“The lord is my shepherd…”
The hot air swept red earth off the ground, blowing a dusty red-orange cloud around the monks gathered near the fresh mound of Father Lawrence’s grave. Their eyes were closed and their shaved heads were bowed, their lips moving in unison as they recited their prayers. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil,” they all said, their voices soft and mournful.
They were cloaked in rough, brown wool habits, their hoods hanging down their backs as they prayed, simple ropes tied around their waists to belt the long tunic in, and some wore crosses on long chains around their necks. Many were brown skinned and black haired- converts and the sons of converts from Mexico. Others were pale in comparison- Spaniards and a few white Californians. All were treated as equals, since they were all the same under God.
“I shall dwell in the house of the lord forever.” they finished, lifting their heads. A modest wooden cross was wedged into the ground in front of the grave with the deceased friar’s name on it, the only marker of his eternal resting spot. Behind the monks, the remains of the abbey stood stark and black. The wooden structure had burned like kindling, leaving nothing behind but charred ruins. The smell of smoke from the fire still clung to their robes, but it wasn’t as strong as the smell of death and burned flesh.
One man left the others, and his face was a mask of anger. It had been Father Lawrence who had taken him in as a child and given him his name: Lysander, though the Spanish speaking monks called him Isandro. One man came after him, stilling him with a hand on the shoulder.
“Isandro, where are you going?” he asked in a kindly tone, understanding written all over his face. He was white and aged but still strong, as all the monks were. They had tilled the land around the monastery themselves, breaking the hard, solid ground into workable soil for their crops. They survived off what they produced, and the rest was donated to beggars or sold at market to raise funds for the church.
“Brother Matthew, this murder does not sit with me!” he seethed, hands in fists at his sides. Like so many of the others, his skin was brown and sun burnished. His black hair was shaved close to his head, like all the others, but he was younger than most- Isandro was still a novice. He had not yet given his permanent vows and turned his life over to the lord.
“Isandro,” the wizened monk gently chided, leading him away from the burnt remnants of the abbey that had once been their home. “It is not our way to be vengeful. Friar Lawrence would not have wanted this.”
“Friar Lawrence is dead now! Don’t any of you care?”
The old man looked on Isandro with pity in his eyes, slowly shaking his head. The man before him was still young and foolish; Father Lawrence had been right to keep him from making his final vows and entering the monastery as a monk. The man wasn’t ready to commit his life to God; he still held hatred and fear of death in his heart.
“Father Lawrence is with God now, and he who was responsible for this abomination will be judged in the eyes of the lord.”
Isandro couldn’t accept that and he shook his head. “I will not let Father Lawrence’s murderer go on living in this world. Let God judge his soul, but I will end his life, so help me.”
The outlaw responsible for the arson of the abbey needed to be punished, thought the man, his teeth ground tight together. What sort of godless man set a monastery on fire? His eyes closed tightly as he recalled Father Lawrence running back into the burning building. ‘Don’t go back in,’ they had all told him. But he hadn’t listened. He had wanted to save the ancient bible that had been brought over from Spain to reside in the abbey. In the end, the bible had not been saved, and Lawrence had lost his life.
An outlaw had entered their midst’s, seeking to steal some priceless artifact, no doubt. As if that hadn’t been sinful enough, he had set the abbey on fire. His act was unforgivable in Isandro’s eyes, and he had to be stopped.
“If you leave now, the abbey will never take you back, Lysander,” warned the old monk in an undertone, using the man's formal name. “You will never be able to take your vows if you do this. Think about what this revenge will cost you. You will have murder on your soul.”
Isandro nodded, aware of the cost of his actions. “I hope so.”
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The Apostle's Creed
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Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by NorthernSoul on Thu Oct 08, 2009 3:16 pm
Through the shimmer of heat coming off the road, the children ran. The dust, rasped from the earth like dry skin after a full week without rain, was kicked up into the hot air by their heels. Sound travelled with astonishing clarity in these wide open spaces and their laughter echoed off the rocks back to where Eva stood, her arms crossed over her chest.
Classes at the little rural school finished early on Wednesdays, primarily so the children (mostly the sons and daughters of impoverished farmers in the surrounding area) could go back and help with work at home. The nearest town was ten miles away and, rather than walk to the school there, a small whitewashed building with slot-windows and a roughly-tiled floor served as a nearby place of education. Eva Townsend was the only teacher and her class consisted of less than twenty children.
As their laughter died away and their figures were lost to the out-reaching slope of the valley, Eva went back inside to the cool darkness of the classroom. Though occasionally, this place became lonely, she enjoyed her relative solitude. A small set of rooms off the classroom, consisting of a bedroom, bathroom and small kitchen were her home. She paid the nearest farm to deliver food and anything else she needed could be bought during an overnight stay in the town at Lockwood Mesa. She had friends there, family too, and occasionally they would come to stay but for the most-part, Eva had only the company of children and farmers to entertain her.
Inside, she began to walk between the aisles of desks, picking up workbooks and leaving them in a neat stack on her desk to be scrutinised in red ink later. For now, all she felt like doing was sitting in the shade underneath the wizened tree outside and finishing her book.
And that was what she did. Under the dappled light of its branches, the sun was not so hot and the air not so oppressive. She pinned her hair, which fell in sun-bleached brown waves about her shoulders, up and loosened the collar of her cheese-cloth blouse. Here, there was little thought for anything but practicality of dress and fashion or propriety were hardly considered. Though in her mid-twenties, the dusting of freckles across her nose and the delicacy of her pale skin, pink from the sun at the lines of her cheekbones, made her look younger. With one hand, took an apple from the arm of her seat and raised it to her lips, taking her eyes from the page in front of her only to briefly scan the balding horizon of the scrub-covered hills.
Things that had once been so vivid and life-altering back when she was living in Lockwood Mesa were now distant and faint in colour. Even the news that a monastery had been burnt to the ground not eight miles from her school seemed to have little effect on her consciousness out here. The tales that the farming families or visitors brought with them were just that; tales, stories. The government might have collapsed, the world turned to war and she doubted she would much feel their effects.
Swatting a fly from her bare arm, she buried herself back in her book until, twenty minutes later, she was distracted by the stream of dust that signalled a horseman was coming down the road.
Classes at the little rural school finished early on Wednesdays, primarily so the children (mostly the sons and daughters of impoverished farmers in the surrounding area) could go back and help with work at home. The nearest town was ten miles away and, rather than walk to the school there, a small whitewashed building with slot-windows and a roughly-tiled floor served as a nearby place of education. Eva Townsend was the only teacher and her class consisted of less than twenty children.
As their laughter died away and their figures were lost to the out-reaching slope of the valley, Eva went back inside to the cool darkness of the classroom. Though occasionally, this place became lonely, she enjoyed her relative solitude. A small set of rooms off the classroom, consisting of a bedroom, bathroom and small kitchen were her home. She paid the nearest farm to deliver food and anything else she needed could be bought during an overnight stay in the town at Lockwood Mesa. She had friends there, family too, and occasionally they would come to stay but for the most-part, Eva had only the company of children and farmers to entertain her.
Inside, she began to walk between the aisles of desks, picking up workbooks and leaving them in a neat stack on her desk to be scrutinised in red ink later. For now, all she felt like doing was sitting in the shade underneath the wizened tree outside and finishing her book.
And that was what she did. Under the dappled light of its branches, the sun was not so hot and the air not so oppressive. She pinned her hair, which fell in sun-bleached brown waves about her shoulders, up and loosened the collar of her cheese-cloth blouse. Here, there was little thought for anything but practicality of dress and fashion or propriety were hardly considered. Though in her mid-twenties, the dusting of freckles across her nose and the delicacy of her pale skin, pink from the sun at the lines of her cheekbones, made her look younger. With one hand, took an apple from the arm of her seat and raised it to her lips, taking her eyes from the page in front of her only to briefly scan the balding horizon of the scrub-covered hills.
Things that had once been so vivid and life-altering back when she was living in Lockwood Mesa were now distant and faint in colour. Even the news that a monastery had been burnt to the ground not eight miles from her school seemed to have little effect on her consciousness out here. The tales that the farming families or visitors brought with them were just that; tales, stories. The government might have collapsed, the world turned to war and she doubted she would much feel their effects.
Swatting a fly from her bare arm, she buried herself back in her book until, twenty minutes later, she was distracted by the stream of dust that signalled a horseman was coming down the road.
The Murmuration
mur·mur·a·tion
–noun
1. an act or instance of murmuring.
2. a flock of starlings.
Origin:
1350–1400; Middle English < Latin murmurātiōn- (stem of murmurātiō ).
mur·mur·a·tion
–noun
1. an act or instance of murmuring.
2. a flock of starlings.
Origin:
1350–1400; Middle English < Latin murmurātiōn- (stem of murmurātiō ).
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by Monroe on Fri Oct 09, 2009 1:59 pm
Though the mule wasn’t his, he took it all the same. None of the monks had any belongings they could really call their own. They had long ago given up material possessions, and everything they had, from the bedding in their cell to the rough woolen habits on backs and even the meals they took (or rather, had taken) in the refectory, belonged to god and the church. Isandro hadn’t a penny to his name, and he felt sinful even taking the mule and the long brown monk’s tunic he wore day in and day out. It was a necessary evil, he told himself. Walking to the nearest town and trying to follow the outlaw on foot would be impossible. Every minute he wasted on foot was that much farther the murderer got away. If he was going to catch the nameless outlaw, whose face was burned into the back of his mind like a cattle brand, he had to make haste.
The mule he took was by no means as fast as a horse, and it wasn’t accustomed to bearing weight on it’s back. It had only ever been used to drag the plow, and it balked under Isandro’s weight. The other monks watched him, unsure how to stop their brother from leaving. Already they had begun cutting timber for the new abbey, and it was neatly piled around the charred remains of the old building. They were diligent in their task to rebuild the church so that they could properly perform the Liturgy of Hours once more.
“Isandro,” said one of the monks, his brow furrowed. “Mi hermano, why are you leaving us? Dios mios, this is not the work of a monk! I beg you, Isandro, do not follow that bandido. Pray for his soul instead!”
He left them behind without a backward glance, though he immediately mourned the loss of the security that the abbey and his brothers and his structured life had held. He would miss the structure of his days, and taking meals alongside brother Matthew and brother Armando. He would miss the time of solitude and the hours spent studying the religious texts. Most of all, he would miss feeling that he was doing something meaningful with his life, for what was greater than serving god?
The nearest town was almost thirteen miles away, and he didn’t reach it until nightfall. Lockwood Mesa was one of the only places he had ever visited other than the abbey. There was little reason for him to leave the small monastery where he had spent almost his entire life. The town’s population was high in Mexicans and white Californians, and there were a few Chinese immigrants that had come seeking a new life, hoping to find their fortunes in the hot, sunny climate.
The novice crossed the town, holding the reigns of his mule in his hand, looking into the glowing windows and open doors of the many establishments. To him, these people seemed rowdy and unbelievably loud. He knew that life outside of the monastery was very different, but it was a hard concept to grasp all the same. On the outside of the general store were flyers. The store was closed and had been for hours, but he left his mule at the steps and climbed up to see what the flyers said. There were some about town meetings, one about a nearby school, and standing out from the others was a rough drawing of the man he had seen days ago- the man that had burned the abbey and was responsible for Father Lawrence’s death.
He tore to paper down, staring at the face with hatred, and he crossed into the saloon where there were many patrons drinking and smoking and gambling inside. They looked up at Isandro, dressed in his monk’s habit and wearing a cross on a long chain, in surprise. The last thing they expected was to see a monk in a saloon.
“Where is this man?” barked Isandro, thrusting the wanted paper at the bartender. The bartender took a long moment to stare at him in surprise before finally inspecting the flyer he had been passed.
“He left here yesterday, maybe the day before. Why do you want to know?” asked the bartender, setting aside the glass he had been cleaning with a grimy rag. “What’s it to you?”
“This is the man who burned down the monastery,” said the brown skinned man coldly. “He is responsible for the death of the friar of my abbey.”
“Didn’t think monks were vengeful.” mused the bartender, and Isandro drew in an irritated breath.
“I’m not a monk,” he snarled. “Where did he go?”
The bartender shrugged, anything but helpful. “I have no idea.”
Isandro’s eyes clouded with despair. Already he had lost his lead. He couldn’t believe it. The outlaw was probably long gone, and he had no idea where to look for him. The bartender seemed to take pity on him and sighed, pointing in a different direction.
“But he has a daughter that lives not too far away. A school teacher. She lives about ten miles that way. Maybe she’ll know where her father is, though I doubt she’ll want to tell you. I don’t reckon you’re wanting to pray for his soul, are you?”
Isandro shook his head. “I don’t want his soul to go to heaven. I want him to pay for what he did.”
He took back the flyer and exited the saloon. At least now he had a direction. He would find the outlaw’s daughter and make her take him to her father. Then he would avenge Father Lawrence.
The mule he took was by no means as fast as a horse, and it wasn’t accustomed to bearing weight on it’s back. It had only ever been used to drag the plow, and it balked under Isandro’s weight. The other monks watched him, unsure how to stop their brother from leaving. Already they had begun cutting timber for the new abbey, and it was neatly piled around the charred remains of the old building. They were diligent in their task to rebuild the church so that they could properly perform the Liturgy of Hours once more.
“Isandro,” said one of the monks, his brow furrowed. “Mi hermano, why are you leaving us? Dios mios, this is not the work of a monk! I beg you, Isandro, do not follow that bandido. Pray for his soul instead!”
He left them behind without a backward glance, though he immediately mourned the loss of the security that the abbey and his brothers and his structured life had held. He would miss the structure of his days, and taking meals alongside brother Matthew and brother Armando. He would miss the time of solitude and the hours spent studying the religious texts. Most of all, he would miss feeling that he was doing something meaningful with his life, for what was greater than serving god?
The nearest town was almost thirteen miles away, and he didn’t reach it until nightfall. Lockwood Mesa was one of the only places he had ever visited other than the abbey. There was little reason for him to leave the small monastery where he had spent almost his entire life. The town’s population was high in Mexicans and white Californians, and there were a few Chinese immigrants that had come seeking a new life, hoping to find their fortunes in the hot, sunny climate.
The novice crossed the town, holding the reigns of his mule in his hand, looking into the glowing windows and open doors of the many establishments. To him, these people seemed rowdy and unbelievably loud. He knew that life outside of the monastery was very different, but it was a hard concept to grasp all the same. On the outside of the general store were flyers. The store was closed and had been for hours, but he left his mule at the steps and climbed up to see what the flyers said. There were some about town meetings, one about a nearby school, and standing out from the others was a rough drawing of the man he had seen days ago- the man that had burned the abbey and was responsible for Father Lawrence’s death.
He tore to paper down, staring at the face with hatred, and he crossed into the saloon where there were many patrons drinking and smoking and gambling inside. They looked up at Isandro, dressed in his monk’s habit and wearing a cross on a long chain, in surprise. The last thing they expected was to see a monk in a saloon.
“Where is this man?” barked Isandro, thrusting the wanted paper at the bartender. The bartender took a long moment to stare at him in surprise before finally inspecting the flyer he had been passed.
“He left here yesterday, maybe the day before. Why do you want to know?” asked the bartender, setting aside the glass he had been cleaning with a grimy rag. “What’s it to you?”
“This is the man who burned down the monastery,” said the brown skinned man coldly. “He is responsible for the death of the friar of my abbey.”
“Didn’t think monks were vengeful.” mused the bartender, and Isandro drew in an irritated breath.
“I’m not a monk,” he snarled. “Where did he go?”
The bartender shrugged, anything but helpful. “I have no idea.”
Isandro’s eyes clouded with despair. Already he had lost his lead. He couldn’t believe it. The outlaw was probably long gone, and he had no idea where to look for him. The bartender seemed to take pity on him and sighed, pointing in a different direction.
“But he has a daughter that lives not too far away. A school teacher. She lives about ten miles that way. Maybe she’ll know where her father is, though I doubt she’ll want to tell you. I don’t reckon you’re wanting to pray for his soul, are you?”
Isandro shook his head. “I don’t want his soul to go to heaven. I want him to pay for what he did.”
He took back the flyer and exited the saloon. At least now he had a direction. He would find the outlaw’s daughter and make her take him to her father. Then he would avenge Father Lawrence.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by NorthernSoul on Tue Oct 13, 2009 10:40 am
Not as expected, but as half-hoped, the figure on the horse precipitated out of the fluid haze of heat over the road into a figure that was instantly recognisable to Eva. The way he sat on a horse with the same natural ease that most men possessed walking on the ground, the dust-encrusted boots, the unkempt moustache that was barely distinguishable from the stubble on his jaw and the glint of blue, like a lake in the desert, that gleamed out of smiling wrinkles of sun-leathered skin... She recognised all these things, had grown up knowing them; he was her father and this was the first time she'd seen him in four months.
Very few people knew she even had a living father. As far as all the parents of her pupils were aware, Eva's father had been a shop owner from San Diego and had died not long after her mother had succumbed to consumption when she was a child, leaving her to be brought up by her aunt. In fact, half of the story was true; her mother had died of tuberculosis and she had grown up living in her father's sister's house on the outskirts of Lockwood Mesa. Robert Logan, however, was very much alive. After living as an outlaw for the last twenty years, it had been thought best that as few people knew about his relation to her as possible and Eva had grown up harbour what, when she was little, had been a very solemn and grave secret, but had eventually evolved into something that she used to proudly set herself apart from her peers. The truth had been outed a few years ago by a particularly intrepid reporter working for the local newspaper, but only within Lockwood itself (which had been part of the reason she'd taken a job in such a remote place). But to the farmers whose children she taught, she might as well have been any other schoolteacher.
"Evie! Evie, my girl!" he roared, jumping down from his horse once within the little fence that walled-off the schoolhouse from the barren brush that surrounded it. He whipped his wide-brimmed hat from his head to reveal and full head of sun-bleached dark hair and crushed her into his arms with his usual energy.
"Papa?" she grinned then pushed him away in mock outrage. "Why haven't you been to see me? You came at least once every few weeks back at Aunt Isabelle's and when I was living in Lockwood Mesa. We lived back-to-back with our neighbours then and now the nearest is miles away! Have you grown afraid in your old-age?"
"Old-age?" he replied indignantly, collapsing into the chair she'd just vacated. "If you weren't my daughter to insult me, Evie... No, things ha' been... difficult. That train robbery two months ago landed us in a whole heap 'a trouble. I've been doin' my best to stay up in the hills and avoid the hoosegow until this all blows over. They've god-damn gone and put posters up in every watering hole for miles! So-"
He paused and turned his bright gaze away from the parched scenery onto her. "So- That's why I'm comin' to see you, Evie. I'm gonna head out of state, maybe even south of the border, I dunno, I ain't made up my mind yet but... I ain't gonna be back for a while-"
Eva opened her mouth to interrupt but her father held up his hand, as if he knew she'd guessed what he was about to say, and she closed it again, allowing him to continue.
"A long while. Maybe even a few years..." he finished, then sat back, bracing himself for an onslaught.
"What! A few years? Papa, a train robbery's nothing. They must be like mosquito bites to the Union Pacific, you've robbed them that many times. You can run rings around the goons they've hired to find you! Just stick it out and-" said Eva, squaring up to her father with her hands on her hips as he watched her with a strange sad curiosity.
"But Evie... I'm tired of runnin' rings around anyone... I just wanna find some little casa, maybe by the sea, some little place where I can grow tomato and chayote and distill my own whiskey in the backyard and-"
"Oh, don't give me that! That's not you. That's not what you want," she said, harshly, astonished at her father's new-found domesticity. She could not believe that he would suddenly want to give up the nomadic life he'd thrived upon for years, or the excitement that entwined the days he spent carving off a living from the big corporations of the West.
He shrugged and looked down at his hands, calloused by hours spent holding reigns or the handle of a gun. This simple gesture persuaded her more of his sincerity than any argument might have done.
"But I won't ha' to decide that for a week or two. I still ha' to throw the dogs off my trail, for more than a night, at least. So, why don't we talk about it over a meal. I ain't eaten since this morning and I'm starved!" he added, trying to change the subject. Eva knew they wouldn't discuss it and that later that evening, he'd disappear back into the darkness. And she wouldn't see him, it seemed, perhaps for years. He'd always said the only person who'd been able to change his mind about anything had been her mother. It appeared she had not inherited such a gift.
"Write me a letter. Promise me you'll write to me whenever you can."
Her father smiled and loosed the scarf around his neck. "'Course. If that's what you want me to do, then I'll sure as hell do it," he said, standing aside to let her enter the little white-washed house first.
Very few people knew she even had a living father. As far as all the parents of her pupils were aware, Eva's father had been a shop owner from San Diego and had died not long after her mother had succumbed to consumption when she was a child, leaving her to be brought up by her aunt. In fact, half of the story was true; her mother had died of tuberculosis and she had grown up living in her father's sister's house on the outskirts of Lockwood Mesa. Robert Logan, however, was very much alive. After living as an outlaw for the last twenty years, it had been thought best that as few people knew about his relation to her as possible and Eva had grown up harbour what, when she was little, had been a very solemn and grave secret, but had eventually evolved into something that she used to proudly set herself apart from her peers. The truth had been outed a few years ago by a particularly intrepid reporter working for the local newspaper, but only within Lockwood itself (which had been part of the reason she'd taken a job in such a remote place). But to the farmers whose children she taught, she might as well have been any other schoolteacher.
"Evie! Evie, my girl!" he roared, jumping down from his horse once within the little fence that walled-off the schoolhouse from the barren brush that surrounded it. He whipped his wide-brimmed hat from his head to reveal and full head of sun-bleached dark hair and crushed her into his arms with his usual energy.
"Papa?" she grinned then pushed him away in mock outrage. "Why haven't you been to see me? You came at least once every few weeks back at Aunt Isabelle's and when I was living in Lockwood Mesa. We lived back-to-back with our neighbours then and now the nearest is miles away! Have you grown afraid in your old-age?"
"Old-age?" he replied indignantly, collapsing into the chair she'd just vacated. "If you weren't my daughter to insult me, Evie... No, things ha' been... difficult. That train robbery two months ago landed us in a whole heap 'a trouble. I've been doin' my best to stay up in the hills and avoid the hoosegow until this all blows over. They've god-damn gone and put posters up in every watering hole for miles! So-"
He paused and turned his bright gaze away from the parched scenery onto her. "So- That's why I'm comin' to see you, Evie. I'm gonna head out of state, maybe even south of the border, I dunno, I ain't made up my mind yet but... I ain't gonna be back for a while-"
Eva opened her mouth to interrupt but her father held up his hand, as if he knew she'd guessed what he was about to say, and she closed it again, allowing him to continue.
"A long while. Maybe even a few years..." he finished, then sat back, bracing himself for an onslaught.
"What! A few years? Papa, a train robbery's nothing. They must be like mosquito bites to the Union Pacific, you've robbed them that many times. You can run rings around the goons they've hired to find you! Just stick it out and-" said Eva, squaring up to her father with her hands on her hips as he watched her with a strange sad curiosity.
"But Evie... I'm tired of runnin' rings around anyone... I just wanna find some little casa, maybe by the sea, some little place where I can grow tomato and chayote and distill my own whiskey in the backyard and-"
"Oh, don't give me that! That's not you. That's not what you want," she said, harshly, astonished at her father's new-found domesticity. She could not believe that he would suddenly want to give up the nomadic life he'd thrived upon for years, or the excitement that entwined the days he spent carving off a living from the big corporations of the West.
He shrugged and looked down at his hands, calloused by hours spent holding reigns or the handle of a gun. This simple gesture persuaded her more of his sincerity than any argument might have done.
"But I won't ha' to decide that for a week or two. I still ha' to throw the dogs off my trail, for more than a night, at least. So, why don't we talk about it over a meal. I ain't eaten since this morning and I'm starved!" he added, trying to change the subject. Eva knew they wouldn't discuss it and that later that evening, he'd disappear back into the darkness. And she wouldn't see him, it seemed, perhaps for years. He'd always said the only person who'd been able to change his mind about anything had been her mother. It appeared she had not inherited such a gift.
"Write me a letter. Promise me you'll write to me whenever you can."
Her father smiled and loosed the scarf around his neck. "'Course. If that's what you want me to do, then I'll sure as hell do it," he said, standing aside to let her enter the little white-washed house first.
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by Monroe on Wed Oct 14, 2009 2:56 pm
He had never shot a pistol before; had never even touched one- but he bought one all the same. He felt oddly sacrilegious trading his heavy silver cross for a gun so he could kill one of God’s creatures, but that outlaw had been doing the devil’s work when he had killed Father Lawrence. God would forgive him, Isandro told himself, hiding the pistol in the deep pocket of his brown robes. He would repent and use to rest of his life to serve God, but first he had to avenge Father Lawrence.
He had garnered directions to the school from the bartender, though the man had been reluctant to tell him anything. He could feel the anger radiating off the brown skinned man in waves, and the bartender didn’t want harm to come to the sweet school teacher. Eventually though, Isandro had convinced the man to tell him where to go.
His mule was still tired from the trip to Lockwood Mesa, and Isandro walked beside it instead, letting it rest. All the better if he arrived at her house in the dead of night and found her and her sinful father there, caught unawares. It was dishonorable, but he was fully prepared to shoot the outlaw in his sleep. He deserved even worse than that for what he had done.
The sky grew dark and the stars came out, guiding the novice monk as he trudged on toward the school. A determined frown was set deep into his face, giving him a severe appearance. His hands curled into fists as he imagined exacting his revenge. Oddly, he could never picture himself pulling the trigger. Killing was too terrible a thing to imagine, but he was sure he would be able to do it when the time came. He felt justified in his anger, and sent a silent prayer up to heaven for what he was about to do.
Finally, the whitewashed school building that served as the teacher’s home and possibly the bandit’s hideout loomed ahead of him. Isandro stilled his mule and left it back behind a line of trees, hidden out of sight. He didn’t want the animal braying and alerting the people within the house of his presence.
His hand snaked into the pocket of his robe, feeling the cold, hard shape of the gun under his fingers. His heart hammered in his chest and he tried to calm his breathing as he withdrew the firearm and cocked it, slowly edging around the house.
He had garnered directions to the school from the bartender, though the man had been reluctant to tell him anything. He could feel the anger radiating off the brown skinned man in waves, and the bartender didn’t want harm to come to the sweet school teacher. Eventually though, Isandro had convinced the man to tell him where to go.
His mule was still tired from the trip to Lockwood Mesa, and Isandro walked beside it instead, letting it rest. All the better if he arrived at her house in the dead of night and found her and her sinful father there, caught unawares. It was dishonorable, but he was fully prepared to shoot the outlaw in his sleep. He deserved even worse than that for what he had done.
The sky grew dark and the stars came out, guiding the novice monk as he trudged on toward the school. A determined frown was set deep into his face, giving him a severe appearance. His hands curled into fists as he imagined exacting his revenge. Oddly, he could never picture himself pulling the trigger. Killing was too terrible a thing to imagine, but he was sure he would be able to do it when the time came. He felt justified in his anger, and sent a silent prayer up to heaven for what he was about to do.
Finally, the whitewashed school building that served as the teacher’s home and possibly the bandit’s hideout loomed ahead of him. Isandro stilled his mule and left it back behind a line of trees, hidden out of sight. He didn’t want the animal braying and alerting the people within the house of his presence.
His hand snaked into the pocket of his robe, feeling the cold, hard shape of the gun under his fingers. His heart hammered in his chest and he tried to calm his breathing as he withdrew the firearm and cocked it, slowly edging around the house.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by NorthernSoul on Wed Oct 14, 2009 5:36 pm
With the agency hired by the rail-road company hot on his tail, Eva's father had only stayed long enough to devour a hunk of bread the size of his fist along with a two bowls of clam broth before he'd untied his horse from where it had been quietly chewing the patchy yellow grass hidden around the back of the school house and bid her a cheerful goodbye. His goodbyes were always cheerful, even when he went away for long stretches, and Eva had soon learnt that to become tearful did nothing except make him awkward in his farewell. So, she tried to smile as he rode away, calling back reiterations of his promise to write once the agency had lost his scent and he decided his destination. But as soon as he was far enough away to be unable to make out her face should he glance backwards, the smile dropped from her features and was replaced with a sad wistfulness.
Often, particularly at partings like this, she wondered if she could live like he did. There was a certain romance to living out in the wild, nipping at the heels of civilisation. But soon after her sense of reason tended to kick in and she reminded herself of the less savoury side of the life her father and his companions led and she invariably dissuaded herself. Occasionally, however, like at this very moment, the thought lingered in her subconsciousness until gradually pushed back into the recesses of her mind by the mundane activities of her day-to-day, sometimes resurfacing when she slept.
That was what she was dreaming of when Isandro edged around the side of the school-house, his shadow slanted in the moonlight against the white-washed wall. The sun had dropped like a stone beyond the horizon not long after supper and night had descended abruptly upon the landscape. A half-hour's marking by candle-light then she retired to bed.
The night was hot, with warmth rising up from the ground where it had stored the sun's rays, suffocating the dry air. Eva had left her window open to let what little breeze the night would give up into the bedroom. The room itself was small, with just enough room for a wooden-framed single bed painted bright blue and a small night stand on which stood a tarnished mirror. A few sketches and paintings bought from the market in Lockwood Mesa adorned the otherwise bare walls and a brightly-coloured patchwork quilt lay crumpled on the tiled floor where Eva had kicked it off the bed in a fit of heat-induced violence. So it was only a sheet that she had pulled up to her waist as she lay soundly asleep in the little bed. A sleeveless embroidered cotton nightgown concealed her modesty and a river of wavy brown hair was splayed across the pillow. Her eyelashes flickered ever-so-slightly against her freckled cheeks as she dreamed, unaware of an intruder.
Often, particularly at partings like this, she wondered if she could live like he did. There was a certain romance to living out in the wild, nipping at the heels of civilisation. But soon after her sense of reason tended to kick in and she reminded herself of the less savoury side of the life her father and his companions led and she invariably dissuaded herself. Occasionally, however, like at this very moment, the thought lingered in her subconsciousness until gradually pushed back into the recesses of her mind by the mundane activities of her day-to-day, sometimes resurfacing when she slept.
That was what she was dreaming of when Isandro edged around the side of the school-house, his shadow slanted in the moonlight against the white-washed wall. The sun had dropped like a stone beyond the horizon not long after supper and night had descended abruptly upon the landscape. A half-hour's marking by candle-light then she retired to bed.
The night was hot, with warmth rising up from the ground where it had stored the sun's rays, suffocating the dry air. Eva had left her window open to let what little breeze the night would give up into the bedroom. The room itself was small, with just enough room for a wooden-framed single bed painted bright blue and a small night stand on which stood a tarnished mirror. A few sketches and paintings bought from the market in Lockwood Mesa adorned the otherwise bare walls and a brightly-coloured patchwork quilt lay crumpled on the tiled floor where Eva had kicked it off the bed in a fit of heat-induced violence. So it was only a sheet that she had pulled up to her waist as she lay soundly asleep in the little bed. A sleeveless embroidered cotton nightgown concealed her modesty and a river of wavy brown hair was splayed across the pillow. Her eyelashes flickered ever-so-slightly against her freckled cheeks as she dreamed, unaware of an intruder.
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by Monroe on Thu Oct 15, 2009 3:53 pm
The screened back door was unlocked. All the better for him, thought Isandro. He didn’t want to lose the advantage of surprise. He slowly wrapped his fingers around the handle of the door and pulled it open. It creaked loudly and he froze, his heart hammering in his ears, trying to listen for any sounds within. It was silent and still; if anyone had heard the creaking door, they were not alarmed by it. He softly breathed a sigh of relief and slipped into the dark house.
He was in the kitchen, he noted, glancing around him apprehensively. It was small and modest, but neat and clean. Sparsely decorated, but somehow it suited his tastes. Growing up in a monastery had taught him to appreciate simplicity. If he were a normal man, and not one trying to become a monk, he would very much have liked to live in a house like this.
The kitchen was obviously deserted, and he passed through it into a larger room. Hung on one of the walls was a blackboard. It had been erased, but he could still see the ghost-like dust residue where children had been practicing the letters of the alphabet. Cat, Bat, Sat read the board, and further down on the other end were the remains of a simple arithmetic problem.
Desks were lined up neatly, and there was a larger desk in one of the corners. He carefully edged around the room, looking carefully behind the desks to make sure the outlaw wasn’t hiding somewhere. There were two doors other than the front door that led off the room, and he edged toward the farthest one first, his back to the wall.
His hand came up and his fingertips brushed against the cold brass of the doorknob. His other hand readied the pistol, and he pulled the door open. It was dark, but the moonlight streaming through the small, high-set window illuminated the small room enough to let him know that it was only a washroom and that it was empty. He silently shut the door and approached the last room.
It was the room that had to hold the outlaw, and a nervous, fearful sort of excitement ran through him like a bolt of lightning striking a tree. The door was slightly ajar, and he had only to push it open. It swung forward silently, beckoning him into the dim, still, muggy room. The air was hot and humid and perspiration beaded at his forehead as his dark eyes traveled the small room, landing on the woman lying on the bed, a sheet tangled around her.
Chestnut waves pooled around her shoulders, stark against the white pillow. She was sound asleep, and he could see the even rise and fall of her chest. Her long brown eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, and her lips were slightly parted. She looked beautiful, like some sort of angel in her white nightgown and with her moon-bleached skin. It was exactly how the devil’s daughter would look, he thought. It only fit that the outlaw’s daughter appeared innocent. Surely there was no better way to con a person.
The criminal was disappointingly absent. Had he missed the man, somewhere in his inspection of the small house? What if Father Lawrence’s killer was crouched somewhere waiting for him to come out? Quickly, Isandro crossed the room, making a split second decision. He grasped the woman’s arm and yanked her roughly off the bed, crouching down on the far side of it so he wouldn’t be exposed in case the criminal came in with a gun. Automatically, the novice monk’s bronze-skinned hand slid to cover her mouth and muffle any screams she might try to make. He held her tight, and his free hand brought the gun to her side.
“Scream and I’ll shoot you,” he whispered, slowly taking his hand away from her mouth. His eyes narrowed as he assessed her, anger and hatred flashing across his face. This woman was the child of Lawrence’s killer.
“Where did he go?” hissed Isandro urgently, tightening his hold on her.
He was in the kitchen, he noted, glancing around him apprehensively. It was small and modest, but neat and clean. Sparsely decorated, but somehow it suited his tastes. Growing up in a monastery had taught him to appreciate simplicity. If he were a normal man, and not one trying to become a monk, he would very much have liked to live in a house like this.
The kitchen was obviously deserted, and he passed through it into a larger room. Hung on one of the walls was a blackboard. It had been erased, but he could still see the ghost-like dust residue where children had been practicing the letters of the alphabet. Cat, Bat, Sat read the board, and further down on the other end were the remains of a simple arithmetic problem.
Desks were lined up neatly, and there was a larger desk in one of the corners. He carefully edged around the room, looking carefully behind the desks to make sure the outlaw wasn’t hiding somewhere. There were two doors other than the front door that led off the room, and he edged toward the farthest one first, his back to the wall.
His hand came up and his fingertips brushed against the cold brass of the doorknob. His other hand readied the pistol, and he pulled the door open. It was dark, but the moonlight streaming through the small, high-set window illuminated the small room enough to let him know that it was only a washroom and that it was empty. He silently shut the door and approached the last room.
It was the room that had to hold the outlaw, and a nervous, fearful sort of excitement ran through him like a bolt of lightning striking a tree. The door was slightly ajar, and he had only to push it open. It swung forward silently, beckoning him into the dim, still, muggy room. The air was hot and humid and perspiration beaded at his forehead as his dark eyes traveled the small room, landing on the woman lying on the bed, a sheet tangled around her.
Chestnut waves pooled around her shoulders, stark against the white pillow. She was sound asleep, and he could see the even rise and fall of her chest. Her long brown eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, and her lips were slightly parted. She looked beautiful, like some sort of angel in her white nightgown and with her moon-bleached skin. It was exactly how the devil’s daughter would look, he thought. It only fit that the outlaw’s daughter appeared innocent. Surely there was no better way to con a person.
The criminal was disappointingly absent. Had he missed the man, somewhere in his inspection of the small house? What if Father Lawrence’s killer was crouched somewhere waiting for him to come out? Quickly, Isandro crossed the room, making a split second decision. He grasped the woman’s arm and yanked her roughly off the bed, crouching down on the far side of it so he wouldn’t be exposed in case the criminal came in with a gun. Automatically, the novice monk’s bronze-skinned hand slid to cover her mouth and muffle any screams she might try to make. He held her tight, and his free hand brought the gun to her side.
“Scream and I’ll shoot you,” he whispered, slowly taking his hand away from her mouth. His eyes narrowed as he assessed her, anger and hatred flashing across his face. This woman was the child of Lawrence’s killer.
“Where did he go?” hissed Isandro urgently, tightening his hold on her.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by NorthernSoul on Thu Oct 15, 2009 5:06 pm
Eva was jolted out of her sleep abruptly as she was dragged out of her bed onto the tiled floor. She cried out against the rough hand clamped over her mouth more out of instinct than anything else as she only realised was was happening to her after a few panicked moments. Her green eyes, open wide in surprise and fear, turned to the intruder and a brief wave of confusion fled across her features as she looked down and realised her unseen assailant was wearing a monk's habit.
He uttered a gruff instruction and took her hand away from her mouth. She immediately inhaled deeply to catch her breath and frowned, scepticism cutting through her fear. Scream? She doubted there was anyone within a mile of the schoolhouse, let alone anyone awake and able to hear a distant scream, even if should, by some miracle, carry over the parched hills. She was about to say something to this effect when she felt the barrel of a gun, the metal cold through the thin cotton of her nightgown, nudge painfully at her side. Eva decided to keep quiet.
Then he asked her the question she had half been expecting to hear; 'he' obviously being her father. Her first thought after her rude awakening had been that the agency had traced her father to this place, perhaps still expecting him to be here. But he was a monk. He was even wearing a burnished metal cross around his neck; she could see it resting, by her elbow, against the rough brown fabric of his habit. A monk would never work for a detective agency employed by the Pacific Union Railroad Company, would he?
"Where did who go?" she spat back, shaking her hair out of her face, suddenly angry despite the pistol digging in beneath her ribs and the hand clamped tightly over her arm. "Who are you? And why won't you get off me? I'm a schoolteacher! There's nothing here but exercise books and chalk!"
Even as she spoke, she remembered there was a gun under the bed. A shotgun. Large and unwieldy but a gun all the same. She began to edge her foot, still twisted into the sheet that had been dragged along with her onto the floor, under the bed frame whilst she went on.
"Just take whatever you want and leave!" Her big toe touched chill metal. "There's food in the kitchen, and water in the well outside. There's even some money in the desk drawer in the classroom. Just leave!"
He uttered a gruff instruction and took her hand away from her mouth. She immediately inhaled deeply to catch her breath and frowned, scepticism cutting through her fear. Scream? She doubted there was anyone within a mile of the schoolhouse, let alone anyone awake and able to hear a distant scream, even if should, by some miracle, carry over the parched hills. She was about to say something to this effect when she felt the barrel of a gun, the metal cold through the thin cotton of her nightgown, nudge painfully at her side. Eva decided to keep quiet.
Then he asked her the question she had half been expecting to hear; 'he' obviously being her father. Her first thought after her rude awakening had been that the agency had traced her father to this place, perhaps still expecting him to be here. But he was a monk. He was even wearing a burnished metal cross around his neck; she could see it resting, by her elbow, against the rough brown fabric of his habit. A monk would never work for a detective agency employed by the Pacific Union Railroad Company, would he?
"Where did who go?" she spat back, shaking her hair out of her face, suddenly angry despite the pistol digging in beneath her ribs and the hand clamped tightly over her arm. "Who are you? And why won't you get off me? I'm a schoolteacher! There's nothing here but exercise books and chalk!"
Even as she spoke, she remembered there was a gun under the bed. A shotgun. Large and unwieldy but a gun all the same. She began to edge her foot, still twisted into the sheet that had been dragged along with her onto the floor, under the bed frame whilst she went on.
"Just take whatever you want and leave!" Her big toe touched chill metal. "There's food in the kitchen, and water in the well outside. There's even some money in the desk drawer in the classroom. Just leave!"
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by Monroe on Wed Oct 21, 2009 10:57 am
Her green eyes, the color of bottle glass, were wide with surprise, at least until she assessed the situation. Isandro kept his arm clamped around her and the pistol pressed to her side, forbidding her to move more than an inch. The outlaw- her father- could be waiting just outside the room. He’d use the woman as a shield if he had to. God would forgive him, he hoped. If not, he would spend an eternity in Hell, but he wouldn’t regret. Not as long as he killed Father Lawrence’s killer. An eye for an eye, he thought.
“Don’t play dumb!” he barked. “You know who I’m talking about!”
His voice was raspy and quiet. He didn’t want to alert anyone that he was in the bedroom. “I’m here for your father, you devil woman. Tell me where he is so I can kill him!”
It would have amused him in any other circumstance that she was offering him money, but he was in no mood for laughter and irony. What use did a monk have with money? He had no need of worldly goods. The times he was happiest in his life he had been working hard alongside his brothers, toiling in the fields, working the hard dirt into workable soil, living off the land. Material possessions only took people further from God. Material possessions… and sin. Particularly mortal sins, like the one he was about to commit. Would God understand? For all his studying, he didn’t have an answer. No wonder I was never made a monk, he thought. He had too much anger and hatred in his heart.
“I’m not here for your money or your food. I’m here for your father!”
A cramp was starting to form in his side from being crouched in such an unnatural position, and it burned slowly, but he refused to move. He felt the tile, and it was cool beneath him. By contrast, the woman’s body was warm. Warm and soft. He’d never been so close to a woman before, not in all his life, except perhaps when he was an infant. He had no memory of a mother. He could smell her hair and skin she was so close, and she smelled nothing like the monks and the abbey that had once stood in the middle of green fields but was now just a pile of charred timber and ashes. She didn’t smell like dirt and sweat and old books and the earth. She didn’t smell like candles burning and dusty tomes and plaster images of Jesus. And she didn’t feel like a monk, either. Her body wasn’t hard and lean from a meager diet and hard physical labor. The fabric of her nightgown wasn’t rough like the wool of his habit. Her skin wasn’t the usual caramel to mocha shade he was so used to seeing. She was like nothing he had ever experienced, and suddenly she was being thrust on his senses like some fatal element.
He thought of Lucifer, God’s most beautiful angel, cast from Heaven for his pride. Pride before the fall, he had often been told. This woman was like Lucifer, with a beautiful face. No doubt she had evil in her heart, though. The daughter of such a man could only be bad. How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! The verse suddenly was fresh in his mind, but oddly, he felt like he was the devil, not the woman in his arms. He was the one about to commit the ultimate sin.
“Don’t play dumb!” he barked. “You know who I’m talking about!”
His voice was raspy and quiet. He didn’t want to alert anyone that he was in the bedroom. “I’m here for your father, you devil woman. Tell me where he is so I can kill him!”
It would have amused him in any other circumstance that she was offering him money, but he was in no mood for laughter and irony. What use did a monk have with money? He had no need of worldly goods. The times he was happiest in his life he had been working hard alongside his brothers, toiling in the fields, working the hard dirt into workable soil, living off the land. Material possessions only took people further from God. Material possessions… and sin. Particularly mortal sins, like the one he was about to commit. Would God understand? For all his studying, he didn’t have an answer. No wonder I was never made a monk, he thought. He had too much anger and hatred in his heart.
“I’m not here for your money or your food. I’m here for your father!”
A cramp was starting to form in his side from being crouched in such an unnatural position, and it burned slowly, but he refused to move. He felt the tile, and it was cool beneath him. By contrast, the woman’s body was warm. Warm and soft. He’d never been so close to a woman before, not in all his life, except perhaps when he was an infant. He had no memory of a mother. He could smell her hair and skin she was so close, and she smelled nothing like the monks and the abbey that had once stood in the middle of green fields but was now just a pile of charred timber and ashes. She didn’t smell like dirt and sweat and old books and the earth. She didn’t smell like candles burning and dusty tomes and plaster images of Jesus. And she didn’t feel like a monk, either. Her body wasn’t hard and lean from a meager diet and hard physical labor. The fabric of her nightgown wasn’t rough like the wool of his habit. Her skin wasn’t the usual caramel to mocha shade he was so used to seeing. She was like nothing he had ever experienced, and suddenly she was being thrust on his senses like some fatal element.
He thought of Lucifer, God’s most beautiful angel, cast from Heaven for his pride. Pride before the fall, he had often been told. This woman was like Lucifer, with a beautiful face. No doubt she had evil in her heart, though. The daughter of such a man could only be bad. How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! The verse suddenly was fresh in his mind, but oddly, he felt like he was the devil, not the woman in his arms. He was the one about to commit the ultimate sin.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by NorthernSoul on Wed Oct 21, 2009 2:29 pm
Tell me where he is so I can kill him!
Though the monk's words bit deep into Eva's consciousness, she did not flinch at them. The only outward sign of her fear was the slightest reflexive flutter of her eyelids at 'kill'. The rest of her features were set in an expression of angry defiance. Who was this man, who came to her school in the middle of the night and demanded to know where her father was? No pretence at his intention; the straightforward and honest hatred in his voice when he proclaimed his aim to kill him...
What did he expect she would do? Give up, just like that? Turn in her own flesh and blood, her only true family?
This apparent assumption somehow made her even more furious than his intention and she spat her words back at him with venom.
"Then you came here for nothing. He's not here and I'll never tell you where he is. You might be used to confessions, but don't expect one from me," she hissed, suddenly twisting around in his grip to face her assailant for the first time since she had found herself on the cold tiled floor of her bedroom.
He had tanned skin, the colour of the dusty earth on the hills and his dark hair was cropped close to his head. Had she been in a calmer state and more inclined towards observation, Eva might have noted that his face; even-featured and open, was twisted into a hatefulness that did not suit him. His eyes might have been liquid in their expression and attractively-shaped had they not been narrowed into sharp angles of resentment. But she wasn't. And so all she saw was a man who had broken into her home, dragged her out of bed and demanded to know where her father was, for the expressed reason of killing him. His hand around her arm irritated her like a metal fork scraping on a ceramic plate, the rough cloth of his habit made her itch and the smell of him, of old paper, limestone and leather, seemed invasive. Eva hated him.
Her shift in position had not only been with the intention of seeing the monk. The barrel of the shotgun beneath the bed was now cold against her thigh, concealed just past the tangle of sheets waterfalling off the bed. With her back to the bed frame, her hands stretched out towards it behind her, though one was still held painfully tight.
Though the monk's words bit deep into Eva's consciousness, she did not flinch at them. The only outward sign of her fear was the slightest reflexive flutter of her eyelids at 'kill'. The rest of her features were set in an expression of angry defiance. Who was this man, who came to her school in the middle of the night and demanded to know where her father was? No pretence at his intention; the straightforward and honest hatred in his voice when he proclaimed his aim to kill him...
What did he expect she would do? Give up, just like that? Turn in her own flesh and blood, her only true family?
This apparent assumption somehow made her even more furious than his intention and she spat her words back at him with venom.
"Then you came here for nothing. He's not here and I'll never tell you where he is. You might be used to confessions, but don't expect one from me," she hissed, suddenly twisting around in his grip to face her assailant for the first time since she had found herself on the cold tiled floor of her bedroom.
He had tanned skin, the colour of the dusty earth on the hills and his dark hair was cropped close to his head. Had she been in a calmer state and more inclined towards observation, Eva might have noted that his face; even-featured and open, was twisted into a hatefulness that did not suit him. His eyes might have been liquid in their expression and attractively-shaped had they not been narrowed into sharp angles of resentment. But she wasn't. And so all she saw was a man who had broken into her home, dragged her out of bed and demanded to know where her father was, for the expressed reason of killing him. His hand around her arm irritated her like a metal fork scraping on a ceramic plate, the rough cloth of his habit made her itch and the smell of him, of old paper, limestone and leather, seemed invasive. Eva hated him.
Her shift in position had not only been with the intention of seeing the monk. The barrel of the shotgun beneath the bed was now cold against her thigh, concealed just past the tangle of sheets waterfalling off the bed. With her back to the bed frame, her hands stretched out towards it behind her, though one was still held painfully tight.
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by Monroe on Wed Oct 21, 2009 2:47 pm
Isandro’s eyes narrowed in undisguised contempt. Her words, her refusal to give a confession, as she called it, seemed to be making a mockery of him for being a man of the cloth. His fingers tightened around her arm and he suddenly twisted around, pushing her back against the side of the bed. He was now kneeling in front of her, pinning her with one arm, directly in front of her and glowering down at her.
“You will tell me where he is or tonight is the night you will meet your maker,” he threatened, his voice rough from whispering. He didn’t know whether or not to believe her about her father being gone. The novice certainly hadn’t seen anyone other than the woman anywhere in the house, and she seemed earnest and fierce in her exclamation that he was gone. Rage boiled through the man and he suddenly let go of her arm, standing up.
The damned murderer had gotten away! His chance at revenge that night was taken from him, but he would not give up so easily. “You,” he growled, straightening the folds of his brown habit. “You will take me to him.”
The pistol was still aimed on Eva, unwavering. “I don’t want to kill a woman, but if you refuse to take me to him, you give me no choice.”
Whether he was honest in his declaration or not, he had no idea. If there was one thing he had learned in his life, it was the terribleness of man. Human’s, born of original sin, were unable to live pure, clean lives, and he was no exception. Better men than he had been pushed to do many a terrible thing. It was moments like the ones Isandro found himself in that marked what sort of person a man was. He would find out that night just how much evil he had in his heart.
“You will tell me where he is or tonight is the night you will meet your maker,” he threatened, his voice rough from whispering. He didn’t know whether or not to believe her about her father being gone. The novice certainly hadn’t seen anyone other than the woman anywhere in the house, and she seemed earnest and fierce in her exclamation that he was gone. Rage boiled through the man and he suddenly let go of her arm, standing up.
The damned murderer had gotten away! His chance at revenge that night was taken from him, but he would not give up so easily. “You,” he growled, straightening the folds of his brown habit. “You will take me to him.”
The pistol was still aimed on Eva, unwavering. “I don’t want to kill a woman, but if you refuse to take me to him, you give me no choice.”
Whether he was honest in his declaration or not, he had no idea. If there was one thing he had learned in his life, it was the terribleness of man. Human’s, born of original sin, were unable to live pure, clean lives, and he was no exception. Better men than he had been pushed to do many a terrible thing. It was moments like the ones Isandro found himself in that marked what sort of person a man was. He would find out that night just how much evil he had in his heart.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by NorthernSoul on Wed Oct 21, 2009 5:48 pm
In one sudden movement, he had pressed her back against the bed frame. Eva inhaled sharply as she was pulled just out of reach of the shotgun beneath the bed, her hands pinned at her back and her fingertips just inches away from its handle. He was squarely face-to-face with her now, looking down at her with sharp, dark eyes thick with contempt. She could feel his breath on her and she leaned back, away from him, extending her throat and tilting her chin, if only to get her face away from his. For the first time since she'd been rudely awakened, fear jolted through her fierce anger.
But then, just as suddenly as he'd lunged forward, he released his grip on her arm and stood up, looking down at her. In his robes, in the pale light of the moon that came through the half-open window, he looked like a statue to some Old Testament forefather; not the love and guidance of the new books but judgement, hellfire and brimstone.
"Will I?" she said, the defiance in her tone strengthened by the touch of polished wood beneath her fingers. Behind her back, her hands closed on the shotgun beneath the bed.
She slowly got up, untangling herself from the mess of sheets still wrapped around her legs, sliding the gun gently out behind her, out of his sight.
Eva didn't often pray. In fact, she hadn't prayed since she was a little girl, watched over by an Aunt outraged by her father's blasé attitude towards religion. It was strange; he and his kind rarely believed in God, never went to church, yet held onto their strange little superstitions as if they were commandments passed down from the Lord himself. He'd once told her that looking over your right shoulder at a new moon brought good luck. But the moon outside the window was waxing, so Eva half-heartedly offered two prayers instead.
As she brought the shotgun swiftly out from behind her back, her first prayer was that it was loaded. Her second prayer was that the monk wouldn't have time to shoot her first.
But then, just as suddenly as he'd lunged forward, he released his grip on her arm and stood up, looking down at her. In his robes, in the pale light of the moon that came through the half-open window, he looked like a statue to some Old Testament forefather; not the love and guidance of the new books but judgement, hellfire and brimstone.
"Will I?" she said, the defiance in her tone strengthened by the touch of polished wood beneath her fingers. Behind her back, her hands closed on the shotgun beneath the bed.
She slowly got up, untangling herself from the mess of sheets still wrapped around her legs, sliding the gun gently out behind her, out of his sight.
Eva didn't often pray. In fact, she hadn't prayed since she was a little girl, watched over by an Aunt outraged by her father's blasé attitude towards religion. It was strange; he and his kind rarely believed in God, never went to church, yet held onto their strange little superstitions as if they were commandments passed down from the Lord himself. He'd once told her that looking over your right shoulder at a new moon brought good luck. But the moon outside the window was waxing, so Eva half-heartedly offered two prayers instead.
As she brought the shotgun swiftly out from behind her back, her first prayer was that it was loaded. Her second prayer was that the monk wouldn't have time to shoot her first.
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by Monroe on Wed Oct 21, 2009 6:43 pm
The monk suddenly found himself faced with the mouth of a shotgun trained right at him. His hand hadn’t wavered, and they were locked in a sudden draw. He sucked in a quick breath, his dark eyes widening. Where had she gotten that gun? He mentally cursed himself for not paying more attention. He’d been so focused on finding her father he hadn’t even considered how dangerous the man’s daughter could be. He had ruled her out as a harmless woman, but he’d been mistaken.
“Do you even know how to use that thing?” he asked mockingly, not backing down. His arm didn’t lower and his gaze never wavered. “I’m surprised you even have the right end aimed at me.”
Best not to let her know he’d never held a gun in his life before that day. He’d never shot a gun or even hurt another person… almost. As a youngster he had gotten into one quarrel, and he and another boy had ended up in a fistfight behind the church. He had knocked out the other boy’s two front teeth, and in turn he had gotten a broken nose and two black eyes. His nose was still a little crooked, but the other boy had it much worse. He permanently had an empty gap in his mouth where Isandro had punched his teeth out. He had become a monk five years earlier, and he had long ago forgiven Isandro, but every time he saw that black, empty gap in the man’s teeth, he felt extreme guilt. It had been a lifelong reminder of what violence could do, and the effects of making brash decisions. He had thought he’d learned his lesson, but he realized with a jolt he hadn’t really learned anything at all. He was still exactly the same as he had been when he was fourteen and trading blows with another kid.
Any other time, he might have secretly admired the sort of open defiance Eva exhibited. He had always been complacent- born to take orders, not give them. He had been a sheep in Friar Lawrence’s flock, and he had been happy to live under the orders of a wiser man. Wasn’t humility a good thing? And yet he had always admired those men who questioned order, questioned doctrine, questioned scripture that he had always taken as absolute truth. Something was in them that gave them more… More what? More courage? More ambition? Isandro wondered if he lacked those things. In the secluded cloisters of his abbey, his lack of courage and ambition had never been remarked upon. Men of the cloth were supposed to take orders; it was their calling. But he had been forbidden to return. He was no longer a monk, no longer a man of the cloth. He couldn’t go back to that place and help rebuild the abbey after he went out and killed Father Lawrence’s murderer. The price of his vengeance was great.
“Do you even know how to use that thing?” he asked mockingly, not backing down. His arm didn’t lower and his gaze never wavered. “I’m surprised you even have the right end aimed at me.”
Best not to let her know he’d never held a gun in his life before that day. He’d never shot a gun or even hurt another person… almost. As a youngster he had gotten into one quarrel, and he and another boy had ended up in a fistfight behind the church. He had knocked out the other boy’s two front teeth, and in turn he had gotten a broken nose and two black eyes. His nose was still a little crooked, but the other boy had it much worse. He permanently had an empty gap in his mouth where Isandro had punched his teeth out. He had become a monk five years earlier, and he had long ago forgiven Isandro, but every time he saw that black, empty gap in the man’s teeth, he felt extreme guilt. It had been a lifelong reminder of what violence could do, and the effects of making brash decisions. He had thought he’d learned his lesson, but he realized with a jolt he hadn’t really learned anything at all. He was still exactly the same as he had been when he was fourteen and trading blows with another kid.
Any other time, he might have secretly admired the sort of open defiance Eva exhibited. He had always been complacent- born to take orders, not give them. He had been a sheep in Friar Lawrence’s flock, and he had been happy to live under the orders of a wiser man. Wasn’t humility a good thing? And yet he had always admired those men who questioned order, questioned doctrine, questioned scripture that he had always taken as absolute truth. Something was in them that gave them more… More what? More courage? More ambition? Isandro wondered if he lacked those things. In the secluded cloisters of his abbey, his lack of courage and ambition had never been remarked upon. Men of the cloth were supposed to take orders; it was their calling. But he had been forbidden to return. He was no longer a monk, no longer a man of the cloth. He couldn’t go back to that place and help rebuild the abbey after he went out and killed Father Lawrence’s murderer. The price of his vengeance was great.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by NorthernSoul on Thu Oct 22, 2009 5:46 pm
"Oh, monks joke, do they?" said Eva, fear retreating like the tide now she had a weapon in her hands. Perhaps this was why her father always carried his pistol on his hip, no matter where he went or what he did. "I've fired this many times before."
In truth, she'd fired it twice. Once had been when her father was teaching her how to aim at old oil cans lined up on the back wall of her Aunt's house on the outskirts of Lockwood Mesa when she was twelve.
The second time... The second time, she'd been nineteen. She'd rode up to the hole-in-the-wall up on the line of a rock outcrop thirty miles to the east on one of the rare occasions he'd taken her out into the desert with him and spent two nights in the company of him and half a dozen other outlaws. She'd spent the evenings enjoying the attention she, newly emerged as a woman from awkward adolescence, elicited from his companions and trying not to show any outward signs of shock at their language. On the third night, nine riders from the agency came out from the darkness, catching them almost unawares. Anxiously disobeying her father's hurried and serious instruction to skirt around the hill under the cover of the scrubby trees whilst he and the others held them off, she'd taken the shotgun from his pack and wedged herself into a crook of rocks before loading the gun as she'd once been taught.
Somewhere in the night, the sound of shots and shouts carried back up the hill. Then, too close, an unfamiliar voice rose out of the dark, accompanied by hooves. Instinctively, Eva had pulled the trigger in the general direction of the voice, before fright sent her scrabbling and breathless around the ridge. When she met with her father later, she'd never seen him so angry in her life (nor since). He took her straight to Bilwood and put her on a train to Cima, where she'd been travelling to take up a position as a governess. She'd never been out into the wilderness with him since.
Now, she felt a little like how she'd felt then. Only, this time she could see the intruder clearly, could train the barrel of the gun squarely at his chest. This time, she couldn't miss.
"Now," she said, forcing herself to take a step towards him. "Get out of my schoolhouse."
In truth, she'd fired it twice. Once had been when her father was teaching her how to aim at old oil cans lined up on the back wall of her Aunt's house on the outskirts of Lockwood Mesa when she was twelve.
The second time... The second time, she'd been nineteen. She'd rode up to the hole-in-the-wall up on the line of a rock outcrop thirty miles to the east on one of the rare occasions he'd taken her out into the desert with him and spent two nights in the company of him and half a dozen other outlaws. She'd spent the evenings enjoying the attention she, newly emerged as a woman from awkward adolescence, elicited from his companions and trying not to show any outward signs of shock at their language. On the third night, nine riders from the agency came out from the darkness, catching them almost unawares. Anxiously disobeying her father's hurried and serious instruction to skirt around the hill under the cover of the scrubby trees whilst he and the others held them off, she'd taken the shotgun from his pack and wedged herself into a crook of rocks before loading the gun as she'd once been taught.
Somewhere in the night, the sound of shots and shouts carried back up the hill. Then, too close, an unfamiliar voice rose out of the dark, accompanied by hooves. Instinctively, Eva had pulled the trigger in the general direction of the voice, before fright sent her scrabbling and breathless around the ridge. When she met with her father later, she'd never seen him so angry in her life (nor since). He took her straight to Bilwood and put her on a train to Cima, where she'd been travelling to take up a position as a governess. She'd never been out into the wilderness with him since.
Now, she felt a little like how she'd felt then. Only, this time she could see the intruder clearly, could train the barrel of the gun squarely at his chest. This time, she couldn't miss.
"Now," she said, forcing herself to take a step towards him. "Get out of my schoolhouse."
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by Monroe on Fri Oct 23, 2009 12:28 am
“I may be a man of God,” he said coldly, looking her over with disapproval. “but I know a joke when I see one.”
She hadn’t wavered, and time was wasting. How long were they going to be locked in a draw like this, pointing guns at each other like bandits? Time was wasting! Isandro glared at the woman across from him. She knew where her murderous father was going, and she was keeping it from him. Furthermore, she was wasting his time.
“Are you really going to shoot a monk?” he criticized, doubt heavy in his voice. “Why don’t you just lower that thing- I know you’re not going to shoot me. You’re just a woma-”
His pistol suddenly fired, and he felt the heat and the powder against the knuckles of his hand. The gun had suddenly misfired, and his eyes widened in horror at what he had done. He hadn’t actually been planning on shooting her.
When the pistol had misfired, the bullet hadn’t exactly gone straight, or perhaps his hand hadn’t been held straight, or his wrist had suddenly relaxed. He was unsure exactly what had happened. All he knew was that suddenly the woman across from him was bleeding with a gunshot wound to her leg.
“Aye, Dios mio!” he cursed, taking the lord’s name in vain. It was a rare occurrence for him, but he felt justified. As if it were a poisonous snake, Isandro tossed the pistol away and it skidded across the tile floor, landing under her bed. He didn’t want to touch it again. His first experience with a gun certainly hadn’t gone well.
God, what was he going to do with her now, he thought in an exasperated panic. He could leave her and try to find her father on his own, but who knew if that wound would fester. The coyotes might smell the blood and come and attack her, and she’d be defenseless. Well, she’d have that shotgun she was so proud of, the novice reasoned, but who knew how much ammunition she had for it? It suddenly felt like her bloodline was out to get him. For some reason, it just didn’t feel right leaving a woman- even an evil woman like her- to die a slow, painful death. Lawrence had taught him mercy and forgiveness. He was having a difficult time with those lessons though.
She hadn’t wavered, and time was wasting. How long were they going to be locked in a draw like this, pointing guns at each other like bandits? Time was wasting! Isandro glared at the woman across from him. She knew where her murderous father was going, and she was keeping it from him. Furthermore, she was wasting his time.
“Are you really going to shoot a monk?” he criticized, doubt heavy in his voice. “Why don’t you just lower that thing- I know you’re not going to shoot me. You’re just a woma-”
His pistol suddenly fired, and he felt the heat and the powder against the knuckles of his hand. The gun had suddenly misfired, and his eyes widened in horror at what he had done. He hadn’t actually been planning on shooting her.
When the pistol had misfired, the bullet hadn’t exactly gone straight, or perhaps his hand hadn’t been held straight, or his wrist had suddenly relaxed. He was unsure exactly what had happened. All he knew was that suddenly the woman across from him was bleeding with a gunshot wound to her leg.
“Aye, Dios mio!” he cursed, taking the lord’s name in vain. It was a rare occurrence for him, but he felt justified. As if it were a poisonous snake, Isandro tossed the pistol away and it skidded across the tile floor, landing under her bed. He didn’t want to touch it again. His first experience with a gun certainly hadn’t gone well.
God, what was he going to do with her now, he thought in an exasperated panic. He could leave her and try to find her father on his own, but who knew if that wound would fester. The coyotes might smell the blood and come and attack her, and she’d be defenseless. Well, she’d have that shotgun she was so proud of, the novice reasoned, but who knew how much ammunition she had for it? It suddenly felt like her bloodline was out to get him. For some reason, it just didn’t feel right leaving a woman- even an evil woman like her- to die a slow, painful death. Lawrence had taught him mercy and forgiveness. He was having a difficult time with those lessons though.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by NorthernSoul on Sat Oct 24, 2009 3:54 pm
The monk had been talking and suddenly, Eva was slammed back against the bed frame, with the same brute force as if she'd been kicked by a horse. At first, she hazily thought he'd hit her in the leg; lashed out with his foot or with the butt of his gun. But then, a strangely tranquil second later, the pain came.
It came in a white-hot maddening rush that stole the breath from her and filled her head with itself. She seemed unable to fit a signal other thought or feeling inside her skull except the urge to stop that consuming pain. With only one leg to support her, she fell to the floor with a sharp cry as her injured thigh landed on the cold tiles. He'd shot her! Her leg! Mindlessly, she moved her hands from where blood was leeching at a worryingly fast rate into the white cotton of her night gown to scrabble with blood-slicked fingers for her shotgun. Taking hold, she desperately swung it round and...
Click. It was empty.
With a howl of frustration and pain, she flung it from her and clutched at the bullet wound in her thigh, casting a frantic glance around her sparsely-decorated room for something that might serve as a tourniquet. Seeing nothing immediately to hand, she took the sheet from her bed and tore it with her teeth, all the while staring up at her assailant with the same expression of agonised, angry, helpless indignation of how an injured bear might look at its hunter.
"You... Bastard," she said, breathlessly, peeling back her blood-stained night-gown up to her upper thigh and clumsily wrapping a strip of sheet around her leg above the bullet wound. Her fingers weren't seeming to do what she wanted them to do and she was beginning to feel light-headed. The precious few thoughts she could squeeze in beside the pain weren't fitting together properly. "Aren't you going to... finish... the job? Or... just leave me to die...? He'll... He'll kill you. My father... Just leave..."
A tight knot in the make-shift tourniquet seemed to alleviate a little of the bleeding but even as she gazed at her hands, the pink flesh underneath her fingernails seemed to be turning white. Unseen by her own eyes, her lips were turning pale and the colour had drained rapidly from her cheeks. A bout of dizziness overcame her and she hazily tried to support herself by gripping the bed frame hard with one hand.
It came in a white-hot maddening rush that stole the breath from her and filled her head with itself. She seemed unable to fit a signal other thought or feeling inside her skull except the urge to stop that consuming pain. With only one leg to support her, she fell to the floor with a sharp cry as her injured thigh landed on the cold tiles. He'd shot her! Her leg! Mindlessly, she moved her hands from where blood was leeching at a worryingly fast rate into the white cotton of her night gown to scrabble with blood-slicked fingers for her shotgun. Taking hold, she desperately swung it round and...
Click. It was empty.
With a howl of frustration and pain, she flung it from her and clutched at the bullet wound in her thigh, casting a frantic glance around her sparsely-decorated room for something that might serve as a tourniquet. Seeing nothing immediately to hand, she took the sheet from her bed and tore it with her teeth, all the while staring up at her assailant with the same expression of agonised, angry, helpless indignation of how an injured bear might look at its hunter.
"You... Bastard," she said, breathlessly, peeling back her blood-stained night-gown up to her upper thigh and clumsily wrapping a strip of sheet around her leg above the bullet wound. Her fingers weren't seeming to do what she wanted them to do and she was beginning to feel light-headed. The precious few thoughts she could squeeze in beside the pain weren't fitting together properly. "Aren't you going to... finish... the job? Or... just leave me to die...? He'll... He'll kill you. My father... Just leave..."
A tight knot in the make-shift tourniquet seemed to alleviate a little of the bleeding but even as she gazed at her hands, the pink flesh underneath her fingernails seemed to be turning white. Unseen by her own eyes, her lips were turning pale and the colour had drained rapidly from her cheeks. A bout of dizziness overcame her and she hazily tried to support herself by gripping the bed frame hard with one hand.
Last edited by NorthernSoul on Thu Oct 29, 2009 5:12 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by Monroe on Sun Oct 25, 2009 6:53 pm
When Eva pulled the hem of her nightgown up to around her upper thighs, Isandro quickly looked away, flustered. He had always lived by a certain conduct, and he intended for things to stay that way even if he couldn’t immediately become a monk. He was still fostering a hope that some day, after much repentance, they might take him back.
His dark eyes were cast to the corner as she tied her make-shift tourniquet, his jaw set in a tense expression. The words she shouted surprised him, but only a little. He could see that she was covered once more from the corner of his eye and he looked back at her, exasperated.
“You’ve got a choice here, alright?” he told her plainly. “Either I can kill you now or let you bleed to death, or I can take you with me and make every effort to keep you from dying.”
He was kind of making things up as he went along, unsure what exactly he was getting at. He didn’t feel any sort of compassion for the woman in pain, but he did feel a moral obligation since he was the one who had caused that pain. Jesus would not have left her to die, he was sure, and neither would he as long as she cooperated.
“Take me to where your father is, and maybe you’ll live. You’re so sure your devil of a father will kill me, so what’s the difference anyway? Lead me to him and you’ll live. Refuse and you’ll die. Lie to me and I’ll kill you the second your lies unravel. I’ve already shot you once; don’t think I won’t do it again.”
He’d laid all his cards on the table, as a manner of speaking. He felt anxious- the murderer was getting away, and she was the only link he had to ever finding him. Far too much of his destiny lied in her red, blood covered hands.
His dark eyes were cast to the corner as she tied her make-shift tourniquet, his jaw set in a tense expression. The words she shouted surprised him, but only a little. He could see that she was covered once more from the corner of his eye and he looked back at her, exasperated.
“You’ve got a choice here, alright?” he told her plainly. “Either I can kill you now or let you bleed to death, or I can take you with me and make every effort to keep you from dying.”
He was kind of making things up as he went along, unsure what exactly he was getting at. He didn’t feel any sort of compassion for the woman in pain, but he did feel a moral obligation since he was the one who had caused that pain. Jesus would not have left her to die, he was sure, and neither would he as long as she cooperated.
“Take me to where your father is, and maybe you’ll live. You’re so sure your devil of a father will kill me, so what’s the difference anyway? Lead me to him and you’ll live. Refuse and you’ll die. Lie to me and I’ll kill you the second your lies unravel. I’ve already shot you once; don’t think I won’t do it again.”
He’d laid all his cards on the table, as a manner of speaking. He felt anxious- the murderer was getting away, and she was the only link he had to ever finding him. Far too much of his destiny lied in her red, blood covered hands.
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by NorthernSoul on Sun Oct 25, 2009 7:22 pm
Eva stared up at him blearily, barely registering his words but all the same somehow aware of the question he was putting to her.
He said she had a choice... But it was hardly a choice, was it? Lead him to her father or die. For she was certain she would die if she refused; the nearest farm was over a mile away and she was not sure she would be able to last until the morning without help of some kind. Part of her, the central hard core of stubbornness, screamed at her to deny him his demands. There was no question of her intentionally leading him to her father of course, but she could always lie.
But the monk had said that if he found out she was lying, she would die anyway. That bridge would have to be crossed when she came to it. For now, the consciousness that was slowly leaking out of the bullet wound in her leg was a far more urgent matter.
She looked at him for a few moments, before she was unable to hold her gaze focused for much longer and she dropped her eyes to the floor.
"Fine," Eva managed. "Fine... I don't- I don't know where he is... But I'll try. If you're stupid enough..."
She paused as her fingers crept back over to the edge of her wound. She was no doctor but she knew enough to realise that the bullet lodged an inch and a half into the flesh of her leg would have to come out soon or risk infection. Gritting her teeth, she edged a finger into the wound but could only get so far before the pain instinctively made her draw back. Cursing her own reflexes, she fixed her gaze back on the man standing over her. She could no longer make out his features; only a vague outline and the glint of the moonlight on the cross that hung around his neck.
"Fine... Just get your damn bullet out... of me," she breathed, accusatory.
He said she had a choice... But it was hardly a choice, was it? Lead him to her father or die. For she was certain she would die if she refused; the nearest farm was over a mile away and she was not sure she would be able to last until the morning without help of some kind. Part of her, the central hard core of stubbornness, screamed at her to deny him his demands. There was no question of her intentionally leading him to her father of course, but she could always lie.
But the monk had said that if he found out she was lying, she would die anyway. That bridge would have to be crossed when she came to it. For now, the consciousness that was slowly leaking out of the bullet wound in her leg was a far more urgent matter.
She looked at him for a few moments, before she was unable to hold her gaze focused for much longer and she dropped her eyes to the floor.
"Fine," Eva managed. "Fine... I don't- I don't know where he is... But I'll try. If you're stupid enough..."
She paused as her fingers crept back over to the edge of her wound. She was no doctor but she knew enough to realise that the bullet lodged an inch and a half into the flesh of her leg would have to come out soon or risk infection. Gritting her teeth, she edged a finger into the wound but could only get so far before the pain instinctively made her draw back. Cursing her own reflexes, she fixed her gaze back on the man standing over her. She could no longer make out his features; only a vague outline and the glint of the moonlight on the cross that hung around his neck.
"Fine... Just get your damn bullet out... of me," she breathed, accusatory.
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by Monroe on Thu Oct 29, 2009 10:29 pm
"Fine... Just get your damn bullet out... of me," the woman grudgingly acquiesced. Isandro fought down the feeling that he was making a very grave mistake in not just letting her die. Chances were that she would lie to him, and would he really kill her as he had promised? He wasn’t so sure. He had shot her once, but that had been mostly on accident. While he [I]had[.I] been aiming the gun at her, he’d mostly just been bluffing. He hadn’t intended for the blasted thing to go off and shoot her in the leg.
“Fine,” he said tersely, and gestured to the ground. “Sit down on the ground unless you want to ruin your mattress.” he said, looking around the room for something that might help, or perhaps something that might at least lend him a sense of direction. He had no medical knowledge whatsoever and was suddenly wishing he hadn’t diligently neglected that area of his studies. It had always been Brother Paul who had tended to the sick and injured.
He did know, however, that dirt led to infection. It would only make things worse if he tried to pick the bullet out of her leg with his dirty hands. He drew in a heavy breath and turned wordlessly, not informing her of his intention.
“Stay,” he added as an afterthought, turning to look at her over his shoulder as he passed through the doorway of her room, as if she really had a lot of other options. With that wound, the woman didn’t look like she’d be going far even if she wanted to.
The novice entered the tiny kitchen that he had briefly admired before, and he looked around it hurriedly, opening draws and a small closet pantry. On the top shelf he found a bottle of amber liquid- some kind of alcohol, but he didn’t know what. He’d never had a drink in his life. He set the bottle down on the table along with a few of the cleanest rags he could find, and then walked out of the house, approaching the well he had seen.
The brown skinned man drew up a bucket of water and vigorously cleansed his hands, trying to remove all the grit from under his fingernails that came from tilling the land. The earth seemed almost to be a part of him, sewn into the fabric of his being. His skin, the color of the soil, his eyes the color of the bark; he lived an organic lifestyle and was an organic being.
When he was reasonably satisfied with the state of his hands, he reentered the house. He gathered the bottle of liquor and the rags into his arms and went back into the small bedroom. Unsurprisingly, she was still there. Her face looked pale from the blood loss she was suffering, and her expression was pained. He could see strands of her mahogany locks clinging to the sides of her face, matted down against her skin. She looked drawn yet determined. He told himself that if he was ever leaving her alone again, it would not be with a loaded gun under the bed within easy access. That had been a stupid move on his part.
“If you’ve got any words of wisdom, I recommend you say them now.” he advised, setting the supplies he had gathered on her nightstand. “I can say a prayer for you, but that is the extent of my knowledge.”
“Fine,” he said tersely, and gestured to the ground. “Sit down on the ground unless you want to ruin your mattress.” he said, looking around the room for something that might help, or perhaps something that might at least lend him a sense of direction. He had no medical knowledge whatsoever and was suddenly wishing he hadn’t diligently neglected that area of his studies. It had always been Brother Paul who had tended to the sick and injured.
He did know, however, that dirt led to infection. It would only make things worse if he tried to pick the bullet out of her leg with his dirty hands. He drew in a heavy breath and turned wordlessly, not informing her of his intention.
“Stay,” he added as an afterthought, turning to look at her over his shoulder as he passed through the doorway of her room, as if she really had a lot of other options. With that wound, the woman didn’t look like she’d be going far even if she wanted to.
The novice entered the tiny kitchen that he had briefly admired before, and he looked around it hurriedly, opening draws and a small closet pantry. On the top shelf he found a bottle of amber liquid- some kind of alcohol, but he didn’t know what. He’d never had a drink in his life. He set the bottle down on the table along with a few of the cleanest rags he could find, and then walked out of the house, approaching the well he had seen.
The brown skinned man drew up a bucket of water and vigorously cleansed his hands, trying to remove all the grit from under his fingernails that came from tilling the land. The earth seemed almost to be a part of him, sewn into the fabric of his being. His skin, the color of the soil, his eyes the color of the bark; he lived an organic lifestyle and was an organic being.
When he was reasonably satisfied with the state of his hands, he reentered the house. He gathered the bottle of liquor and the rags into his arms and went back into the small bedroom. Unsurprisingly, she was still there. Her face looked pale from the blood loss she was suffering, and her expression was pained. He could see strands of her mahogany locks clinging to the sides of her face, matted down against her skin. She looked drawn yet determined. He told himself that if he was ever leaving her alone again, it would not be with a loaded gun under the bed within easy access. That had been a stupid move on his part.
“If you’ve got any words of wisdom, I recommend you say them now.” he advised, setting the supplies he had gathered on her nightstand. “I can say a prayer for you, but that is the extent of my knowledge.”
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Monroe - Member for 4 years
Re: The Apostle's Creed ( )
by NorthernSoul on Fri Oct 30, 2009 9:04 am
Eva scowled after him as he instructed her not to ruin her own mattress, savagely thinking how he'd not been too concerned about making a mess of her leg just moments before. Still, she did as he said, simply because she had a feeling she would not be able to support herself upright for much longer, and gritted her teeth as she lowered herself onto the blood-stained floorboards. She remained there, forcing breath from between pursed lips, clutching her hands to her leg so hard that her knuckles turned white, awaiting his return. Stay. She could hardly run away, could she?
It had been some minutes and Eva was beginning to wonder if he had left her after all. Despite her rapidly-fading consciousness, she could not help a burst of anger invigorate her at his cowardice. To shoot her, then pretend to be tending to her wounds whilst really taking the opportunity to leave her to die. To not even tell her of his intention! In the haze of her minds eye, she could see him marching back into the hills, his habit blending in with the moonlit dust.
But even as she cursed him, she heard his footsteps and saw that he had returned, clutching a bottle of the golden rum from the top shelf in her kitchen and a few rags from the sink.
"A prayer?" she spat viciously. "And what... what use will that be? Just- Just get on with it!"
She rolled back the hem of her blood-stained nightgown to expose the wound on her thigh. Liberally-minded though she was, Eva might have had second thoughts about exposing so much of her leg to a man, but the pain necessitated it and the thought never crossed her mind. She leaned back and fixed her unfocused glare at him.
It had been some minutes and Eva was beginning to wonder if he had left her after all. Despite her rapidly-fading consciousness, she could not help a burst of anger invigorate her at his cowardice. To shoot her, then pretend to be tending to her wounds whilst really taking the opportunity to leave her to die. To not even tell her of his intention! In the haze of her minds eye, she could see him marching back into the hills, his habit blending in with the moonlit dust.
But even as she cursed him, she heard his footsteps and saw that he had returned, clutching a bottle of the golden rum from the top shelf in her kitchen and a few rags from the sink.
"A prayer?" she spat viciously. "And what... what use will that be? Just- Just get on with it!"
She rolled back the hem of her blood-stained nightgown to expose the wound on her thigh. Liberally-minded though she was, Eva might have had second thoughts about exposing so much of her leg to a man, but the pain necessitated it and the thought never crossed her mind. She leaned back and fixed her unfocused glare at him.
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NorthernSoul - Member for 5 years
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If you appreciate what they do, feel free to donate your spare change to help feed them on the weekends. After selecting the amount you want to donate from the menu, you can continue by clicking on PayPal logo.
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RolePlayGateway is proudly powered by obscene amounts of caffeine, duct tape, Wordpress, Moodle, phpBB, AJAX Chat, Mantis, support from Mary Bedard (biochemist, photographer, and adventurer!). and the efforts of many dedicated writers and roleplayers. It operates under a "don't like it, suggest an improvement" platform, and we gladly take suggestions for improvements or changes.
The custom-built "roleplay" system was designed and implemented by Eric Martindale as of July 2009. All attempts to replicate or otherwise emulate this system and its method of organizing roleplay are strictly prohibited without his express written and contractual permission; violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
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