03-06-2012, 11:56 AM
Ooc: I was planning to wait for some contact from Wolfy before posting all this, but my computer's dodgy and I'd rather not lose my work. So I'll spam it now. Spaaam. Also, I apologize for dropping out of this RP near the beginning, but it was kinda beyond my control. I wrote this to justify jumping back in.
Far away in a small, rather decrepit bathroom, Cyril Emmerson toyed with a piece of paper inscribed with black symbols and lines. He'd ducked inside to recast the illusion spells that hid his real face, with its white, dry skin, and burning purple eyes from view. As much as he'd love to show off his permanent halloween costume, it would draw a bit too much attention to be feesible. It wouldn't do to let the poor mortals know that a corpse was walking among them, after all. Just as he'd finished with the spell paper, the bathroom door opened and someone stepped in.
A glance at the mirrow over the sinks in front of him told him who it was; Fido Brannigan, a skinheaded eighteen year-old with tattoos all over his neck, who towered over fourteen year-old Cyril at over six feet tall. His first name was actually a nickname, and it was highly fitting, or so thought Cyril, as Fido had been following him around at random since they'd met. Fido looked at the piece of paper in Cyril's hands. The Revenant had tried to hide it behind his back, but the mirror ruined that plan.
"Nothing important." He lied, stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans. Cyril had been used a few times since joining the BPRD; the higher-ups apparantly had less hang-ups about deploying the possessed corpse of a teenager than a real, living one. His first mission had been dealing with three zombies sighted in a graveyard in Wisconsin. They'd been the annoying contagious kind that tended to spread rapidly with a little bad luck, but but as he was already dead, Cyril had no trouble getting rid of the shambling freaks. The second was locating and capturing a rampaging Salem witch (who was apparently infuriated that her boyfriend had ditched her), and had originally seemed difficult, but had finally been solved when Cyril knocked her into a running jacuzzi, thereby paralyzing her. Running water was the bane of witches.
His third was proving to be the most time-consuming; he'd been told to infiltrate a group of rowdy skinheads who showed signs of involvement with a demonic cult.
It hadn't taken Cyril long to find some proof, but the cult operated on a need-to-know basis and he was still undercover, trying to figure out who or what was in charge before the sh.it hit the fan. It had done so already, of course; the charged summoning circles and horribly mangled corpses lying around them proved demons had been and gone. Several times. While he hadn't been told anything directly, numerous hints and signs led him to believe something was going to happen. Here. Today.
"Concert's starting soon." Said Fido. "That's why I came to find you." He seemed to have let up on the paper. Good. He'd got glimpses of similar bits and pieces a few times, due to Cyril's sloppy guile. He was more or less hoping it wouldn't matter. Fido seemed too stupid to get suspicious over little things like that.
"Give me a minute." Cyril turned back to the sink and pretended to washed his hands to support his excuse. He examined himself in the mirror. The illusion made him look like he had when he was alive, except with the colours wrong. His skin didn't look like dry paper, and was a shade too pink. His eyes were green. His skull was coated with a thin fuzz, which was yellow; he'd been mousy light brown. He'd decided to keep it this way in future, minus the stupid disguise colour. He wondered if Morbidia could show him how to stop his regeneration in his scalp, so he wouldn't have to maintain it. He doubted it, somehow. Magic had its limits, and the field of undead cosmetics wasn't a very well farmed one. Morbidia. She was a Necromancer who worked with the BPRD; unlike her misbegotten peers, she didn't go in for gratuitous nihilism and avoided the unbelievably corrupt behaviour they were known so well for.
He'd begun to change, recently. He realised he'd gone out of control after his rebirth. He'd caused havoc and done some rather unsavory things, and all without feeling sorry- at the time. What was this? Schizo Cyril Emmerson, feeling sorry? He could hardly believe it, but it was true. A faint throb of remorse was present at the back of his head. It had been there for a while now. He'd lied to the BPRD recruitment. The human he'd been in the middle of murdering when they caught him wasn't the first. He'd killed two others before he'd been caught, and consumed their souls. He'd covered up well afterwards. In fairness, he'd been ravening like a Vampire in a human abatoir. Also in fairness, he could have used rats, or something. Now their faces sometimes popped up when he was idle too long.
He looked at Fido in the mirror. The gigantic lump was staring open-mouthed at a crack in the tiled wall. He wasn't like that. He knew it. Morbidia had told him that freshly reborn Revenants lost it for a while. They turned into stone-cold psychopaths who could cut down their own family without breaking their stride or raising an eyebrow. Without a twitch. Their moral compasses disappeared and their feelings died down like embers in a fire going out. They also had the potential to stay that way forever, if they never found their senses or didn't stop rampaging. However, there were treatments. Psychiatry didn't work on the Undead. Poison, and by extention, medication, was useless. But spells could take their place. Morbidia was an expert at working with Undead who still had souls, particularly Revenants. She knew old, rare magic that helped a newly resurrected person get their humanity back in order. She'd used these spells to set Cyril largely straight.
However, they couldn't change the way the person had been in the first place. Cyril grinned at himself in the glass. He was looking forward to the inevitable fight that would of course erupt at some point near the end of this mission. No sort of necromancy could change the fact that he was a violent jacka.ss and made no apologies for his interests. No wonder he'd ended up in a morgue at fourteen. He finished washing his hands.
His smirk turned into a curled lip as he followed Fido out of the bathroom and back through the crowd. He despised these people. He supposed it was rich coming from a soul-devouring Revenant, but he hated skinheads fiercely. It wasn't their behaviour that was the problem- he shared their penchant for raising hell and creating havoc, but the reasons and the way they acted left a dodgy taste in his mouth. The way they claimed superiority so obnoxiously (and believed it) for one thing; they were even worse than Diego. He also had no time for racism. He'd had a few friends of darker skin colours before he'd croaked. He failed to understand the point. He had no problem with violence, of course, but he did draw the line (at least, he did now) at kicking small african american kids in the middle of the street and then bolting when their irate elders came running. The doctrine they claimed to believe in (which they hardly understood anyway, and in fairness, neither did Cyril,) was filled with contradictions and enough stupidity to get even his rotting greymatter aching. Besides, glorifying a group who'd got their as.ses kicked in a war they started was pathetic.
They found the gang of skinheaded youths Cyril had managed to merge and engraciate himself with partially by participating in their misbehaviour, and partially by using the black magic Morbidia had taught him. The two had worked like a charm. Literally. And now he was just of them- or so they idiotically thought.
He scratched his head. Illusions weren't as energy efficient as he liked and it was safer to minimise the number of factors he had to fake, so he had shaved his hair down to stubbly fuzz. He had to admit, he liked it like this. He'd always thought his curls looked a bit stupid, anyway, and they'd earned him a hell's worth of teasing throughout his life. The gaggle of louts were going over the usual banter, which Cyril ignored.
Soon, the concert began. Cyril couldn't pretend he didn't like the music. It was loud, jarring and the sort of stuff sure to draw cops from all over- that is, if they weren't being held up with a series of violent diversions that were always set up during events like this, to buy time. Public arson, bank robbings and mock skirmishes in crowded public places, with lots of gunfire shot over crowds, were all common tactics. Drink, all sorts of drugs and other substances besides were passed around. For an anti-social subculture, skinheads sure knew how to organize a party. Cyril snapped a few needles from Fido and injected himself, then burned the chemicals in his empty veins by concentrating hard. One of the numerous benefits of undeath. He'd never gone near anything hard, before. Good advice from a dealer he'd been friendly with in his past life.
I mean a weapon you hold. You have a gun, Tanith has a sword... I want a stick. ~ Valkyrie Cain
Ill buy you a stick for Christmas. - Skulduggery Pleasant
Last edited by AaronShadows : 03-06-2012 at 12:00 PM.