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Knife Ears

Discussion in 'General Role Play' started by Yoshimitsu, Sep 21, 2011.

  1. Yoshimitsu

    Former Moderator

    [closed RP, sorry! I know, I hate them as much as you do! But this is a test for my new character to see if I can get a feel for him. Yeahhhhhh!]

    It was an aesthetic choice, above all else. The dimly lit room, ornately decorated, had a quiet charm to it. All of the electricity had been cut out of the house forcibly, all appliances either destroyed or sold and no lightswitches were left in the walls. Even with the gaping holes, though, the building was sophisticated and beautiful. The elegantly carved doorhandles and tasteful paintings that hung on the walls screamed wealth and class.

    Why the electricity even existed was a mystery.

    The previous owner of the house had been well-versed in arcane arts. Cooking or illumination was such an easy thing to accomplish, it was confusing to think why any kind of electricity in the house was necessary. It was likely an aesthetic choice, too. Keeping up an appearence for any guests who were confused by, feared or hated magic. It was doubtful that the house even got many visitors, being so far out of the way and with so many stories surrounding it. The old owner had been a recluse, save for the few visitors he did get. Strange people, with strange tattoos or brands, in fashion that had been outdated years ago. Centuries ago, even. Those that refused to blend, even when they could.

    The new owner didn't have a choice in the matter.

    There was no blending for him. He remembered what had happened, nearly a century ago. Sometimes at night, in his slumber, he relived the moment in his dreams. The feel of lava running through his veins, like white hot wired were being forced against his skin. The weeks of torture as those bastards used him in their twisted experiments, experiments that left him marked permanently. The white lines that covered his face, his chest and arms, his entire body bearing the marks of a tortured existence. He had been lucky, though. He had lived through it. Others hadn't.

    And it was because he lived that he could kill.

    The experiments, they had given him his purpose and his skill. To hunt and destroy those that had ruined his life. The old owner of this house, this mansion, had been the first to die. The first kill. He could picture it in his mind, the fear in those eyes and the knowledge that the victim's life was in his hands. Ripping out what kept him alive and crushing it, showing him just what he had done and what the consequences were. The power that he felt was incredible, and he knew just what he had to do.

    No mage would be left alive.

    He sat at the end of a very long table, varnished mahogany with ornately designed legs. The chair he sat in was large, showy, almost a throne with comfortable leather. At regular intervals down the table were candlesticks, dripping hot wax on to the wood and casting an orange glow over the room. Torches hung on the walls, the building itself magically enchanted to prevent fire from catching. Wooden boxes were stacked into the corner, full of papers that the new occupier had no interest in. There was a bottle of wine resting in front of him, and another at the opposite end of the table but with a glass accompanying it. It felt familiar, being in a room that had none of the modern conveniences but instead filled with archaic methods of living.

    And soon his guest would arrive.

    As much as he didn't look much older than twenty, his actual age was nearly a hundred. He was beautiful. Even the raised white lines covering his body couldn't destroy the fact that he was beautiful. His dark hair was effortlessly messy, pushed out of his brown eyes and parted slightly to allow his pointed ears freedom. While he was in the house, he did not wear his breast plate or hardened leather shoulder guards, instead choosing his long-sleeved black shirt and tight grey jeans. His shirt was a low-enough cut to reveal the spiral-like white scars on his neck and chest, but even that did not detract from his appearence.

    He was slouched slightly towards the table, hand resting on the bottle of wine before him. Soon his guest would be here, and business could be arranged.
  2. Teapot

    Teapot Virtual Duck Enthusiast
    Staff Member Administrator

    Nathan Heath was, by all accounts, not a particularly nice man. He'd made his way in the world by lying, cheating, and generally using other people for his own gain. But the one thing that Nathan would never do is to take a life. He couldn't stand even the mere thought of blood on his hands. However, it had so happened that this had become necessary for most parties involved.

    That was why he went to see Knife Ears that afternoon.

    His suit, dark, finely cut and freshly pressed, was no protection against the howling wind. He shivered. His hair, short, brown, and carefully trimmed, didn't help either, and the wind whipped it around, foiling his attempts at keeping it neat. He soon gave up, and turned his attention to the mansion before him.

    The house before him was huge, ornate, but there was an air of shabbiness around the edges: the grass was quite long, and there was a bush that desperately needed trimming. This did not, however, serve to distract from its beauty. The architecture was carefully designed, painstakingly built, and seemed to be very old indeed, but there were modern touches: electricity lines were roughly attached to an upper story wall, although it looked like they had been forcibly disconnected. Nathan took a few seconds to simply stare at the view, but quickly checked himself: this was neither the time or the place.

    He knew Knife Ears from reputation, and that reputation was carefully built. His people had told him to go alone, to simply enter without knocking. Knife Ears would know he was there, and Knife Ears would also know that Heath was simply there to do business.

    He let himself in as quietly as he could, and gaped at the complete lack of electrical power. His earlier hunch had been right: there were holes in the walls where lightswitches had been. Instead, there were torches adorning the walls, their flames casting a hot aura around the room. Nathan wondered how they'd managed not to set anything on fire before now. Despite the heat, a chill ran down his spine: he had been told, of course, of Knife Ears' habits, but he had dismissed it as simple eccentricity, a crutch or a ruse to maintain the man's sanity - or to ward off thieves or other assassins.

    Regardless, he was in too far to stop now. He placed one foot in front of the other, his shoes hardly making a sound on the musty, thick carpets - instead, his footsteps emitted small clouds of dust when he moved.

    He reached the final door, inhaled deeply, and turned the handle: inside was a room that he could only describe as medieval: boxes were stacked in the corner, and an incredibly long table stood before him. But his surroundings did not make the biggest impact: the man sitting at the far end of the table did.

    Knife Ears - and he could see now how he had gotten the name - was sitting in the chair, his hand on a bottle of wine. His face and body were covered in thin white lines; they looked, to Nathan's untrained eyes, like scars. The man was, Nathan thought, extremely handsome despite this. Nathan's dark suit and black tie suddenly felt out of place as his eyes scanned what the other was wearing: a long-sleeved black shirt and jeans, neither caring to hide the scars.

    The most astounding thing about the man was the look in his eyes, however. Even Nathan could see that they were the eyes of a man who had taken lives: not once, but several times. This was a good sign. Nathan needed someone who could get the job done.

    Nathan placed a hand on the back of the chair nearest him, and simply waited. He felt compelled to let the other speak first.
  3. Yoshimitsu

    Former Moderator

    Knife Ears had examined the door for several minutes before the man had entered, his keen sense of hearing alerting him to the presence of a man in his home. Thankfully, he knew already that this man was expected. He had entered without knocking, and made his way along the written path. A thief would have examined rooms beforehand, and an assassin would not have used the door. Even the most trained of assassins would never have gone straight through the door. Too many of them knew what he could so.

    The man that walked through the door was mostly unremarkable. A crisp suit that was ruffled by the wind, brown hair that showed the same symptoms. He measured up the man immediately. A liar and a cheat, someone who treated other people like playthings or tools. Someone who made their way through life by using other people. Knife Ears had seen this sort of people too many times before, and yet he still allowed them to come to his door. Some things required his talents, and he required their money.

    He nodded at the man as he sunk into the seat opposite him.

    "Help yourself to wine," he said simply, his hand still on his own bottle. He took a swig, then waited for a response.
  4. Teapot

    Teapot Virtual Duck Enthusiast
    Staff Member Administrator

    Nathan sat at the table uneasily. The man had given him an unpleasant glance, but at least it was only a glance. The fact that he had gotten this close proved that Knife Ears wasn't about to throw him out of the house, or more likely, simply kill him where he stood.

    He poured some wine, measuring his words in his head. He needed to make a good first impression upon the man, if that was possible, and his choice of language was vital to that. He tasted the scarlet drink, which was sharp and dry. Nathan mused that the kind of wine a man drinks could probably say a lot about his character, but he realised this was probably not the case for Knife Ears. He decided to save his business for later.

    "So," he began, "I like to know the men I work with. Tell me, how did you get into this job?"
  5. Yoshimitsu

    Former Moderator

    Knife Ears smirked at the question, relishing in the irony of the fairly light tone used. It was a tough choice, whether to give an honest answer or a falsified one. Though he had crafted his falsified story carefully to maintain truth within, it was still a lie. The true extent of his reasoning was still a mystery in this version. However, the man in front of him was still strikingly deceitful and cruel. An ounce of the truth would be sufficient.

    "Tell me, I'm curious about the most pain you've felt in any one moment," he requested politely, taking another swig of wine. The sharp taste mingled with his words, giving a slight edge to his voice.

    "Have you ever been tortured? Have you ever prayed for death just because you were in a hopeless pain, one you couldn't escape from no matter what you said or did? Have you ever been in such a situation that you have willingly tried to kill yourself just because someone was using you to fuel their own desires?"
  6. Teapot

    Teapot Virtual Duck Enthusiast
    Staff Member Administrator

    A puzzled look crossed Heath's face. It seemed such an evasive question. Surely he could simply give a straight answer? Still, no matter. He'd play along.

    "No. I can't say I have. It's foolish to let yourself get into a situation like that."

    He considered the man for a moment. Those lines on his body. He quickly realised that he had probably made a mistake. Instead of apologising, which was likely the sensible thing to do, he merely blundered on.

    "Well, seeing as you asked, you're about to tell me about it, aren't you?"
  7. Yoshimitsu

    Former Moderator

    Knife Ears chuckled again.

    "I was in that situation, but it was before I became so vigilant," he explained. He sipped his wine again.

    "I was young, foolish and arrogant, or so I was told," he continued. "My first memory is of what happened. It was as though fire itself was being pushed against my skin. Fire itself was being forced through my veins, through my heart and mind. It was excrutiating. On their deathbeds, those foul men who did this told me what they had done and why. They told me of the many men and women who hadn't survived the procedure. At the end of their lives, it was their own foul behaviour that gave me the strength to kill them, and to keep on killing."

    Knife Ears lowered his bottle and sat up straight. While one hand rest on the bottle, the other on the arm of his chair, he did not seem as relaxed. There was a flicker of blue through his scars, like a stray spark. It was ethereal, and beautiful. The way the spark moved was hypnotising, up his spare hand, his arm his shoulder and neck. It came to an end along his face.

    "You asked to know me, and so you learn," he stated. "It is beneficial, for if that had never happened, you would have never made your way here."
  8. Teapot

    Teapot Virtual Duck Enthusiast
    Staff Member Administrator

    The legs of the chair Nathan sat in slid back a fraction of an inch, but Nathan kept his gaze level with the other man's eyes. He found this man's way of thinking interesting, and unfamiliar. It seemed, despite the obvious hardships he'd been through, Knife Ears was at least realistic about his past, if not optimistic.

    "I'm curious. Those scars, do they carry magic?"

    Nathan knew very little of magic: where he came from, there was none. But there was no other way of describing the spark he saw pass through the other man's body. It was captivating.
  9. Yoshimitsu

    Former Moderator

    The way the man's eyes following the spark was something that interested Knife Ears. He was captivated, and confused. Not the first time he had seen this, but it was usually when he was about to deliver the act of mercy itself.

    At the question, Knife Ears gave a wry smile.

    "There is truth is saying they do, but it is equally at fault," he stated. His posture was still no less relaxed. "The by-product of the experiments conducted on my body left something behind. To say I am a magical entity would be incorrect. I am no mage. Instead, I find myself given talents that allow me to deal death to those who would enslave me again. It is a poetic justice, and one I dare not take lightly."
  10. Sem

    Sem The Last of the Snowmen
    Former Administrator

    A single black car silently drove up the driveway of the mansion. It was a small, classy vehicle, one of elegance. Brian Mikkelson wouldn’t be caught dead in a limo – far too tacky. The driver pulled up to the home’s front steps and then got out. Brian’s door opened with a click and the chauffer held it open as he got out. The wind tugged at Brian’s clothes, but he was kept relatively comfortable within his knee-length trench.

    “Wait here,” Brian instructed his driver and began ascending the steps.

    There was the tiniest sense of depravity about the old mansion. It was still beautiful, still gorgeous, but if it went any longer with the current neglect it would soon be not-so-beautiful.

    Brian walked up to the door and gripped the handle with a leather-gloved hand, letting himself in. Once inside he slipped out of his trench and placed it on a coat rack near the door. He tugged the black gloves off of his hands and stuffed them into a pocket of the trench before he went about straightening his suit and correcting his dirty-blond hair. He pulled his sleeve up and checked the face of his million-dollar watch.

    Then, with a smirk of confidence, the man began walking, his shiny black shoes clacking against the floor, one directly in front of the other as if he were walking on a thin line. This way of walking gave him a sort of gait that was different than that of most people.

    He caught a glimpse of his blue eyes in a mirror as he walked past it and smiled. Brian had achieved much for a young man only in his early twenties. He had acquired his father’s company as part of a large inheritance upon his father’s untimely, unfortunate death. A death that had been entirely Brian’s fault. What could he say? Brian was ready for his life to begin and his father was taking too long to die. It was better this way. Now his father could rest in peace with his mother.

    Brian entered a dimly lit room which already had two men inside. One was dressed much like Brian himself was, but the other, Knife Ears, was dressed much more casually.

    “Good afternoon, gentleman,” Brian said, walking in. He grabbed an empty glass and poured himself some of the wine the other man had on the table next to him. With glass in hand he took a seat in another chair across from Knife Ears.

    Brian swirled the liquid in the glass before taking a sip, never taking his eyes off of Knife Ears. The assassin was unbelievably attractive. The scars which would normally put people off only made Brian want to see more. He was obviously not as fearful of the elf as he should be, but he hardly saw that as a bad thing. One should never fear beauty.

    After another sip Brian set his hand with the glass on the armrest, crossed his legs, and leaned the side of his head against his other hand, relaxing quite comfortably into his seat.

    Brian stared directly into Knife Ears’ eyes and said, “I’m not going to waste your time like this man has. My name is Brian Mikkelson, and whatever he’s planning to offer I’ll double it to get you to do the job I need done as soon as possible.”
  11. Yoshimitsu

    Former Moderator

    Knife Ears chuckled as the second man walked into the room. His suit was smarter, darker, crisper than the first man's, but there was an underlying current that was obvious to him. The man who had just entered was not someone who cared for the feelings of othes. From the way he had entered, ignored the first man, and poured himself a glass of wine, Knife Ears had already figured out this man. One who focused on himself. A distaste in his mouth as he realised he was not the first assassin this man had come to.

    "You may pay double all you like," he said calmly, before taking a healthy mouthful of his wine. "I was engaged in conversation before you entered, with a man who cares more for who they employ and not what their reputation may or may not be. I have worked hard on my reputation, before you say it, but it is a rare thing for a man to be interested in my past. We shall finish our conversation, unless he chooses to get to business now. You are permitted to join, of course."

    Knife Ears finally rested back in his seat, though the bottle of wine was still close at hand. Another spark shot up his scars, casting his face in a sapphire glow briefly.
  12. Teapot

    Teapot Virtual Duck Enthusiast
    Staff Member Administrator

    Nathan surveyed the newcomer with mildly irritated apathy. He was used to pushy people: they were a dime a dozen in his line of work, and he had learned how to deal with them.

    "Excuse me, I was speaking," he said, quietly but firmly. There was a note of sharp authority on his voice, but his expression remained dispassionate. This man would not get to him. He would seal the deal first.

    "As I was saying, you speak of previous... captors. Have you managed to locate any of them yet? And would this matter, as important as it is, affect your work if one was to appear?"
  13. Yoshimitsu

    Former Moderator

    "I have located them," Knife Ears stated, a shadow suddenly cast over his face as he lowered his head slightly. "Not all of them, yet. I tore their hearts out. For what they have done, they deserve much worse, but I will not risk them evading me any longer. The threat of the mages must be destroyed. No one deserves the torture they put you through."

    He raised his head again, and examined the first man again. After the intrusion, the man's face had sharpened somewhat. There was a definite feel of authority there, a note of intolerance and anger but one that could be backed up if it had to be. The elf liked this man.

    "As for whether it would affect my work, I do not deny that it would," he continued, relaxing again. "However, not in the manner you are thinking. I would be contractually obliged to eradicate whoever you want eradicated. It would merely take a moment longer, while I observed the mage's movements. Just long enough to determine their intentions, or to track them briefly somehow. Rest assured, however, I do not forget a client and their wished."

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