uneventful and pain-laden demise. Yes, he was going to be amused to see how Balthazar would end this miserable, little insect's existence.

Balthazar had risen to his feet, neatly straightening out his clothes, and now was going to put on quite a show. But Hei wasn't going to sit still and watch, not without a drink! So, just as the foolish Max had set down the tray and walked over to apparently shake hands with Balthazar, the pleasantly smiling Xingman had also stood, as if to walk away from this scene. His act was not seen by the unfortunate pale-faced and frightened fellow, as he was already approaching Balthazar to shake.

The Xingman just plucked up his drink, just simply tequila served on the rocks? Not that he cared, the Esparian drink was pleasant enough for him, regardless of how it was served. . . . Well, so long as it was served properly. Anyhow, he had his drink in hand, the gloved right one, and turned around just in time to see the performance.

"" he heard, at the last moment, while Balthazar had drawn the poor boy, who seemed to realize what was going to happen to him and now tried begging for his life. Pity, for him, since those words were followed on the heels with a clearly audible 'crack' as he had been swept off his feet, and how found one of his legs broken.

The Xingman could only enjoy his drink even more, as the beautiful melody of Max's agony sounded with the harmonious cacophony of sheer panic and utter chaos. Yes, such an act did not go unnoticed, but it was only those who were seated close to their table that had seen and understood what just happened and chose to flee. The other patrons for tonight were more appalled, fearful for their safety they kept their distance, but the inner nature that questions and seeks morbidity kept them lingering here in this place, watching the events unfold.

And here, Balthazar dropped a knee into the teen's chest, a blow that created hitched breaths in the audience and an amused grin from Hei. The Xingman, pleased that his dinner companion was putting on such a magnificent display, decided to take up damage control. After all, it wouldn't do if this show was to be interrupted by extraneous pandemonium, now could it? While Balthazar gripped the sickly (for more than one reason) teen's face, obviously doing his work and enjoying it all the while, the Xingman addressed the remaining audience.

"Nothing to see here! Just eliminating vermin from society's ranks! Please, go back to your dinners! Enjoy your evening and excuse this little ... mess. It'll be over with shortly!" he says most pleasantly. If Balthazar was a master of deception and charisma, Hei enjoyed deceit and placation: Instilling the false sense of comfort. Eliminating the fears, and lulling the bystanders into a state of calm. This was particularly helped that he stood before the remaining audience, blocking out the obscene and grotesque event with his own body, and that his voice was most compelling. True, his oratorical abilities needed some work, but he knew how to project a pleasant image before the panicked and skittish, and to calm their nerves.

Already, some of them were just sitting down. These were people who were used to the brutality of the prior regime of the Czar and the current regime of the Sekretar. Bloodshed was something that all residents of Moscow have encountered, some more personally than others. Panic only arose if their lives were in danger, but if (false) reassurance was given, they'd be like cattle and resume grazing after noting the disturbance. 'Twas so amusing how much like sheep, people could be. So amusing they took his words at face value, and that they could block out such horrors. Yes, humanity could be such a despicable thi-

"HRAAAAGH!" even the Xingman was bewildered by this guttural call, and turned about to see what he had missed. His back was only on Balthazar for a few seconds, what had happened?

Well. THAT happened, and there's no need to think it over twice. The poor teen's face was now ruined beyond repair. If he had family, and they were going to bury him, they'd need to make it a closed-casket ceremony . . . Still, that display and this image was clearly disturbing the guests whom Hei had just started to calm down. Now, he enjoyed the show, the macabre and gruesome nature of it all was infinitely pleasing to him, but there had to be SOME damage control. After all, if all the bystanders fled, who would they kill after this?

"Nothing to see here, nothing at all!" he calls again, pleasant smile, while returning back to where his seat was. Chances are, things were going to get out of hand. And then he noticed Balthazar giving him a wink.

'Forget chance. Things ARE going to get out of hand, now.' was the only thought the Xingman had, when the theatrical Tartarus gave an encore.

"WELL!?" That sort of tone and loud shout drew a sigh from Hei. He had experienced this before: Being with someone who was just as wild as he was and being left on damage control since, despite his desires to wreak havoc, he preferred prolonging it and increasing the maximum potential body count. But, where had he felt this sensation from before? Years ago? Months? Weeks?

Silence was the noted response. The skittish ones had shut their mouths, the fearful had frozen in place. And those that wanted nothing to do with this, fell quiet to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

"WHO'S FUCKING NEXT!? NO APPRECIATION FOR MY WORK!?" Such words then drew a chuckle from Hei, the only sound that emerged after Tartarus's shouts. Eyes shifted between the man whose foot was stamped upon the corpse, and the now-giggling and smiling Xingman, who had taken his seat again.

"For those of you feeling sorry for this little greasy-haired fuck ..." a pause for Balthazar to spit out whatever was lodged in his mouth. A couple of guests near the door bolted when he had turned around, but the rest were rooted out of fear.

"Make sure you take it as a life lesson that I never appreciate getting my drinks late... capiche?"

Well, that was an interesting choice of words, considering his pent-up fury that had been unleashed earlier. Now, the well-dressed title-holder had returned to a seat, knocking back his whole drink, and immediately grinned at Hei before giving these words that drew an amused sigh from the eastern 'Menace'.

"Your turn. Make 'em scream."

"Ahhh. Quite, quite." Hei responds in what would be his ethnic tongue, out of habit rather than intentionally. For now, he'd have to keep the control in place, so he could maximize the shock factor in what he would be doing. So, first things first: Getting rid of the body.

The Xingman merely gestured, with a calm smile, for any of the other workers of the establishment to come to him. He didn't want to deal with this alone, after all, so. While a couple of other ... co-workers to the now deceased Max approached him, he stooped down to grab the collar of the unfortunate teen and hefted up the corpse with just one hand. The others, now within in throwing range, were met with the teen's body hurled at them with no effort on Hei's part. Well, at least it seemed that he didn't strain himself throwing a body one-handed.

"Get rid of that thing. And clean this mess up." he says plainly, dismissively to them. As if seeing their coworker get butchered was an inconsequential thing, and murder in general being so out of vogue nowadays. Those words were stated aloud, clearly for other guests to hear. Of course, they'd be unnerved, but considering this whole thing was going to be over with, the ones who had enough nerves to stay put ... did. The others just paid their bills and hurriedly left.

"P-pardon me ... sir ..." comes an inquiry from behind him, as he had turned around to return to his seat. The Xingman turns about, back to see the two other waiters drag the third dead one off and away. Now he approached by someone clearly wearing a work outfit that was considerably much better off that the previous three. Now, Hei wasn't much aware about how staff worked in a fairly nice and large restaurant, but this guy seemed to be higher up in the branch of management it seems.

"Yes?" Hei inquires, with a keen smile ... of serrated teeth that seemed to gleam. This act, coupled with crimson eyes from half-closed lids glaring straight at the fool.

". . . I- . . . F-for the sake of the establishment, o-our employees a-and ... the s-s-safety of the other g-guests ... I-I ... I'm going to have to ask you and your friend to leave this restaurant." Really? Was this guy THAT stupid? They were RIOTE, this reservation was clearly made under THEIR name. Was he going to be so foolish as try to challenge them and their business?

Hei could only respond by gently removing the glove on his right hand and pocketing the garment afterwards. One could see the slightly darkened skin on that hand contrasted with the rest of his body's tone ... and others would not that while his fingers curled inward, the joints let off audible sounds of various causes. While this occurred, he took measured steps towards the speaker, undoing the couple of buttons on his right cuff and folding back the sleeve so his whole forearm, also darker in skin tone, was exposed.

The dead man stiffened, clearly realizing his choice of words. No, his course of action had sealed his fate. Hei merely put his right hand upon the cadaver's shoulder.

"My good man. Of course I understand your concerns, and I respect that you have the balls to tell me those words. Now forgive me as I clean Mother Drachma of your genes, so that your idiotic progeny shall never be . . ." he speaks, a bit eloquently despite how the language of these lands could sound to foreigners. There's a pause, as the fool takes a moment to let Hei's words sink in.

And primal fear emerges, once he realizes their meaning. Unlike Balthazar who seemed to relish inflicting agony, Hei cared not for the tortuous methods on a victim. No, he preferred utter and absolute desecration of the body, to insure the target's death. So, why in god's name was he gripping this poor man by the throat, lifting him just a bit off the ground (considering he was a bit taller than the unfortunate one), and choking the life out of him? Because, it's a performance.

His left hand had lashed out, like a viper, plunging his fingers about the throat of his soon to be next meal. Already, he was struggling furiously, feeling the strength behind Hei's hand crush his neck with brutal force. His hand were desperately clawing to pry Hei's fingers off, much like that teen had tried to claw Balthazar's hands off his head.

What crowd their was gazes on in horror, assuming they haven't fled. Hei merely turns aside, still holding the struggling dead man with his left hand. He lets him watch, he lets them ALL watch as his right hand morphs into its draconian state. Scales take the place of skin, black tone over the gray, and sharpened claws in the place of nails. Silence still reigns, though a bit of sobbing from those who couldn't suppress their emotions and vocal chords could be heard, as he poised his right hand to strike. Taking his time, with agonizing slowness in that process, so that he could enjoy the fear in this man's eyes.

Yes, he did in fact enjoy the modus operandi of the depraved and sadistic ones, it's just that he never found it efficient when he did his work. But, as mentioned before, this was not work. This was just sheer enjoyment. The audience and next batch of victims were provided for entertainment, this establishment to be the stage in which that entertainment took place on, and the killing would be all the fun.

But, back to this fellow, turning purple from a constricted windpipe. About one second after his eyes widen in fear of seeing the chimeric arm of Hei, the claw plunges into his chest. What Hei intended to do was to shred his way into the fool's chest, clutch his heart, and rip it out. He, however, misjudged the amount of force needed to perform such a thing . . . and as a result, he found that his lower arm had plunged through the body, and his had pierced out from the back of his victim. In essence, he had speared through the bastard, skewered the heart, and let out a magnificent burst of blood as well.

Fortunately, his strike hadn't stuck his whole arm through, and he was quick to retract his arm to avoid the blood from possibly staining rolled sleeve ... or his shirt or shoes, perhaps.

And now the question was what to do about the body. Oh wait! He knew! Despite all the screaming of this inhuman display following the previous gruesome one, and more people fleeing (now, few if any were willing to stay), Hei merely flung the body at the doors, knocking down a couple of guests down, and getting the attention of the others.

"Sit down. Or you're all dead." he spits out, darkly. The command is heeded by those not close to the door, or still at their tables. Trying to avoid the ire of the two, they kept to themselves, or did their best to. The others just simply fled, not that Hei cared. He just still wanted some more fresh bodies to turn cold, which fortunately there still was.

Whatever staff that had gathered behind the now-dead manager to listen to what he had to say, and see what Hei had in mind for a response, were standing mostly dumbfound, maybe a couple of them wetted themselves, or shitted bricks. He didn't know, and really he didn't care. But he had only one thing to say to them. Okay, two things.

"Clean the mess up. And let this be a lesson to you all: Displease my companion or myself ... you pay with your life." he states, outright, on the verge of almost shouting it. The message is sent, hopefully, and now the service won't be as lousy as it is. Then again, one can never tell, muses Hei as he returns to his seat, making use of the set towels to clean off the blood on his right arm.

"Ahhhh, what a pity that I lack finesse. I was hoping to pull off a better show than what just happened now" he laments to Balthazar, shaking his head a bit with shut eyes, clearly disappointed that his plans to enact a horrific death were ruined by his lack of fine control over his physical strength. That, and he wanted to hear commentary from Balthazar, before they proceed on with the rest of the night.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Mon Jan 30, 2012 7:05 pm

Arching an eyebrow at the events that unfolded before him - no more, no less - Balthazar pondered on... well, matters. Just what was Perses hiding from him? That training was unique and unparalleled; he seemed to possess nothing more in those empty, vacant eyes than a wanton desire to destroy. And that he did.

In a single movement, he pierced the man's torso, splintering bone and sinew, carving through and splitting his heart. Blood poured and flowed like a river; consequently, Tartarus' pupils dilated and sharpened, thinning to almost slit-like widths. He had been able to smell the blood surging through numerous bodies beneath the skin, but... now, now it had been allowed to flow freely of another's accord... a display which trumped his in shed of crimson... the spark had been set to the powder keg, truly.

"Clean the mess up. And let this be a lesson to you all: Displease my companion or myself ... you pay with your life." For added 'comic' effect, Balthazar smirked to himself and followed up with a short, macabre addendum.

"Not to say that you'll survive anyway if you stay on your best behaviour..." Grim laughter followed, almost maniacal with the man's newfound bloodlust. He was now a machine meant for naught but death and slaughter; his eyes locked to Hei's, small and thin. He could see from the stare, stalwart and merciless, that it would now be a competition between the two. Bearer versus human, chimera versus terrorist... maniac versus maniac.

Hei continued, turning to Balthazar with a satisfied gaze of relief in his eyes. The tension had finally calmed and cooled with an audience that the pair could subject to whatever they wished them for; test subjects. They could become judge, jury, and executioner on any number of grounds - if someone died, perhaps they had looked at Perses or Tartarus funny, staring mightily through the fear up at the insane pair. If they attempted to run away, they wouldn't get out of the door. Plus, diplomatic immunity, courtesy of their sister, the homunculus, meant that nothing would ever come of this. It was murder and exercise for the pair in pure, unadulterated format; there would be no thoughts of hindrances or consequences. It was almost like the most basic of Neanderthalic settlements and societies all those years ago: the stronger preyed upon the weaker, and the fittest survived.

"Ahhhh, what a pity that I lack finesse. I was hoping to pull off a better show than what just happened now." Balthazar rose his hands for a short, sweet round of applause; sharp sounds resonating throughout the restaurant, he stared forwards across their subjects, and shook his head.

"Admirable, even then, dear comrade," The mutterings lowered as he looked to the body Hei had crushed. Despite his seething, unabetted, insatiable rage and hunger for bloodshed... he still had to play his cards right. This guy would become a great asset if he allowed it so. "A display of strength nonetheless,"

Now? It was his turn. Hei sat there, waiting for his cue. Neither would leave until the populace of the restaurant had all been spared, tortured, or dismembered. The first wasn't going to happen unless one of these men suddenly spawned a seemingly infinite amount of testicles, superior tactical knowledge, and a few megatons of explosives' worth of military ordnance. And the chances of that happening were slim - even with the eccentric pair around.

Holding back the shark blood, keeping it at bay, saving himself for later, he dared not look at the spilt crimson upon the floor yet; not at least until it had dried. With grandiose in his voice, he stood to his feet, and chuckled, throwing his arms to the side. His breathing had slowed back to a regular pace, and his expression was formed of pale, soft Drachman skin once more. His skin had regained its usual pallor. Balthazar was at ease once more - if but momentarily.

During Hei's display, the madman's gloves had returned to their usual fittings - the strong, bony fingers of the chimera himself. Flexing them, one by one, he picked out three targets in the distance. A bald man; a young woman; a teenage boy.

His fingers, joints, phalanges, all stretched in unison, muscles, tendons, ligaments, everything pushing outwards as far as it could go; like a dog having just woken from its slumber, stepping from its bowl and re-adjusting its body. Like an Olympic contestant moments before a race, constantly straining their own flexibility and the suppleness of their muscles. His movement had to be as fluid as possible, supposedly; but he was stretching for no sporting reason, nor for readiness.

As he stretched, he pinpointed and visualised the temples of the three chosen. His eyelids fluttered before finally slamming shut over Balthazar's pale grey orbs. Youthful, scarred, clad in make-up... the temples were his entry point. The weakest part of the skull. From there, his alchemy could weave in further... visualisation was key. From there, he could truly fathom and understand, with his memory; intuitive aptitude, the hunger to know, was the only way that he could train and refine his ability now. He had already transcended above the regular alchemical limits for those pitiful humans.

A low growling began to emanate from pale lips. The tendrils of particles, invisible, had finally snaked through the bone and into the head. The three figures felt nothing; they simply crouched, cowered amidst the masses, unsure now of what would happen yet. He had chosen those at the most critical junctures; close to family, friends, masses of people. 'Strength in numbers', supposedly? Hah! What little that would do to assist the victims now.

Concentrating particles, forcing them inwards en masse, compressing them... it was so simple. Straining and almost buckling as red alchemical energy crackled in arcs about Balthazar's radii and ulna, spiralling further downwards as it did so, the room's power levels fluctuating. He forced the chimeric side of him back, suppressed it as best he could, and tapped into that stone gently fizzing away amidst his chest, that which he had ingested those years ago, that which he relied upon to perform alchemy...

Muscles bulging with veins, fabric straining beneath the man's flexing, he forced his fingers inwards, seemingly bending them with his own will. The alchemical energy leapt out now in lashes, striking light-bulbs and shorting them out. Lights flickered across the room's ceiling, an epileptic's worst nightmare; simply for the single reason that this particle charging alchemy was so basic yet oh so very powerful. Transcending the rules of equivalent exchange with the philosopher's stone within him had drawbacks - usually, the alchemy itself rebounded in this form, utterly vaporising anyone who came into contact with the energy of lost, harvested souls itself.

And, then, finally, it stopped. The room came to a standstill; the floor's vibrations ground to a halt. The steady thrumming of electricity stopped, and the lightbulbs' intensity remained constant. Rubble and dust fell from crevices and crags opened further in the ceiling; furniture, chairs, tables, crockery... had all been tipped over, remnants of smashed, ornate, Cerisian plates scattered on the floor. For a moment, everything was calm.

Calm before the storm.

The room exploded with energy. Three focal points sequentially detonated and launched a concussive shockwave from within, shattering the skulls and liquidising the brains of those whose temples Balthazar had targeted. It sent tables flipping and flying in every direction, three-hundred-and-sixty degree radius; chairs, too. All furniture that had come to a stop moved again - they were truly in a maelstrom now. The shockwave was only momentary, but the damage it caused seemed to last forever; with bone shards and grey matter spattered all over the wall, the few with the idiocy to not yet try escaping were thrown every which way as the room set aside from Balthazar and Hei's raised platform exploded with the force of a small hand grenade, yet with no fire, no heat. An invisible explosion, shockwaves tracked only by the blood that sprayed in an outwards, radial pattern.

Spattering Tartarus' suit and face completely, the man felt a seemingly-relentless hailstorm of bone shards hammer pitifully against his coat. A few lodged into his skin; trophies of war and slaughter. It mattered not. The very foundations of the building had been shaken by the explosion; and yet there were no flames, there had been little noise save for screams, splintering wood, shattering rubble and the concussive fwoomp sounds... chaos without a trigger. Truly disorder at its finest.

More bodies to his name with every moment, grandiose laughter escaped the man's lips; and then, those sociopathic, primal, savage urges overwhelmed him once more. Dragging a gloved hand across his face, he wiped four clean streaks of pale, stained skin amidst an otherwise constant, bloody complexion. Letting his tongue hang from his mouth, the madman lowered his hands, and let the intermingling three bloods settle, wiped upon the trenches of his tongue. Balthazar retracted it, and let it mix with his hungry saliva, eager to make an impression upon whichever deity, king, or bystander was looking upon him now.

"Delicious..." He whispered, the strongest sign of bloodlust in his voice yet... the softest and most comforting of tones, shielding the most gory and macabre of moments; truly a fitting juxtaposition for Tartarus, the blackest depths of the underworld, himself.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Sat Feb 04, 2012 4:18 am

"Admirable, even then, dear comrade, a display of strength nonetheless."

Was the last thing that he had heard Balthazar say. And the things that followed were most amusing to watch. He was clearly doing something, the question now was: What exactly was he trying to do? And then he saw: The red pulses. The crimson arcs of energy, flowing from his hands. The red-tinged light of a Philosopher's Stone!

But, that didn't make sense. Homunculi were a relatively rare occurrence nowadays, even IF one was leading the country, and he was certain that RIOTE would have known that another one of their titleholders was a personification of the sins. Or was Balthazar capable of hiding things much better than Vanity? . . . A pause, as he focuses his attention upon the man representing Tartarus. . . . His ability to see the Dragon's Pulse was, for the time being, lacking, but with enough concentration he could discern the inner flow of energy. If Balthazar was a Homunculus, he would see an accumulation of chi, spherical in nature, compressed and horrifically bright in his eyes ... in place of a heart. His concentration netted him an image of the flow within Balthazar, just in time to to pay more attention to the use of Alchemy that just occurred.

No. He was not a Homunculus. The artificial humans did not have a flow of energy that matched normal human beings, Tartarus, despite having a stone still had the same flow as a person. Albeit, it seemed irregular . . . yes, irregular, because there WAS a large collection of chi inside of him. So, that means the Philsopher's Stone is within him, as opposed to him just handling one . . . which would make Balthazar one of those individuals he'd heard of. Those beings, chimeric in nature, who partake of a greater power, exchanging lifespan for vast alchemic powers. This was the true nature of Balthazar? Well, not so much true nature, but part of the potential he had?

'Interesting ... how long did he intend to keep this a secret from me?' he could only wickedly smile, amused at the deception as well as the display. It was amusing, to see that both of them were keeping so much from each other, giving away information bit by bit as a mutual bonding over slaughter occurred (regardless of how little). It was also amusing to just randomly see people explode, as well as furniture be tossed around and people get splattered with the remaining innards of the unfortunate victims. Wait, no. Not victims . . . prey.

"Delicious ..." was the whisper that was issued forth from the blood-stained man, who seemed to be delightfully amused by his horrendously messy spectacle. Not that Hei was complaining, it had been amusing to watch, but now the state of the room was in total disorder. That explosion had re-awaken the panic that the guests and staff had, and amplified it up to eleven. They were already trying to make their way to the doors, as Hei had already stood up and was making his way as well. He he caught the words of Balthazar, just as he passed by to make sure not ALL of the prey got away.

"Indeed. There's really not much else that's quite like it. And wonderful performance, yet again!" he cheerily responds to the first comment about how human carnage (and bits and pieces along with blood) could be a delicacy and then finishing it off with a compliment before making his way across to the doors.

It took a moment, and he was gone like a flash. Okay, not really, but he was still pretty damned quick on his feet, form blurring as he cut off the front-most escapee making his way out of the restaurant. To put simply, he didn't even have a chance! The wondrous little blade, of which Hei had many, had been drawn from his pockets, when he had stood, and found itself plunged almost effortlessly into the deceased prey's brain, entering from the side and jammed practically all the way in. And then Hei simple rose his arm upward, with force, ripping the weapon out of the man's cranium through brute force alone.

This act, though much simpler and less grand than that display of alchemy (he presumes it was alchemy . . .) in terms of destruction, was enough to halt the other screeching fools from making their way out the solitary exit (besides emergency exits in the back . . .). Hei just smiled, crooked and malevolent expression with fangs to show that his carnal pleasure tonight would be a massacre. Already, his right arm was morphing again, transforming to fit the amount of bloodlust radiating from his dark soul. The claws re-emerged once more, scales replacing outermost skin and layering up his whole arm this time as opposed to just his hand. He really was getting better at this transforming business, particularly noted when he buried his claw into another morsel's face, letting the nails puncture their eyes with ease, burying deep into the sockets while his other fingers sliced or pierced the skin and possibly bone. And he closed his hand, clutched it, letting his fingers carve a bloody gap inside this person's face while his hand became a fist, grinding flesh and bone into dust and gruel.

Yes. He had long suffered and long trained to become this. To acquire so much raw strength, that the human body was nothing more than ... papier-mâché to him. Such strength and power, he put to good use. He destroyed. As his name dictated, he tore anything that had form and rend it into gruesome remains, grotesque fragments of its original self. He was Perses, named for the Titan that would lay waste. No matter how much kindness he showed, how sweet of an exterior he had, or whatever ideals and fleeting desires may show: This was his inner self. A demon recruited to join the ranks of those that would also be judged as monsters. A being that would fulfill its purpose, and reduce everything to Chaos . . . by destroying what Order may stand in the way, condemning it to the deepest pits of hell itself.

But, enough about that, there were at least a good several dozen of warm bodies that had to be killed! And eaten, maybe, depending on how hungry he was feeling after killing them. Oh, what a glorious night this shall be . . . this restaurant was foreign in nature, after all: Any local security force would ignore the place for a while. A simple realization let his twisted smile widen, as if he were grinning ear from ear now in the most horrific manner, as he approached with slow, deliberate steps to the next ones to die.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Sat Feb 04, 2012 8:16 pm

"Indeed. There's really not much else that's quite like it. And wonderful performance, yet again!" The panting calmed; pale grey orbs fell on Hei, who had long since darted towards the restaurant's exit, and was taking an immense amount of pleasure in shredding another couple of insolent fools. With a grunt, straight-faced for once, a frown furrowed its way across the chimera's forehead as he began to dig into his coat.

Leather met cold, hard metal; wrapping, wreathing, snaking around a single item, a single weapon holstered in a simple pocket. A deathly, dark black, absolutely exquisitely clean hilt to a revolver, chambered in .44 with a frame of the purest, most unmolested white of marble hues. Mirroring the actions of the left arm, the right too snaked into its opposite pocket, arms crossed as Balthazar stretched outwards, curving his back inwards, straining his form and trying to awaken those dormant, aching muscles once more. Only conditioning would do him any favours here...

Gasps and mutterings filled the restaurants after the idle shrieks from Hei's mutilation of the man's face passed. He looked upon their other meals eagerly, a look of raw, bloody desire in his eyes. Balthazar shot him an icy, freezing glare; not one of malevolence, but simply one of willing command. One that said: 'Wait for me, but a moment, my dearest brother.' For, truly, that was what the pair were. Joined by all but blood; motive, desire, carnal lust... some form of sick allegiance had forged an iron bond between them in but moments.

Had Balthazar not been aching all over, tired from simply the use of such an explosive, incredulous display of alchemy - even if powered from a source of life-force not his own - he perhaps would have considered a more convoluted, different route. He would've played with the morsels, the appetisers a little more, and then continued down this manipulative, bloody avenue with Hei, getting a better idea as to whether his brother was truly deserving of his title, or simply another pawn in this great, grand game of chess.

However, Balthazar was pissed off and tired. He wanted to see blood. Simple. He could smell it, fresh and drying upon the floor; pumping like crimson rivers through veins and arteries of all and any variety. Let the blood flow like an estuary out into the sea. Let the blood flow. Let the blood flow. Let the blood flow...

That was why he wished Hei to stay in place. This symphonic release of warm crimson floods could only work if they were at a level of companionship and synchronicity rivalled by few else. Once more, had Balthazar not been aching, he would've played tantalisingly with these exceptional specimens. Instead, drawing the revolvers in a flash, he pulled back the hammer of the one clutched in his left hand, and brought it up in an arc towards the ceiling, pulling the trigger.


Echoes reverberated about the Moscovian night sky. Sound waves jumping from star to star in a futile, relentless display effort to be heard, and nothing else. Screams and tension had lead up to his raising the arm, and been utterly shattered, leaving naught but sobs. The etchings, black engravings twirling around the barrel and frame in mirrored, reflective markings began to fade from their intense blue glowing; the smell of cordite hung musky in the air.

Eleven rounds.

Advancing down the stairs as the echoes fell silent, his inhumanly cold eyes, bright, dilated pupils, picked out five... six... seven targets. A family of five, including two parents and three prepubescent children, and a pair of women garbed in deep navy suits presumably here for a business dinner. Or the lead-up to some lesbianic erotic activity once they retreated home for the night. That was... their secret. And they could, and very much would, take it to the grave.

Shots first. From the stable, yet-unfired, right revolver first of all. It hit the youngest of the three children in the family straight in the temple, and spattered blood and youthful cranial shards across a table in the most magnificent of spray patterns. Humming now a 60s love ballad, as the mother, teary-eyed and blinded in a fit of rage, dove at him, nails bared like sharp claws, he gave her such a look of disregard that it appeared as if he were staring through her as if she had been totally transparent. This continued for a few moments; cocking his elbows out at angles, one barrel aligned with the skull of the mother forced into lunacy from witnessing the death of her youngest son, the other with the father's, desperately weeping into a napkin and clutching his other two children...

The shots crashed once more, rolling through and reverberating. That had dropped the count down to below ten now. The restaurant hadn't been all that busy upon their entry, and they'd quickly made short work of most of the occupants; especially with that rather devastating explosion.

The father keeled back and his chair toppled. Blood trickled down his shirt and welled up behind him; the two children released themselves from his limp grip and tried desperately to wake him up as the crimson pooled behind him. Balthazar cocked his head and stared at them analytically, almost beginning to feign sympathy; then he raised both revolvers once more, and squeezed the triggers in perfect synchronisation. Two more runty, bratty, snobby kids blown away in an instant. Some would say a life without family, a life like his had begun, would not be worth living. It was true, his had borne certain trials and tribulations; but on the whole, Balthazar now had the strongest, most steadfast network of social connections he had ever seen in place in the entirety of the land... and, he, too, now had a family. Not one of blood, but one of moral and spirit. And a common goal at the height of it all... supposedly, at least.

And for it all, what had he been made? A better man.

Six rounds. Three in each cylinder.

Two more reverberating crashes; the screams found a peak and rolled off the halls' acoustics. The two women, his final targets, were sent flying, skidding, bloodied and motionless, warmth flooding out of them into the white-clad brickwork, various bones shattered on impact. A powerful thing, a .44 round. Just horrible.

He eased the hammers forwards, and turned on his heel, looking over to Hei as he further wiped some of the drying blood from his forehead. No malicious, grotesque licking from his glove this time; too repetitive, predictable. He needed to keep his material fresh... like a juicy steak. Just positively running, leaking with the life elixir of the cow from which it was carved. Oh, Balthazar licked his lips just thinking about it, that tongue deserving a snake-like slit cut straight along its centre. His eyes flashed to bodies, hewn limbs, pools of blood... he was vibrating, now. Shaking, teetering from side to side. He couldn't hold it up for much longer; it was near-orgasmic. The ecstasy from being around this much... this much... this much.

A rather shrill scream from behind snapped him from the trance-like state. Barely feet from Hei, Balthazar whirled around, one-eighty degrees, on his heel, and raised the revolvers, hammers cocked all in one swift, fluid motion. Four trigger pulls in sequence, randomly, off into the opposite wall; no target, no focal point. Just four reverberating crashes that left nought but silence, followed by a madman's raving warning, lunacy laid on thick, no attempt made to hide the sheer depths of his depravity.

"WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP!?" Spittle hung from his lip for but a moment; a rabid flare in his irises. The shark blood, the rhinoceros blood, the savagery deep within him was rising, being solicited by these stupid, stupid, stupid, STUPID fucking humans. Almost at breaking point, he managed to haul what remained of his sanity and composure back across the line, and eased the hammers shut, warm-barrelled revolvers tucked into trouser pockets as he wiped strings of saliva from his bottom lip and turned to Hei.

"Who are these people... fucking animals!?" He turned and promptly spat on the floor, aiming towards nothing in particular, apart from the array of shredded flesh and torn sinew splattering the once-pristine tiles. "No fucking manners..." He muttered, flashing a grin up towards his compadre and fellow titleholder.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Tue Feb 14, 2012 5:24 pm

OOC: Short post is SHORT.

And before he could resume his killing, as his slow-paced steps were driving the prey backwards in fear, blasts of lightning . . . Or not, just the resounding blasts of gunfire, issuing forth from the barrel of the gun that Balthazar had now drawn. Amusingly, he was a good shot despite signs of visible discomfort. Now, Hei couldn't tell the extent of it all, but given the scowling expression and almost lazily performed actions of Tartarus, it was safe to assume that show of alchemy took a bit of effort on his part, and now he just wanted to get this nonsense over with. So, rather than stepping forward while the maddened Bearer let loose his gunfire, the Xing-Drachman merely cleaned the blood and brains off his knife.

The bemused knife nut merely just watched as each shot struck away and tore through one victim after another. Indiscriminate, severing any threads of life that presented itself. Ah yes, that was an amusing aspect about carnage and destruction, it had the ability to present equal opportunity. No discrimination, no designation of certain groups, no waiting in turn. No, pure chaos was all-consuming and blind, much like this right now! Children, families, possible socialites! Young and old, man or woman, and on and on and on.

And then a harsh scream brought an end to the spree on Balthazar's part, most amusing since he had been drawing closer to this unfortunate batch of prey (and thus closer to Hei), and that this scream had come from behind him (more to the left, from his own perspective) . . . except, four sudden bursts were emptied into a wall.

A wall.

Well, at least whoever was close by there had stopped screaming, and now a hush was settling in since he stopped firing. So that was a good thing, Hei supposes.


Oh, well. So much for peace and quiet. Then again, peace and quiet were so out of vogue, shrill screams of abject terror and gurgled cries of wounded morsels with a lungful of their blood was more appeasing. Still, considering the shift of anger and the earlier composure . . . once more, Hei was amused. This man reminded him of so many others, people who Hei judged as weak-minded in spite of mad fits: But here was Balthazar who was clearly, and quite plainly, mad . . . but did it with proper bearing and utter glee (along with proper overtones of hate) that calling him 'weak-minded' would be an insult.

"Who are these people... fucking animals!?" the question was hushed, or at least was like that in comparison to his shouting bit. The Xing-Drachman could only find himself chuckling, perhaps in agreement, perhaps not. Tonight was a strange night, two fine gentlemen of unknown origin had come and started instilling fear, terror and mayhem. The wondrous restaurant was now defiled with violence and human innards, as well as ruin and general panic. Some workers were dead, injured or scared and scarred shitless and the other patrons were in similar states: Dead, dying or about to die(from shock)

"No fucking manners..."

"Oh come, now! Don't blame them for being uneducated slobs, it's not like they could do anything about it, then ... OR now."

At which point he noted the staff seemed to be emerging from wherever these fellows were magically spawning from, and quite a few of them were carrying small arms. Weak stuff that shouldn't trouble either of them, but . . . they WERE trying to stand up against them. Just a couple with legal weapons for citizens (in Soviet Moscow, of all things), and the rest with with what appeared to be knives and other blunt objects with which they intended to bludgeon the two titleholer with?

"Speaking of no manners, looK! It seems the staff wish to oppose us. Shall I have an entrée of their smoldering corpses, or would you like that and I'll help myself to a stew of the other guests?" he inquires with a wicked glee. One could enjoy braving the weak-willed and weak-minded and just weak in general men and kill them all, while the other one just slaughtered the hapless prey. Or they could swap. Or maybe they could share?

Either way would work for Hei, he just wanted to see what Balthazar preferred.


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Wed Feb 15, 2012 5:28 pm

Heavy, paled eyelids fell shut over bloodshot pale grey orbs. Ambience, fires crackling, scared pantings of his audience, his quarry... it all slowed down and became irrelevant. It had been filtered and syphoned out; and all that was left was a steady, constant heartbeat. Balthazar thought about what he was doing, methodically, for once. He was calm. Hot and cold, polar extremes, represented him best; all that he could hear was his breathing. All that he could see was a curtain of utter, soothing blackness left to fall upon his vision.

This... this was but a practise. Exercise, maybe. The situation established on a whim for the various sick, twisted joys of the pair. The bearer, in his wildly varying mood swings and poles, quickly decided that... well, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to become a little more... methodical. Treat this as a live practise. After all, he was using live ammunition, and live... subjects. All this anger, it most likely gave Perses a bad impression. Made him seem like an amateur. And Balthazar just couldn't have that, could he?

"Oh come, now! Don't blame them for being uneducated slobs, it's not like they could do anything about it, then ... OR now." Balthazar smirked. He stood there, cold and calculating in his very appearance as pupils turned once more to slits and irises flushed and dilated, still that eerie pale grey. Almost silvery, almost ethereal in very appearance... ghostly. As if Balthazar himself was truly no more Rou Kamarov; no longer a petty criminal. He was a mastermind, a co-ordinator of all things destructive.

They spilled out into the restaurant and took cover. Six of them, he counted, isolating each set of footsteps; he had this intelligence, he had this fluent, excellent tactical knowledge. He could keep his head... but wasn't it just so much more fun to lose control? To truly give in to wrath, nothing more and nothing less? To allow yourself to be enveloped by total and complete anger? Surely, that was Tartarus. A loss of all control whatsoever. He was the executioner, at Chaos' beck and call, provided he could wreak havoc, and leave nothing but smoke and hewn bodies in the wake of that crimson swath he called a path.

He still had his back turned to the few that the pair, efforts amalgamated, had left alive with what little mercy could be found in every fibre of their beings. Gunsmoke still trailed upwards in wisp-like forms from the heated barrels of his revolvers. 'Limbo', this form was. Maybe it was time to descend a little. The first circle of Hell would maybe suit more 'innocent', compliant victims... but, resistance? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Now that just wouldn't do.

"That just won't do at all..." Balthazar muttered, and he isolated the targets. Two bore switchblades, two bore simple lengths of piping perhaps hewn from the battered kitchen's interior from sheer desperation, and two bore simple firearms. Double-action semi-automatic pistols. Makarovs, most likely, it would seem. Probably licensed. This establishment was high-class, and probably had some form of mob protection... just a shame that RIOTE's comparative importance far transcended that protection, eh?

Hammers cocked and they slid into position behind overturned tables. Balthazar almost cursed his former idiocy. Perhaps he wouldn't have set the scene so well for them if he'd been just a slight bit more methodical than usual... ah, well. Compromise would be necessary. And the near-rabid, playful, sick glint in those silvery irises as the starlight washed across a blonde fringe of hair said that maybe he'd enjoy toying with his foot, just this once. Promptly, an almost snake-like tongue slithered up and whetted the man's lips, signifying that it was now... playtime, suffice it to say. The appetiser had been that oh-so-delightful spray of blood that he'd dirtied himself with earlier... now, it was time for the main course. Maybe he'd finish them all up in a single bite... but it would be rude not to share this finery with his cohort, would it not?

A look to Hei as the man spoke once more, openly mocking what little resistance the six could muster against their utter dominance over the room. Outside, in the harsh Moscovian cold, the pair were just nameless, faceless mysterious men. Inside, in the ring, they were a pair of deities compared to the civilians that they'd decided were tonight's quarry. "Speaking of no manners, looK! It seems the staff wish to oppose us. Shall I have an entrée of their smoldering corpses, or would you like that and I'll help myself to a stew of the other guests?"

The final wisps of gunsmoke faded from the revolvers' barrels. Yes, it seemed that it would be fitting for him to change their current form, perhaps. After all, nothing suited the night better than a good white phosphorus explosion. It'd be a startlingly pleasant beacon on the horizon for the police troops whom would undoubtedly never come. They were RIOTE. They were diplomatically immune. They were all-powerful. They were above the law. If you fucked with them, you fucked with Vanity. If you fucked with Vanity, you fucked with Drachma. And that really wasn't advisable. The country was as alive as it had ever been in its long, bloody history, filled with Soviet conspiracies, dotted with gruesome assassination attempts, and the various accounts of the gulags out in that tundra-like waste Drachmans called home. No, here, Hei and Balthazar?

They were fear incarnate.

The crackling of alchemical discharge was all that Balthazar had to reply. The blonde-haired madman looked down to his revolvers as the once-black engravings began now to glow an iridescent, almost entrancing bright blue. Irradiating out in bursts of light from him, far more intense than the shimmers had been when he'd previously fired the pair of revolvers, now, was electricity splitting the air with its very nature, leaving the smell of smoke hanging musty upon the wind for what seemed like an eternity.

And, then, with an overwhelming, almighty whoosh, the revolvers vanished. They evaporated, totally and completely, leaving behind simply twelve empty brass shell casings on the floor, jackets of what had once been full bullets used to take eight lives and create eight more motionless corpses, still warm as they laid, blood-spattered, upon the floor of the restaurant. These revolvers were the causes of the manic whimperings of the crowd beyond them.

Cracksh. A shot rang out, and a round tore through the air aside Balthazar's ear. The man, still with his posterior to the crowd, spun around and simply snarled, rabid and crazed, almost comparable to a dog, out towards them. That was a message. A clear and complete message: do not fuck with me. The warning had been given. He was preparing himself. That was all.

Snapping his fingers and overturning another table, sending it flying with a simple crimson crackle, now standing with a thrumming golden-bronze ball under his right arm. An orb fashioned of a dull brown-gold metal, engraved and calloused with various black lines and inscriptions, drawings, that in full, created a transmutation circle, with an interchangeable set of dials focused around the centre. Hand poised upon the millimetre-raised indentation at the top, Balthazar moved his free arm close to the base, and picked one of the many rings, through which the crevices either side of allowed similar crackling cerulean alchemical light to escape, before giving it a good spin, flicking his wrist and allowing his index and middle fingers to transfer the momentum and force. It clicked into place, exactly as planned, without any more pondering of the seemingly-ancient mechanism, perhaps once-lost from some sort of civilisation past, from the blonde-haired chimera. That was it. Precision to the nth degree. That was all that was necessary.


Another display of shimmering blue light; similarly using alchemy, changes taken into consideration, it took its toll on Balthazar, but it appeared not to be... crimson in origin. The energy crackling like electricity was azure, blue, almost. Full, proper, and powerful, as if he had gotten down on his knees and scrawled out the transmutation circle himself. The device clearly worked with powers far greater than that of the Philosopher's Stone inside him; it was unique. Different and absolute.

When the engulfing, near-blinding display finished, far more intense, powerful, and radial than the last, all that was left in Balthazar's hands was a mechanism that he had used many a time before and was beyond precise with. A weapon. His weapon. He spoke; this time, not an answer to Hei, but simply a call. As if he were calling to the very soul or spirit of the weapon itself, forced in part of stone and in part of wood, giant curved, rounded sections seemingly sheared off and leaving naught but smoke behind as it had taken in any material, indiscriminate in its choice, and used it to forge this behemoth of utter destruction.

"Let their life-force flow like a river," Those same black inscriptions down the perfectly-pressed, finished mahogany of the barrel. The white stone, taken from the crafted, mockingly Tiberian pillars to each side of the entrance, of which the cylinder was alchemically crafted of. Pah. These pathetic Cerisians were nothing compared to the Legions of olde, the Tiberians that the history books spoke of. "Obliteration."

The last forks of blue electricity faded from view, and all that was left between Balthazar's hands was an imitation of a grenade launcher. Shape, crevices, cracks, and defined edges were all but perfect. The curvature of the barrel, cylinder, and foregrip was all but perfectly defined; but colours were off. No longer was it a military black or tan for discretion; no, it was a mixture of greys, for the foregrip and cylinder, and for all else, a golden-brown of mahogany, black engravings spilling, spiralling, twirling down the very form of destruction: a Xingese-manufactured MGL-140.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The whisper spilled out carrying more gravity than simple dynamic volume could muster. No, those were words for his comrade and brother only, not for these despicable pieces of scum that were labelled as humanoid, even remotely close to his grandiose figure, the form of absolute perfection.

Crack. Shlunk. Swick. Crack.

In an instant, the gun was loaded with a single 40mm shell. Various warning markers along the circumference, and at the top, in large, bright, angry red font, the words read: 'CAUTION: LIVE EXPLOSIVE WHITE PHOSPHORUS ROUND'. The barrel had been clicked open and shut a single time for each, in the fastest hand-loading process that either of the men had ever seen. Another shot cracked from the barrel of the Soviet pistols, neither of the armed men willing to stick their necks out enough and risk it to fully bear witness to the destructive titan Balthazar now cradled between his hands.


Fwip. In an instant, the trigger was squeezed and the blowback-operated firing mechanisms shot the shell from the barrel like an indigenous tribesman playing with blowdarts. It was designed for contact detonation; even without an optical sight, Balthazar had trained the barrel on the far corner of the room. These grenades were far more powerful than was to be expected of a simple hand-held round. Though, that much was true for the man behind the weapon.

Either way, the focal point was key - anyone who didn't get vaporised or charred by the flickering white phosphorus flames would most inevitably get crushed to death by the falling rubble! Oh, how excellently poetic. Balthazar let his true nature shine through, and flashed a grin the split-second before the explosive collided with the wall, and then...

...the room exploded with white light. In an instant, it spread through the establishment, sweeping any civilians not already downed off their feet and throwing them in every direction. The explosive shockwave shattered any piece of furniture that wasn't already splintered by Balthazar's earlier attempts; even the designated demolitions expert in the room wasn't quite ready for the simple sheer amount of noise the explosion would produce, ears still whining with that irritating ringing tone, as if someone had shoved a bucket over his head and smacked it with a hammer.

A decent-sized hole had been blown in the corner of the room, and it appeared that the beams and supports had similarly toppled. The room was, suffice it to say, mainly now filled with rubble and debris, save for the furthest corners, and the entrance - luckily enough, where Tartarus and Perses were hanging. Not seconds after the explosion, the smell of charred, cooked flesh filled the air, and Balthazar grinned, letting that snake-like tongue flicker out to lick his lips once more, whet the charred callouses and crags that came with the lifestyle of simply reducing every 'hostile' building he chose to smoky rubble.

"Do apologise, comrade. Should've really left some for you, no?" No resistance was to be had. Not even a single spluttering cough could be heard from within the piles of rubble and white-tipped flames that the phosphorus had created, mainly sticking to licking the far walls of the room, gently eating away at what little of the structure had been left standing. "My tastes do occasionally get ahead of me..." Tugging at his overcoat, he pushed the stock of the grenade launcher back into it, and hooked on a strap, aligning it so it was as best concealed as possible. Probably not a brilliant idea to be lugging around a live Milkor grenade launcher, even at night, and even on home turf. Probably just made more paperwork for the good Sekretar.

"What's the old saying..." He approached Perses, footsteps crunching specks and odd pieces of cheap plaster flung in their direction under the heel of deceptively oppressive black dress shoes. "'Eyes too big for the stomach', I believe," With a light, and ever-so-slightly twisted chuckle, he offered his hand, outstretched, hoping that Hei would indulge himself in another handshake.

"I have enjoyed myself, this fine evening, Perses, but I believe indeed that it is time for me to depart," A smirk. "I'll leave you with..." He looked to the three as-of-yet untouched walls of the restaurant, and flicked up the collar on his overcoat. He'd left that beautiful fedora in there... ah, it was no worry. He knew the man would reduce it all to rubble, anyway, and it probably stunk of charred human by now. Hell, his coat was already spattered with blood. "My sloppy seconds, I guess, as unflattering as it sounds."

With that, the man turned, and finished buttoning up his coat, before stepping out of the building's threshold, expecting at any moment to hear the very foundations of it shake, quake, and be reduced to rubble behind him, chuckling as he walked, returning back to his inner-city apartment. "Goodbye, Hei!" He shouted back to his brother, fellow title-bearer, and comrade. "Til we meet again!"


((You picked number seven.))


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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

Post by Guest on Mon Mar 12, 2012 12:01 am

That snarl was the most likely cue. Hei was prone to it, monsters such as them who killed for sport as opposed to meaning were all who indulged in it, no matter how self-conscious they were or how wary they were of maintaining good public appearances. Hah, in the end, they were all savage beasts at the core. Lost souls who had nothing better to do but kill. Kill, kill, occaisionally do a bit of charity to get the public of their backs, and kill some more.

So, the Xingman was resigned. He wanted to have fun! Maybe enjoy a good brawl with Balthazar, hand-to-hand and no-holds barred. It would be most entertaining after all, since their arena was a corpse-littered restaurant of foreign nature. Blood smeared all around, spent cartridges about the floor, bloodied knives and silverware. Blood and guts and bones and shredded clothing and bullets and soon debris!

But, alas. He was resigned to accept that his companion was not in a mood to play. That was most disheartening, but if this individual craved utter annihilation as opposed to tortuously rending each person's limbs one by one, there was nothing Hei could do to change his mind. After all, that was fun in its own way, too.

However, as the snarl had come from Tartarus, Perses left it in his hands. The 'Titan of Destruction' vanished from sight again, a blur of black and blue. His reappearance was back at the table from where he and Balthazar originally sat, except now he was just retrieving the overcoat as opposed to the jacket of his suit. His return back to Balthazar was a leisurely paced walk, just as the Alchemy-using Bearer had just finished the transmutation. And it was interesting, needless to say, as he recognized the design of the barrelled grenade launcher. How did he recognize it? Well, let's just say he had one imported from Carraig, and it was now in his possession.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Perhaps. Just ends up overcooking the meat a bit too often to make it a favored tool." he responds to the grave, and just utterly mad appreciation for the instrument of death with a bit of humor. After all, his weapons did not serve to merely kill. No, he used his weapons to carve up the enemy into something more palatable, and this grenade launcher, while certainly useful, was a bit of a nuisance to keep under rein. As well as make sure it didn't disintegrate his meals into nothing.


And then all hell was loose. As expected, but still greatly appreciated and almost titillating to see all that carnage. I mean! Come on! He loved this stuff! While it was horrible for meals, as an entertainment source it was miraculous. Utter carnage, raging explosives that engulfed both surroundings and their victims, searing heat and shrapnel, and the glorious symphonia of blessed blending of the cacophonic bursts with the euphoria-inducing screams of agony!

To destroy was to invoke bliss.

But, all too soon it was over. As everything was, so his disappointment wasn't all that much. After all, he had learnt to appreciate all the little things in life, excluding life itself. So, ha ha.

"Do apologise, comrade. Should've really left some for you, no?"

A sign of worry that a fellow murderer had not gotten his share? Or something else? Either way, Hei was not that particularly concerned, the evening had been entertaining enough to satisfy him so this lack of participation in the killing from him was not all that distressing.

"My tastes do occasionally get ahead of me..."

The Bearer continues, putting the weapon away now. The Xingman only responds with a kindly smile and a quick word of reassurance, "No, no. No no need to apologize. I suppose I was satisfied enough to witness the slaughter firsthand, ha ha"

"What's the old saying ...'Eyes too big for the stomach', I believe, I have enjoyed myself, this fine evening, Perses, but I believe indeed that it is time for me to depart, I'll leave you with..."

A momentary pause as Hei shakes hands with Balthazar, and another one as Balthazar looks about, which of course prompts Hei to survey the destruction as well. Fortunately, flames were already eating the bodies, but this building would eventually cave in. Well, 'would' if it weren't for the fact that Hei was digging in his pockets for a certain device.

"My sloppy seconds, I guess, as unflattering as it sounds."

"Kind offer of you, but again, I am already satisfied with tonight's meeting." he responds, a bit of a broken smile by his teeth showing upon his face. Already Balthazar was exitting, and this was when Hei drew on his overcoat, and marched out along with him, a black device in his right hand at the moment.

"Goodbye, Hei! Til we meet again!"

"Don't be a stranger, Balthazar! We'll see each other soon enough. Hah hah, after all, it's not like we live a different country at the moment!"

He calls back, smile upon his face to have met another afficianado in the great wonder of death. The Xingese then turns his back to the titleholder, going back the way he came. 9:43:15 P.M. He takes several steps, still a bit giddy from all the excitement that had gone on tonight, after all, despite doing very little, it had been absurdly fun! 9:43:30 P.M. Hopefully, he would be able to meet Balthazar soon again, or even better, FIGHT him. No, even better, try to kill him! Death was the greatest summation for entities that destroyed, and thus such a person's cessation of existence would be the most glorious event. Dispense death, while in turn, always expecting it to come.

9:43:50 P.M.

The Xingman notes that time upon his watch with a quick glance at his left wrist. Ah yes, that's right. He had one final gift for the night. Neither he nor Balthazar should be too far away from the poor Cerisian restaurant. Or at least, they would be far away not to feel anything, but surely close enough to witness what was about to happen.

9:43:55 P.M.

The right thumb flick open the detonator, much as though it were a lighter. Perhaps it was once a novelty lighter, but then got converted into a detonator? Wait, no, that was stupid. Ah well, time for everything to blow to pieces. After all, being someone who had as much authority as he did, he had already made preparations for the poor restaurant. It was already slated for demolition for the future, as the new regime wanted only proud Drachman businesses and were loath to allow foreign venues exist, so Hei decided to finish the job early. Explosives imported from the Cretan Dynamis Inc, Detonator from the Xingese market, Aerugese-made wiring and blasting caps to attach to the explosives. The works. Now, it was an Xingese ex-Amestris militant living in Drachma left to push the rather large red button. Which he did.

9:44:00 P.M.

A massive explosion sounds off. Hei does not turn back to survey his work, but he knows very well that the poor restaurant had enough explosives packed into it that the result would be on par with the damage from a catastrophe. Fortunately, the neighboring buildings were also under the care of non-Drachman individuals, so no worries. After all, Mother Drachma had to be strong, diversity, while useful if kept to a minimum, would only obstruct unity and thus the unification of the wills of the people into one power. But, ah well, as raging inferno now sat where the restaurant was, so ended the Tale of Two Brothers-In-Arms. The night would draw into a close, this being the highlight of it all and nothing else to match it.

And so the night sky gazes upon Moscow, save on the point where smoke, rubble, and the occaisional flame still linger.




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Re: A Tale of Two Brothers

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