Post by Rojo on Mar 23, 2011 16:15:38 GMT -5
A pale light spilled over the City of Manticore.
It crept in through the windows that were not drawn, it washed down the street, making the snow glow a reverant white colour. The moonlight trickled in through the slits of boarded-up windows, through the cracks in broken walls and it cascaded on those few people who were still roaming the streets at such a late hour-- dangerous people.
Aside from those few humble civilians that had professions that required them to brave the night hours, only three kinds of people roamed the street: Forsaken, rebels and fools. But despite the deafening and uneasy silence that perpetually blanked the fallen city, there were things afoot below the streets, down in the darkness below. . .
A wellington boot came down in the darkness. Soon, a comrade followed it, both of them submerged to about halfway between the wearer's ankle and the top of the boot. Water rippled away from the place where the person had stepped, moving away in hurried little circles in their effort to escape the green rubber things which had invaded their home so callously.
The Mad Redeemer grinned in the gloom, looking down the long tunnel ahead, the ocassional shaft of moonlight penetrating the otherwise pitch black passage where part of the ceiling and the street above had collapsed or a drainhole had been placed by those who had built the city.
In his hands The Mad Redeemer held a rather large fork, such as one might find at a barbeque, only significantly greater in size. One if it's two great prongs (the one that wasn't rusted) gleamed in the moonlight. The hands gripping the large utensil were garbed in bright yellow kitchen gloves, as one might expect a nuclear family housewife to wear. Taking another step forward, Dr Strange moved into a shaft of light, illuminating his person.
In the typical fashion of his idols, the Mad Redeemer wore a mask to hide his identity-- a simple thing that realistically did nothing to hide the wearer's alter ego. It was made from a red piece of cloth that had two eyeholes cut out so the hero could see. Around his neck was a spotted blue-and-white neckerchief which covered the space between his neck and a woolen navy blue jumper, suprisingly clean and then over this what the 'hero' might call his crowning joy of the outfit; a tattered and very worn leather jacket with a white star sporting the back and a tiny embossed flag in the colours of red and white stripes with a small blue square in the corner pock-marked by stars ('America' was the name of the country the flag belonged to. Dr Strange had no idea where this place was, but he thought of it as a sort of promised land where he would go when he had served his purpose.)
The Mad Redeemer glowed in the moonlight, taking in the light of the Night-Sun (as he affectionately called it) and he felt like. . .a hero. He gripped his mighty weapon (Mjalrinar) and turned to his companions and faithful sidekicks Starsight and Whitescar and gave them his most disturbingly wide grin, his left eye twitching like mad.
"Not FAR to goooo-ah nooooow-ah. . ." he said in a stage whisper that any accomplished actor would be proud of. He jutted out his chin as he had seen many of his inked idols do and strode through the sewer as quietly as a madman in wellington boots dressed like a very confused transexual at a comic book convention can.
The sewer itself stank-- foul, rotting lumps of dark colouration floated despondantly in the gloom, the water was a horrible colour-- the filth of an entire city sloshing around in the understreets with nowhere to go. Like everything in Manticore, these sewers were old, broken and hollows of an age gone past. Ocassionally, relics of a forgotten time would appear- unwanted toys or bits of cloth flushed by naughty children who were now long dead. A toy duck bumped repeatedly against a pile of fallen mortar, its cheesy grin rendered psychotic by refuse and age, it's eyes dark and decaying, it's weaker components fallen away, leaving a disturbing shell of something that had once brought joy and happiness.
Dr Strange trod through the slime and the sludge like he owned the place, each footfall purposeful and providing a naseating 'plosh' which caused bubbles and ripples to appear. He knew the place well, even in the dark. He strode through the darkened sewers, turning corners seemingly at random and at one point clambering over part of a collapsed tunnel-- a flower lay at the top, where it had tried in vain to reach what tiny light shone through during the 'day' but it now sat atop the pile, brown and dead, its petals all gone and its stem limp, squashed flat against the stone where Dr Strange had come trampling through here often. Up ahead was The Entrance. It was so important you could hear the capital letters. The Mad Redeemer turned to look at Starsight and Whitescar.
"We're heeeere. . .wehavearrived!" he said, turning into a fit of small giggles before remembering he was a valiant hero on a rescue mission at which point he jutted out his chin even further and scuttled forward to the end of the passageway and into the corner. On the ceiling was something not dissimilar to a manhole cover and on the wall next to it were rusted orange marks on the wall and metal shards protruding where rungs had once been set to allow passage between the cover and the sewer. On the cover was a faded and mostly illegible sign:
'__CESS T_ __THO_IZED PER_ON_EL ON_Y'
The Mad Redeemer regarded the sign solemnly, as if it were an ancient guardian which stood over The Entrance and made sure those who were unworthy from entering. He tore his eyes from the mysterious Hole in the Ceiling and looked at his faithful sidekicks once more.
"We are heroes," he whispered "and we shall SA-VE THO-SE who NEEEEED sav-ING!" he nodded vigourously in his own little way which made it look as if his head might come off at any moment and blinked several times, then his voice took on an almost normal quality.
"Are you ready?"
It crept in through the windows that were not drawn, it washed down the street, making the snow glow a reverant white colour. The moonlight trickled in through the slits of boarded-up windows, through the cracks in broken walls and it cascaded on those few people who were still roaming the streets at such a late hour-- dangerous people.
Aside from those few humble civilians that had professions that required them to brave the night hours, only three kinds of people roamed the street: Forsaken, rebels and fools. But despite the deafening and uneasy silence that perpetually blanked the fallen city, there were things afoot below the streets, down in the darkness below. . .
A wellington boot came down in the darkness. Soon, a comrade followed it, both of them submerged to about halfway between the wearer's ankle and the top of the boot. Water rippled away from the place where the person had stepped, moving away in hurried little circles in their effort to escape the green rubber things which had invaded their home so callously.
The Mad Redeemer grinned in the gloom, looking down the long tunnel ahead, the ocassional shaft of moonlight penetrating the otherwise pitch black passage where part of the ceiling and the street above had collapsed or a drainhole had been placed by those who had built the city.
In his hands The Mad Redeemer held a rather large fork, such as one might find at a barbeque, only significantly greater in size. One if it's two great prongs (the one that wasn't rusted) gleamed in the moonlight. The hands gripping the large utensil were garbed in bright yellow kitchen gloves, as one might expect a nuclear family housewife to wear. Taking another step forward, Dr Strange moved into a shaft of light, illuminating his person.
In the typical fashion of his idols, the Mad Redeemer wore a mask to hide his identity-- a simple thing that realistically did nothing to hide the wearer's alter ego. It was made from a red piece of cloth that had two eyeholes cut out so the hero could see. Around his neck was a spotted blue-and-white neckerchief which covered the space between his neck and a woolen navy blue jumper, suprisingly clean and then over this what the 'hero' might call his crowning joy of the outfit; a tattered and very worn leather jacket with a white star sporting the back and a tiny embossed flag in the colours of red and white stripes with a small blue square in the corner pock-marked by stars ('America' was the name of the country the flag belonged to. Dr Strange had no idea where this place was, but he thought of it as a sort of promised land where he would go when he had served his purpose.)
The Mad Redeemer glowed in the moonlight, taking in the light of the Night-Sun (as he affectionately called it) and he felt like. . .a hero. He gripped his mighty weapon (Mjalrinar) and turned to his companions and faithful sidekicks Starsight and Whitescar and gave them his most disturbingly wide grin, his left eye twitching like mad.
"Not FAR to goooo-ah nooooow-ah. . ." he said in a stage whisper that any accomplished actor would be proud of. He jutted out his chin as he had seen many of his inked idols do and strode through the sewer as quietly as a madman in wellington boots dressed like a very confused transexual at a comic book convention can.
The sewer itself stank-- foul, rotting lumps of dark colouration floated despondantly in the gloom, the water was a horrible colour-- the filth of an entire city sloshing around in the understreets with nowhere to go. Like everything in Manticore, these sewers were old, broken and hollows of an age gone past. Ocassionally, relics of a forgotten time would appear- unwanted toys or bits of cloth flushed by naughty children who were now long dead. A toy duck bumped repeatedly against a pile of fallen mortar, its cheesy grin rendered psychotic by refuse and age, it's eyes dark and decaying, it's weaker components fallen away, leaving a disturbing shell of something that had once brought joy and happiness.
Dr Strange trod through the slime and the sludge like he owned the place, each footfall purposeful and providing a naseating 'plosh' which caused bubbles and ripples to appear. He knew the place well, even in the dark. He strode through the darkened sewers, turning corners seemingly at random and at one point clambering over part of a collapsed tunnel-- a flower lay at the top, where it had tried in vain to reach what tiny light shone through during the 'day' but it now sat atop the pile, brown and dead, its petals all gone and its stem limp, squashed flat against the stone where Dr Strange had come trampling through here often. Up ahead was The Entrance. It was so important you could hear the capital letters. The Mad Redeemer turned to look at Starsight and Whitescar.
"We're heeeere. . .wehavearrived!" he said, turning into a fit of small giggles before remembering he was a valiant hero on a rescue mission at which point he jutted out his chin even further and scuttled forward to the end of the passageway and into the corner. On the ceiling was something not dissimilar to a manhole cover and on the wall next to it were rusted orange marks on the wall and metal shards protruding where rungs had once been set to allow passage between the cover and the sewer. On the cover was a faded and mostly illegible sign:
'__CESS T_ __THO_IZED PER_ON_EL ON_Y'
The Mad Redeemer regarded the sign solemnly, as if it were an ancient guardian which stood over The Entrance and made sure those who were unworthy from entering. He tore his eyes from the mysterious Hole in the Ceiling and looked at his faithful sidekicks once more.
"We are heroes," he whispered "and we shall SA-VE THO-SE who NEEEEED sav-ING!" he nodded vigourously in his own little way which made it look as if his head might come off at any moment and blinked several times, then his voice took on an almost normal quality.
"Are you ready?"
