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| ❧ Come {P L A Y} In My G A R D E N S ☙; Active | Closed | Mature | |
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| Topic Started: Nov 3 2012, 08:24 PM (255 Views) | |
| Gipity | Nov 3 2012, 08:24 PM Post #1 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>Fletcher Proctor: Traveler and inventor of the Millennium Compass. <br><br>Wentworth Proctor: Inventor of the artificial heart and various prosthetic technologies; Co-inventor of the first time machine. <br><br>Reginald Proctor: Inventor of the first airship/submarine hybrid and co-inventor of the first time machine. <br><br>Gwendolyn Mauratius Proctor: One of the bravest woman you could ever meet and an astound airship captain. <br><br>August Proctor: War veteran, co-inventor of the first time machine, and can build anything he puts his mind to. <br><br>Lavinia Trumeter Proctor: One of the strongest woman you could ever meet. A born heroine. <br><br>Astrid Proctor Ledger: War hero, after not being drafted, but volunteering. She is also one of the bravest woman you could ever meet. <br><br>Stellan Proctor: A nobody. An average boy who shares the Proctor name but reaps none of the talent and strength associated with it. <br><br>That last one is me. So far, I'm the end of a long line (Even longer, from what I've been told) of Proctors who have done incredible things. I don't fit the criteria. I never have. I've always been the boy in the back, or off in his room, or hiding behind his sister. Astrid was always the boisterous one, the one who would make something of herself. She was the brave and reckless one. She had inherited our grandmother's bravery and need for flight and adventure. She would be someone. <br><br>I wish I could say I was an inventor, like my father, grandfather, and all the men before me, but that's hardly the case. I've built things, surely, but I've never created something on my own, or at least nothing real special. Tools to help around the kitchen, or around the house in general, but that's not a time machine or a grand airship. It's trinkets and little appliances. I fix things. I clean. I cook. I'm just a domestic boy. I stay at home or wander about the forests and I do what I do. I'm not special. I won't be written about. I won't change the world in any way. I won't bring science further than it's gone before. I won't be a hero. <br><br>I want to say I'm not talked about, but that's not the case. <br><br>Due to my father's condition after his experiences in the war, the latest draft had skipped me over. They didn't want to bother chancing another Proctor being forced into battle and eventually turning against his own. They just passed on by. I was fine with that. Of course I was. I didn't want to go to war. I'm not strong willed. I would not doubt it if I would end up like my father. I don't want to see what he saw, or hear what he heard, or feel what he felt. I've only experienced it secondhand from him, from his severe episodes, and that's enough for me. Fine. They could skip over me. We could be cozy and safe in our house like always, and continue on. <br><br>The whispers started though. I was the only boy of my age range who wasn't involved directly with the war. They didn't like how I had a free pass, nor that I didn't have the courage to volunteer, because they wouldn't refuse that. It wasn't so awful. It melted into the whispers about my father. It got worse, however, much worse, when my sister volunteered. I was so betrayed by it. Not only was she putting our parents through something awful, as well as myself, for who was I without my twin, but she humiliated me. How could I face anyone, when they knew my tiny sister had given herself to the army and I was sitting pretty at home, like a coward? The girls wouldn't give me second glances. The townspeople made sure their cruel words were heard when I passed by. I don't know how many times I sat up in our tree house, crying, so conflicted on whether I should just go. Maybe it would break me, but I wouldn't have to hear it anymore. Maybe I could be somebody. I couldn't though. I couldn't do that to my parents, but that was just a cherry on top of my fear keeping me away. I was a coward. A scrawny little coward. <br><br>Astrid had been deemed dead after six months of service, though deep down, I didn't think she was truly dead. Sometimes I thought my father felt the same, but it upset my mother so much to even mention it, that he never really voiced it. I'll never forget her snapping at me after I finally spoke after an entire two weeks to say this. Never had I felt so alone in those days. I had no sister, and my parents could only hold onto each other in their grieving. I was always in town to get groceries and other such supplies for them, where the townspeople didn't bother taking pity on my loss. Some said it should have been me. I think I was called a waste of space once, but I had rushed so fast out of that shop that I hadn't been paying too close attention. <br><br>Astrid had ended up being alive, just as I thought, a case of horrible amnesia keeping her from us all that time. She came home, and things were sort of back to normal, but that didn't mean they were good. I was quiet though. I didn't express my issues. My family had enough of those. We were suppose to be happy, so the happy piece is what I would play. We grew a little bigger and happier when Astrid's wartime sweetheart, a man she had fallen in love with in her time of not knowing who she was, Eli Ledger, had been able to truly be with her again. They were married soon enough, and I become that fifth wheel. I was getting older, and never had I acquired a girl of my own. They didn't want anything to do with me, and to be honest, none of them were the sort I took a fancy to, though maybe I say that to make myself feel better. I couldn't stay here anymore. I didn't want to leave my family, but they wouldn't really miss me too much. I was the shadow to Astrid's light. I had made myself a doormat. It wasn't their fault. It was my own. I know they love me and all, of course, but I felt if I was gone, it'd be a little less space wasted. <br><br>They didn't understand at first, but they accepted it. They wanted to see me happy. They saw I wasn't getting anywhere in our town, so they thought maybe I would find whatever it was I was searching for elsewhere. They made me promise to write, and that I would do my best to make it home for the holidays. That was easy. <br><br>The hard part was actually leaving. It was harder than even I thought. I didn't think I'd make it passed the porch, never mind into a motorcar and onto a train, out of our town, miles away from my family. I guess I really am desperate to change something in my life. I have nothing going for me where I'm from, so what do I have to lose leaving it? It's not war. It's travel. Knowing myself, I won't get myself into some dangerous scuffle and get myself killed. I hope I don't. I'm no Peter Pan. Dying is more adventure than I would like. <br><br>According to my father though, I am Jack from Jack and the Beanstalk. At one point in my teens I had used to think it was because I'd very likely be the stupid boy who would trade their last cow for supposedly magic beans, because obviously I'd never be brave enough to climb a beanstalk. However, my father left me a note in my bag, saying, 'Save the magic harp'. In my father's version of the story, with me as Jack, the magic harp that plays by itself is actually a woman, who falls in love with me because I rescue her from an awful giant. It used to make me laugh as a child, but as I grew older, it just made me sad. The idea of someone falling in love with me seemed so far from reality. It really was just a story. That part isn't going to come true, but I am climbing the beanstalk, aren't I? I just hope I don't run into any giants. <br><br>So far, I've been traveling for a month's time. I've made it out of my homeland, the world of machines and technical wonders. I've hit what we call the bridge, which is a place where the land of mechanics and the land of magic collide in a strange combination. What I've seen has been quite incredible, as any sort of magic and mystique I had been able to witness before had been through stories and imagination, but not reality. Magic is faint here though, not like it is on the other side, where my sort of work with metals and trinkets is deemed unacceptable. I'm not sure I want to go there just yet. It'd be taking away one of the few things I know how to do. <br><br>One of my favorite things to do is find quiet places to work on my projects. I have several works in progress in my backpack, more so than clothes really, and I work on them whenever I find beautiful places to sit, secluded from people. It's when I work at my best. I know it's not really what I should be doing. I should be meeting people, and doing incredible things. I suppose it's not in me to be social, to make friends. I've never had a knack for it. That was my sister. It was always my sister. I do want to do incredible things, though what those incredible things are, I have not a clue. I'll have to come across something that appeals to me soon. I'm looking for it, though my timid nature is probably keeping me from looking hard enough. <br><br>Tonight, I find myself hiking the cliff sides. It's been ages since I've seen a sign of town, or any sort of houses, so I'll admit it's creepy being up here by myself. It's pretty though, in a sort of foreboding way. I find the fog is getting thicker the farther I go and the rumbling storm above me is growing angrier. I don't mind sleeping outside, but not during a ranging thunderstorm. I have to find shelter and I have to find it fast. Unfortunately, I don't find it fast enough, because the rain starts pouring down on my small stature, the lightening flashing throughout the rolling hills and deep ravines. I start running, looking for any sign of shelter, because I'm growing sort of desperate. I slip in the mud a few times, making myself a bit of a mess. It doesn't help that it's freezing either, and I don't have a heavy coat on. <br><br>Finally, my salvation comes in a vine covered mansion towards the top of the cliffs, looking as if it was built into them. I book towards it, slipping and unable to stop myself as I reach the nearest door, slamming into it. I grunt before I start knocking on it, "Hello? Is anybody there?" A shriek of thunder runs across the sky and I jump like an idiot before I knock again, "If you could provide me some shelter, I'd like that very much please." There's no answer. I wait and I knock again, but there is still no answer. "Hello?" I call once more as my hand rests upon the handle, and it pushes down with ease, the door unlocked. I pause and look at it, puzzled, before I slowly open the door. I go to peek inside, but I stop in my tracks when I get a whiff of something insanely sweet and powdery, knocking me back a bit and making my nose scrunch up as it tickles the inside. I'm about to peek again when another flash of lightening sends me inside with a single jump, slamming the door shut behind me. That's when I'm floored by what I see. <br><br>It's like a strange mixture of a greenhouse and a castle, and it's glorious. The plants creep up the walls, flowers blossoming as if it is the middle of spring, and they are the most beautiful flowers you could dream of seeing. Everything somehow seems to have a slight glow to it, like a haze, and I blink, wondering if maybe I am dreaming. I've never seen wild flora so dense and colorful, especially on the inside of a structure. All of this hardly compares to the forests outside of home. I am surprised at myself when I don't hesitate to run my hands along the moss along the walls, reveling in how soft it is. I don't stop though. Something is compelling me to walk forward, like this path I'm supposed to take. I turn down a corridor, and when I do, I realize that I feel odd. I'm off somehow. It's not entirely unpleasant, just different, but I ignore it, because what I'm seeing is breathtaking. <br><br>Halfway down the hallway, I see figures in the distance. They seem to be workers here, and while my footsteps quicken, but they don't leave a relaxed pace. I feel so calm. "E-Excuse me? Sir? I didn't mean to barge in but the storm and all." He doesn't react to me, at least not vocally, though he does give me a look that makes me keep going forward. I find another person, this time a female, but she doesn't react when she sees me, so I pass by. Am I trespassing, or not? I'm not sure if I care though, as my head grows in its' dreamy fogginess. There's another servant ahead of me, gesturing into a room, and somehow knowing that's where I'm suppose to go, I glide inside, or at least that's what it feels like. <br><br>It's the most radiant room I've seen so far. Actually, it's the only room I've seen as I've only been in foyers and corridors, but it's still the best of what I've seen of this magnificent place. "Wow." I whisper uneventfully as I walk forward, into the most luscious garden I've ever set eyes on. It's as if the flora is inviting me in, and I don't take long to reach a spot on the floor covered with a thick bed of moss, and I sit down, tired from my journey, and something else too. I'm really tired actually. Where did this come from? I don't remember being this tired before. That's when I slowly slink down onto my side, and drift off into a heavy slumber, the way I used to when my father would brush through my hair with his fingers while he told us his stories. It's the best sleep I've had in a long time. <br><br>I wake up to a vine wrapped around my neck. <br><br>The sun had come through, hitting my face, the mark of the morning that always gets me up so early, but as I move to sit up, I'm choked. I gasp and cough, moving to grab what has me, only to find it's foliage, and I can see that it has me around the ankles and wrists too. I open my mouth to say something, but what do you say to that? Instead, I let out a squeak of fright and wrap my fingers around the vine at my neck, keeping the pressure off as I push myself up into a standing position. It seems to allow me to stand, but I'm not allowed to walk in any direction. The hold on me is tight, digging into my skin, and I swallow before I struggle for breath, getting my proper amount of air before I reach for a pocket in my backpack that holds my cutting pliers, only for the vine to catch my sneaky move, snaking up my arm before pulling it out to the side. It soon does the same to the other arm, and I start to struggle against it, letting out a desperate cry, but that only seems to make it worse. The more I move, the more it takes over my body. It only stops when I do, and so I become still, and I allow my body to hang there, my head bowing down. My heart is beating faster than it ever has in it's meek little life. What is going on? How is this happening? I just wanted shelter. I had knocked. I had talked to patrons here. What had I done? <br><br>This is what you get for climbing that beanstalk, Jack. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Nov 4 2012, 12:47 AM Post #2 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"><BR> She wanted a weapon. <br><br>A weapon that could endure any sort of firearm…a reliable weapon, one that would never run out of bullets. Surely, such an invention would raise her to noble rank, and no one could ever laugh at the mad scientist again. But there were only days after days of futile endeavors. The idea consumed her and nearly drove her to madness, and soon enough, she began to spend her nights drinking her life away in alehouses, drowning in her failure. An enchantress happened to overhear her trouble, and thought she could give the woman solace. She gave her a special bean, telling her it would give her all she wanted. <br><br>Confused, but never one to shy away from free gifts, she took it and went home. When the morning came, hand in hand with her sobriety, the woman decided to examine the bean and discover its purpose before planting it. Upon various tests, she came to realize that the bean would grow her a child. The woman was horrified at the idea, thinking that the enchantress must've been demented to give her such a thing--she never wanted to be a mother, and didn't think that it would make her life any better. She didn't want another mouth to feed, she didn't want to live with some dirty crying thing for the rest of her years. She would throw it in the fire and be done with it. <br><br>But then, a new thought occurred to her. This would be a child grown from a plant…far from ordinary. Wouldn't it be possible to alter her genetics…bring out her earthly side, in a way that would make her stronger than any other human?…This was the weapon she had been looking for. <br><br>The woman spliced the bean and did multiple transfers of cross-genetics, taking genes from the most animalistic of plants and implanting their abilities into the future child's DNA. She was both a magician and a scientist, crossing boundaries that no other person had crossed before. When she was finished, she carefully planted the bean in the most fertile of soil, and she waited for her fruit. It took three months for it to full grow and blossom, but when it was done, she had a child, a girl, who looked like any other baby. The woman thought something was wrong with this at first…she had done so much work, surely there'd be something to show for it on the surface? But no, as far as she could tell, the baby was ordinary. <br><br>Still, it was her only hope, so the woman continued to wait. She named the girl Ivy and raised her, but was more of a tutor than a mother. She constantly ran the child through trials to discover if she had any special abilities, but nothing ever happened. Disappointment killed any chance of love, and when the child was four, she sent her away to an institution, telling them to alert her if anything "unusual" happened. The establishment learned about the strange circumstances the girl came from, and soon, the other children did, too. <br><br>In a home full of unwanted children, there was always a hunger for those less unfortunate. They ate Ivy up, subjecting her to taunts day after day, calling her a monster, a weed, dirt, anything they could think of. So Ivy grew without ever knowing true love. The woman had always treated her with indifference, never doing more than she had to to keep her experiment alive and functional, and the other children and teachers of the orphanage were put off by her and her backstory, finding her an abomination to God. But like a weed, Ivy grew tough, and she learned to ignore and expect their words. <br><br>The only thing she found comfort in was a stray cat she found in the yard one afternoon. Unlike the others, the kitten didn't judge her. It licked her palm as if it was nothing, and purred when Ivy pet her. Ivy would steal away into the garden often then, giving the kitten part of her lunch every day, eventually naming her Amara. If it wasn't for Amara, Ivy would have been completely alone. By the time she was ten, things had grown harder on her. She would have horrible night fevers where her whole body would burn up and she'd wake up screaming, but the angered headmistress would insist that nothing was wrong and that her temperature was normal. Ivy knew that it wasn't true. She knew what she felt, and it was pain, but no one would listen. No one ever did, except Amara. <br><br>One day, Ivy was cleaning the bathroom--her assigned chore that others always forced upon her, although chores were supposed to be rotated--when the door burst open behind her, and the bullies poured in, beginning their jabs and teasing, kicking over her bucket of soap and laughing when the dirty water hit her. Ivy grit her teeth and ignored them, moving the bucket to the sink to refill it, only ever giving them her back. She had more things on her mind than insipid fools. She had found a small bump just below the back of her neck, hard as bone, and though the nurse had said it was nothing, she knew something was wrong. That was more important that vapid boys and their games. <br><br>But that was when she heard it. <br><br>Meow. <br><br>Ivy turned around immediately, and to her horror, the bullies pulled Amara out of a sack, laughing at her. Saying how it made sense for stupid things to mingle with each other. Immediately terrified of what they might do to her only friend, Ivy turned off the faucet and ran towards them, trying to get Amara back, but they kept her out of reach. <br><br>"Please, please--I'll do anything, just let her go!" she screamed as they laughed, enjoying her anguish. <br><br>"All right then," the leader said, and the others were upset to hear it--was the fun over already? "Bring me your bucket." Was his command, and confused, but eager to free the kitten, Ivy obeyed, retreating to the sink and then handing it over. <br><br>"Now may I please--" <br><br>"GRAB HER!" he shouted suddenly, and they swarmed around Ivy, arms hooking over hers as she shrieked. Then he put the bucket on the floor, and…threw the kitten into it, and put the sack over it tightly so she could not escape. Ivy struggled as she listened in horror to Amara's screeches and the thrashing in the water, and in less than a minute, the kitten was dead. The boy was disappointed it had been over so quick, and once the murder was finished, the others let go of Ivy, going over to the bucket, wanting to see their work. Standing alone, Ivy felt a fury rise from her feet to her heart, crawling up into it, digging a knife as her skin quivered. They called her a monster…how was she a monster when they did these things?! If only she had been stronger, she would've been able to save Amara. <br><br>If only I had been stronger…if only I had been stronger! <br><br>All of a sudden, Ivy felt that spot on her neck burn, and in a sudden rush, vines shot out of it, like spiderwebs, like tentacles. Bloodlust running through the trails of green, it fueled them to snake forward, seizing the first boy by the head and ripping it off as easily as the lid of a jar of rose petals. Crimson burst forth like a fountain and the others screamed in panic, but were soon silenced by the same fate. It just…happened, her face like stone as the room was soon painted red, overflowing with it. <br><br>The next thing Ivy realized, she was outside, miles and miles away from the orphanage, cradling Amara in her arms. She went out to the woods, the vines coiling around her arms to rest while she walked. Eventually, Ivy found a nice place by a great big root of a tree. As easily as lifting a shovel, she found that she could lift the root. It wasn't shocking to her at the time. She knew all along she was different, and at this moment, with her dead companion in her arms, all Ivy felt was cold. She lay the kitten down to rest and had the root bury her, and when that was finished, she went away again, not knowing where she was headed but only knowing that it had to be far. <br><br>Word reached all the surrounding towns of the mass murder that happened in the orphanage, none left alive save for the one girl who was missing. When people read about her origin, they figured she must've been the culprit. After all, no one had ever liked her. As time passed, all the events settled in Ivy, and the thoughts of what she had done made her petrified--what had she become? What was she to begin with? How could she do all of these things? There was no one there to guide her, and she was more alone than ever. <br><br>For a long time, Ivy lived in the forest alone, learning more about herself and her abilities, and trying to understand. She discovered she could make the vines within her retract back into her body…and that all living flora was at her mercy. Why, she didn't know…but it didn't matter. Ivy was used to questions going unanswered, ever since she had been abandoned. She had deserved it. She saw what she really was now. She would have abandoned herself, too. <br><br>Many times Ivy contemplated ending her life. There was no point to it except survival. She was no different from a tree or a clover in this way now, nothing to look forward to in this life of solitude. But then one day, she woke up to the sound of laughter. Some boy was exploring the forest, looking for birds. It had been a long time since Ivy had talked to anyone, and she didn't know what to do. She ended up hiding behind the tree, thinking it would be better they left each other alone, but then out of blue, she heard a shout behind her, for the boy had spotted her and snuck up on her when she wasn't looking. He introduced himself and asked what she was doing her, but Ivy found herself at loss for words. <br><br>It didn't stop him though, and he continued chattering, telling her about his assignment to find a certain bird in the forest. Having lived there for many days, Ivy was easily able to help him find it, and they were soon getting along very well. When asked where she lived, Ivy couldn't find the right lie, and ended up confessing that her family was dead, and she had nowhere to go. But she felt ill for lying to someone who only meant good, and after a moment's hesitation, Ivy revealed her true secret about herself, in regards to her abilities. The boy was awestruck and immediately took it on himself to help her, grabbing her by the hand and saying he could stay with he and his father until she found a place. And then, just as Ivy had thought she had shed all the tears she could, she felt them welling her eyes again. <br><br>She lived with them for four days, the boy and his father always treating her with kindness. Ivy felt as if she could be happy again, and that maybe she wasn't so different after all. But soon she was betrayed. The boy told his father her secret, and the two conspired to have her sold to the government, realizing that she would hold immense value. She overheard the deceit, but made no attempt to escape before hand. Something in her made her want to stay until the last moment, when the officers showed up at the door. It happened when they were having dinner, and Ivy had just made the boy laugh over something. She had liked making him laugh. <br><br>They told her that the men were going to help her find a place to live, but Ivy knew better. She said her goodbyes and left, but once she was outside the door, she had the thorny shrubbery that grew by the door seize the men and pull them into the leaves, tearing them into shreds as she walked away, alone again, and this time, she decided, it would be forever. Ivy couldn't trust people anymore--never again. They only wanted to hurt her or use her for their own game. She understood the truth, now. Life was kill or be killed, and she refused to lose to the lesser species. But because she couldn't be bothered with changing the whole race, knowing that she couldn't recreate her own species, Ivy chose to find a place where she would spend the rest of her life, away from all the vermin. <br><br>She found a secluded place to her liking at the edge of a hill, and after disposing of the family who lived there by turning them into decor, Ivy made her nest. There were times when there was the unexpected visitor, but they soon joined the rest of the dead. Those she killed and hadn't changed into living pieces of art were reduced to bone, which she made work like toys through the use of mobile plants inhibiting them. Because of her unique talent, she was able to manipulate the genes of plants to make them stronger, with powers almost like her own. But as the years passed, she realized she couldn't get along entirely by herself. Boredom consumed her, so Ivy made a plan so that she wouldn't immediately murder the occasional visitor, but instead, allow them to live for a while--if only to entertain her, as a beast should. She had various people come, and from them, Ivy would receive hand-written books or art. Eventually, she'd tire of them and end their life, but her weariness was quenched, and she was almost happy. <br><br>I am happy. <br><br>--- <br><br>Yesterday, I discovered I had a new visitor. I haven't had one for two months now, so it's very good news. He follows the usual pattern of being persuaded by the pollen into a deep sleep, and in the morning, I ready to greet him, rising from my bed of moss and donning a simple gossamer dress, but soon seeds sprout and grow over it, making a design. Before leaving my room, I pass by the living hedge statue of my "mother", doing the usual ritual of pressing my fingers to my lips before touching them to hers before I leave. She had come looking for me to claim her territory years ago, overjoyed that her little experiment had worked. She had rushed into it without thinking, but thankfully for her, it is wrong to kill your creator. <br><br>Instead, I had one of my special vines infest her with a parasite, one that merged with her cells and turned her structure into one of a more heavenly, floral nature. Unless I choose to destroy the host's brain, she'll live forever in this half state, forever unchanging. She can even speak--but after years of silence, has given up, and now exists only to daydream. It's the same process I did with the original family of the house, except I had killed them first, so only their bodies were eternal. On my way to the prisoner's room, I move past one of them, the youngest of the family. A little girl of five. Her clothes had rotted away a long time ago, and now, instead of sweet ramblings sprouting from her mouth, it's poisonous hemlock. Her skin is pale as ivory, but green veins from beneath show through its filmy layer. Truly a little beauty. <br><br>Aspen, one of my main skeletal servants, opens the door for me as I make my entry, wondering what pleasure is in store. The last guest was a gardener---so, a dullard who thought she knew much about something she could never truly know about, thus my expectations aren't too high. She was killed shortly and I left her body to rot under a bed of weeds, so I wouldn't have to look at her aggravating face. <br><br>I soon enter the room, finding him fully constricted by my vines, his head sloped over. I am never one for introductions. It's pointless to be polite to something that's already mine, and in this world, everything is. Anything I can overpower belongs to me. He lifts his head at the sound of my arrival, and for a moment, his face sends me back--it's not unlike the boy who betrayed me. The boy I will forever regret showing mercy to. But I know it's not him, the features still different enough, and I resume, stepping forward. <br><br>In one of his hands is a curious object, like scissors, but shaped and sized differently. Raising a pale brow, and open my palm beneath his hand, and at the same time, the vine around that particular arm roughly tightens its grip, until he drops the object into my hand. I look it over, and then begin my usual words to new prisoners. "My name is Ivy," I start, eyes still on the scissors, my voice always controlled, chilly, silvery, smooth. "You're in my castle." I lifting my gaze to his face then, and raising the scissors accordingly. He has hair as unruly as weeds. I close the steel around a short strand of it from the border of his hair, clipping it off, the dark curl falling to the ground in front of my bare feet. They don't work as well as usually scissors. Strange. I toss them off to the side, one vine from the floor catching it, and then rescinding into the shadows. <br><br>Finished with that, I resume. "That means you're my prisoner now, and you must do whatever I say," I search his pinewood eyes for any look of defiance. The strength I see in the size of his body is absent in his face. This one isn't a fighter, that I can tell, despite his sharp jaw. "What's your name?". </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Nov 4 2012, 05:30 PM Post #3 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>Soon, someone enters the room, and I'm afraid to lift my head, not sure if I want to see the monster who's strange sort of magic has me in their clutches, but I do it, my eyes falling upon the one who has made me their prisoner, and I have to say that I am shocked by what I see. <br><br>It was a girl, probably not that much younger than me, but she wasn't just any girl. She was the most exquisite creation I had ever seen. I had never seen features like her own before. She was striking. Her large eyes of faded greens and blues were made more remarkable by her gaunt face and ivory skin, her features strong yet still feminine and gentle somehow. Her hair seemed like the silk made from angels of Ayorthia, the land of magic I may only be dreaming of seeing now that I'm here. She's like a porcelain doll. As she approaches me, I can tell she's somewhat taller than me, by just a couple inches, causing me to swallow. She's so tiny in all other aspects however. It's as if she hasn't had a decent meal in ages. I'm not an incredibly strong man, but I feel as if I could break her if she was handled a little too roughly by my own hands. <br><br>She is obviously no delicate flower despite these observations, because as I watch her with shaking breath, my voice caught in the back of my throat, she manipulates the vines to tighten their grip around my wrist and fingers, causing me to drop my pliers into her hand. She examine it, and that's when she speaks for the first time, telling me of her name, which is incredibly fitting, and states that I am in her castle. This is all hers. This majestic place (I recall it as majestic, but my memory from last night is a bit foggy) is all her own, made from this strange magic she possesses. It seems as though she controls plants, which is extremely terrifying. It would only take the snap of her fingers to send these vines into my mouth and out my eyes, nose, and throat. Ooh, I believe I made myself woozy at the thought of it. My dark brows furrow as she goes on to clip a piece of my sienna hair off with my pliers, as if to test them out, before she simply throws them off to the side, allowing one of her vines to pull it into the darkness, where I am sure I will never see them again. I pout out my lips slightly in disappointment, but I know there's a spare in my bag somewhere, so I should be all right. Besides, there are much more pressing matters to attend to now, like keeping my life. <br><br>She goes on to inform me that I'm her prisoner and that I have to do whatever she says, which I gather means that if I don't, I'm plant food. I look up at her ethereal face with wide eyes, my strangled body trembling beneath the spindly vines. I will not fight her on that. Of course I will do what she tells me. I'm petrified right now. I have to remember that I'm not dead yet though. I can survive this. It's a possibility. I can get out of here and back to my family, back to my plain and unadventurous life, or that humdrum thing I make for myself that I call a life anyway. I just have to do as she says. <br><br>She asks for my name and I gulp, the tip of my tongue rimming the inner curve of my lips before I answer. "I-I'm Stellan Proctor, ma'am, from Moravale. The east side. Salterbergh." I get out, my voice sounding more out of breath than I would like. My fear along with the vice on my chest is the culprit, but I'm not about to complain to her. "I got caught in the storm last night, and I swear I knocked several times. The door e-ended up being unlocked and I went inside. I'm so sorry, ma'am. I never meant to trespass here. I don't even remember falling asleep." I shake my head, and this causes the vines to slip around my neck a few more times. I inhale deeply, attempting to calm my heart and keep myself from crying, but tears sting at my eyes nevertheless. I feel my bottom lip tremble, and I swallow once more. "I will do whatever is asked of me. I swear it to you." I may regret that, for Proctors don't break their promises, but I will do what I must to survive, for my family's sake. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Nov 6 2012, 04:50 PM Post #4 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"><BR>He's anxious. Anxious to death, it would seem, and it intrigues me, for most of my captives are so bewildered at first that they start demanding questions, and I have to contain them. But this one's smarter. He keeps his mouth shut, waiting for me to finish….or is he too frightened to speak? No, he answers me when I'm done, after only a moment of hesitation. He gives me more information than I asked for, telling me he's from Salterbergh, Moravale. He's very far from home…I muse over why he left at all. His name's a strange one, but his whole self seems a little strange to me. Most men try much harder to fight me, but he's given in already, the only indicator of opposition being in his shimmering eyes…he's holding back tears. There was once a time when that would have made me feel something, but now I've learned to let tears go without sympathy, the same way mine used to. <BR><BR>A vine crawls over my shoulder from my spine then, reaching out to him like a spindly green hand as I pull closer, slanting my gaze downwards just slightly for he's shorter. The vine curled around his chin, cupping it and raising it, my eyes greeting his brown ochres. "Boys shouldn't cry," I chide with a pale lifted brow, these words more delicate than anything else I've said to him, each syllable quavering impalpably, like porcelain threatening to break. In this world, only the weak cried in front of others, and the weak never survived. <BR><BR>The vines looped around him begin to loosen then, starting at his neck. "And you came…because you were invited," I disclose finally, my lips vaguely curving upwards only a second before vanishing as I step back. I never truly smile, and I never bother to say more. Everyone's invited, they're just not allowed to leave. My world is a never-ending garden soiree where the guests come and stay for good. Everything that happens here, happens as it should--and when it should. I don't have to live in the terror of being at fate's fickle disposal anymore--they do. He does. I'm in control. I can't be hurt. <BR><BR>Once he's fully freed from the vines, I turn around and begin walking towards the door, my dress trailing behind me on the grass. "Follow me," I command, one remaining vine reaching up behind his back to shove him as I do. Aspen opens the door for us, and soon I'm leading my new guest down the stone hallway, where clovers sprout between the cracks in the floors and evergreen vines have become the wallpaper. There's something very morose about air, a grey tinge that infects everything, even the pretty honeysuckle. I have the most beautiful butterfly and wisteria flowers you could ever find blooming here, but nothing takes away that ominous air, no matter how much I've tried in the past. I've long since given up on it. <BR><BR>As we begin to climb the stairwell, I can feel him lagging behind somewhat, maybe ogling the blank portraits eaten away by foliage, the passing skeletons…or the woman. We walked by the effigy of her on the way, a mother of three who had been merged with coral bark, the maroon wood burgeoning from her hips and the branches overpowering the rest of her upper body, growing so thick and tangling that it almost looks like she has nine bleeding red arms reaching up towards the heavens, her face vanishing beneath them. An ode to the forgotten mother, almost. I don't slow down for him or scold him, and eventually, we reach the attic, my hand parting the curtain of scarlett clock vines as we pass through. <BR><BR>It's fairly empty in here except for a broken bed in the middle, a dresser with shirts, dresses, aprons, shoes…all dusty belongings of former entertainers. Some tradesman had built water pumps into every room, however, and there's a wooden bucket underneath where milk thistle has started to grow. Thin curtains blow in the breeze of open windows, and the ceiling rises so high that it disappears into black. "This is where you'll stay for now," I instruct as I move across the floor, over to a ripe crop of foxglove that have grown near the dresser. Kneeling, I pluck them with a tender hand, while beckoning "come here" to the boy. I rise and hand him the seeds from the flower, harvested from the dried blooms at the bottom. <BR><BR>"Here's a gift," I say, pouring them into his palm. "…your life." I see the surprise that forms even before it truly settles in, and I continue to explain his circumstances. "I expect you to make my hospitality worth my while, Stellan Proctor. You must find some way to entertain me while you live here." Live, not stay, because to go meant to die. "The flowers you grow from these will tell you how well you're faring--whether you have seconds or days to live, all by the withering or blooming." There was an ancient jardiničre by the balcony for him to plant it. <BR><BR>"I'll leave you now to your thoughts till supper," I finish, taking the grown foxgloves with me. "Think hard," I advise, my misty teal eyes running over his form for a moment, wondering how he'll amuse me. What hidden talents could he have? Hopefully something I haven't seen many times before, for my sake and his own. I step out then, descending the stairs and walking through the corridors until I reach the dining hall. I don't use the kitchen, for I dislike fire and stay away from it as much as I can. I haven't even bothered with the room for years, assuming it looks something like a jungle now. My guest and I eat in a room that was very splendid when I first came here, but now has been taken over by vegetation like the rest of the house. Various trees and shrubs have sprouted here, offering fruits and vegetables and even nuts of all kinds. I start to tend to the garden while I give him some time, for in my experience, it's always much better to allow them to have a moment to sort things out. <BR><BR>I carefully water the plants, inspecting their health as I walk along…and then my thoughts begin to wander. Stellan's face made me think of that boy, and now I can't shake the memory. That boy…he and his father should have died. They had gladly turned me in for something as worthless as money, despite all the times we had shared with each other before then. No human could be trusted. They are the animals of the world, constantly stepping over each other and fitting for their own gain, doing whatever they have to, no matter how low they have to stoop. My "mother" was no different, nor were the children in the orphanage. They deserved what they got. It was right. Suddenly, something in my chest begins to squeeze tightly, clenching and throbbing painfully so sporadically that I almost drop the watering can. I set it down on the floor and take a deep breath, closing my eyes. I think of something else--fields under bright blue skies, not people. Remember, forget. Push it away. <BR><BR>I can never be left alone for too long. It's my weakness. Like true ivy, I have to rely on things…water…light. I can't be on my own in the darkness forever, though it's my only wish. I have Aspen fetch Stellan, feeling two hours is long enough, and when he arrives, I've resumed my watering, back turned to the door. "Take whatever you want," I say, my hand gesturing to the lavish fruits of the garden as I finish my chore, the apples and berries glistening with dew like crystalized jewels as they dangle temptingly from the grove. A tree branch stretches forward and takes the watering can from me as I take a seat at the table. As I only ever have one guest at a time, there are only two chairs, the rest all broken pieces that tasted my madness before and now lay in weed-covered ruin. A skeleton brings in cups of water as I peer at Stellan, still so curious. <BR><BR>"Have you come up with something, then?" I pose my question, hands going to pick apart a cluster of grapes. </center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Nov 9 2012, 08:28 PM Post #5 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>The girl gets the vines to let go of me as she tells me I'm here because I was invited, which gives me the feeling I'm not the first 'invited' guest she's had. I cough as the plant life frees my neck, my hands going to rub it once they're able. I eye the spot where my cutting pliers disappeared before I realize going to get them will most likely not be worth it, so I wiggle my nose in displeasure before I am made to follow who I assume I could call my master now. She owns me now, through fear and restraint. I'm not going to bother trying to run away. This entire place is probably rigged, and one single vine could bring me to my doom if I were to try to run for it. I don't like to imagine what she could do to me. If she has all these plants at her fingertips, the things she could poison me with and have ripping through me are endless. <br><br>The corridors are far different than they were last night. I don't remember much, but I remember the tinge in the air being a warm glow instead of a sad gray, and the servants, the man at the door, they had been people, hadn't they? I am alarmed because instead they are skeletons, manned by plants, a tremble to my lips as I tear my eyes away as swiftly as possible. Were those really there? I look back over my shoulder, and there the man is again, no flesh or muscle. Just discolored bones, which are controlled my spindly vines. I snap my head back forward, and then slip my eyes over to the wall, the foliage so thick it's hard to really say there is a wall there. I see paintings that were once beautiful and clear, but now are ruined my flora eating away at it and covering up all that it was. Everything seems to have a creepy air to it, as well as the air being so full of oxygen I feel lightheaded, but that might be because I'm scared out of my wits. A cold woman who can manipulate plants, skeletons controlled by plants, a castle over run with nature's decor. I don't know if I'll ever look at the forests surrounding my home the same way again. <br><br>It only gets worse, the throbbing in my chest and the dryness in my throat, as I see a sculpture. It's disturbing, depicting a woman's legs and bottom torso, before her upper body explodes into a burgundy tree, branches going in every direction, stretching towards the ceiling and the nearby walls. It's creepy as it is, but deep down, in the pit of my stomach, I have a feeling that this isn't just a sculpture. Did Ivy do this? Is this real? Did she kill those who had becomes her skeleton slaves? Was this going to be my fate? I linger there momentarily, dark brows furrowed as my eyes stare intently at the woman, terror creeping through my blood and chilling it so that my skin rises with tiny goosebumps. <br><br>I manage to pull myself away, but not before I blink my eyes and tears slip out, slipping off my chin and onto the floor below as I catch up to Ivy, who may possibly be my master for the rest of my short life. She leads me into a dingy attic that has seen better days, with a broken bed and splintered furniture. I nod when she informs me that this is where I'll be staying, my heavy backpack slipping off of my back and I place it on the bed, the springs creaking loudly beneath it. I won't be sleeping tonight most likely, but whenever I do get to not being too afraid to close my eyes, I will make sure the bed will be able to bear my weight. I watch as she gracefully kneels down besides a cluster of lush purple flowers and picks them, all while gesturing for me to come closer. I swallow and do so, moving so that I'm standing beside her. She gives me a bundle of seeds from the plant, and I look down at them, rising them closer to my face to get a better look, but that's disrupted as she calls them my 'life'. What? I raise my eyes to meet her own, only for her to explain that I have to entertain her, or else lose my life. It's a cruel sentence. I have to please this girl or I die. I am nothing but a slave to her, here because she needs to have a little fun, and once that fun is done, she can quench the blood lust hiding behind those pale eyes. I must plant the seeds and they will bloom if I am doing well, or wither if I'm failing. The plants I've raised at home were always good to me, and I am going to hope this one doesn't let me down, even if the care for them comes with a lot of special circumstances and responsibilities. <br><br>"Yes, Ma'am." I say softly as she excuses herself until we are to eat supper. "Thank you." It's sincere. It's for the room, and the small source of freedom. She could have shoved me in a dungeon or kept me in those vines until she had use of me, but I get a room with a bed and water, with large windows the sun can seep through. My hands, feet, or any other part of my body aren't imprisoned in vines or iron, so I am grateful. Things are better than they could be. She didn't take away my things either (Besides that one tool), which is one of my greater reliefs, because not only are all of my tools and materials in my backpack, but photos and knick knacks of and from my family reside in there. The latter aren't so easy to replace. <br><br>She's gone, and I'm on my own again, left to my thoughts. I look down at the seeds and gulp, knowing that first things are first. I need to give my life roots. I begin to search for a pot to put them in, but it doesn't take me long at all to realize that the pot she must have provided for me would be outside where the dear plant could get light. I open the glass paned balcony doors and slip outside, the chill of the morning sinking into me as I spot the sizable ornate pot. I walk over to it, fresh soil already in it, and I reach in with my free hand, loosening up the dirt before making a few holes for the seeds. I pop them in and cover them up with care. The soil is damp enough for now, so I won't have to water it until later. I don't even know if these need to be watered, but I'll do it just in case. What they seem to really rely on is how much I can entertain Ivy. Entertain her? Me? I'm the most boring person I know. I don't have any talents. Sure, sometimes I make stuff, but what's that going to do. I do average things. I cook all right, I clean, I put things together, and I fix things. It's nothing incredible or entertaining. I don't know how to do any sort of art. I'm an awful dancer, nor can I sing a real note. I'm an average writer at best, so things like poetry and stories are out of the question. Stories. Ugh, that's what my father would probably do. He could make up a million and one stories off the top of his head to tell her. I can't do that. I can't do anything. I'm useless. <br><br>I'm hyperventilating. I can't breathe. I turn and grip the cool stone railing of the balcony, and new tears sprout in my eyes as my stomach twists and churns. I'm going to die here. This is going to be it for me. I'm going to die and my family will never see me again. I'm boring and uneventful and I'm going to break their hearts because of it. They won't even be able to hear that I've died. When I think of that, that's when I bend over the railing and vomit, my dinner from the night before getting thrown into the grass and bushes below as my stomach contracts, pushing it out. They will only be able to assume after months and years of no contact that I'm dead, prolonging their agony. They will be waiting and wondering, while my body rots and I'm turned into a lifeless servant or some morbid sculpture in the corner. My life is on the line and I'm going to snap it. I'm trapped in this castle with a crazy flora lady. <br><br>Crazy. No, that's a dirty word. She's not crazy. Something must have made her this way, deranging her mind to do such awful and horrible things to people who happen to stumble upon her home. It's sickening, what's she done, and most would say there is no excuse, but there must have been something that made her shatter, made her crave some sort of vengeance to see if it would glue those aching edges back together. I may be wrong. She may truly be purely evil, born into a sinister being, but I've never believed in that. You are made evil, not born. She's not an unstoppable force. I swallow and step back, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve before my palms get the sweat off my forehead. I sniff and slowly turn back into the room as I ponder about my captor. There was a quiver there, when she told me boys shouldn't cry. It's as if she's covered herself in thorns and someone needs to chop them down without harming the delicate petals they are protecting. <br><br>She's a person. She's a powerful person, but still a person nonetheless. I can't judge her. I don't know her. She doesn't know me either. I might not be a lot of things, but I am nice. I'm understanding. Maybe she only needs a friend, someone she knows won't betray her. <br><br>I can do this. I can figure something out. I have to. I can't get myself killed. My family loves me, and I love my family. I don't want to lose them, and I don't want to lose myself either. As lacking as my life is, I don't want it to end. I want to keep going. I want to see my family again. I want to see their smiles and feel their love. I want to breathe and live and experience things. Maybe they won't be the most extraordinary things, but I want to experience what I can, what I'm brave enough for. I can't let this get in the way. I'll do it. The only question is how. <br><br>Despite my revelations, I still have no talents to showcase to her. I'm still boring. My breathing is hardly returning back to normal as I pace around, the floorboards whining beneath me. "What are you doing, Stellan?" I lace my fingers together behind my head, groaning to myself. "You can't impress her. You can't even impress a regular girl." I squat down and cover my face with my arms, my elbows touching. I close my eyes, thinking of how beautiful Ivy is, and it only seems to make matters worse for me. I have never functioned well around pretty girls. Oh, wait, I've never functioned right around any girls. My heavy breathing is only getting worse as I attempt to think. "Think, think." I whisper to myself, going through everything I can do. There's no hidden talents anywhere. I can't even talk. I'm not a rambler. I can't go on and on about nothing and everything. My father and Astrid could, but never me. I speak usually only when spoken to, and only say what is required of me. I'm a quiet little mouse. <br><br>That's when I hear squeaking off to the side of me, causing me to lift my head. I only get a glimpse of the tail of a mouse, sneaking into a hole in the wall. I continue to hear it's squeaks, but it doesn't come out, hiding from me. "Don't be afraid, little guy. I used to be more afraid of you." I tell him with a small smile and bloodshot eyes. It's a lot easier to talk to things that don't talk back, even if when I get caught doing that, I seem off my rocker to strangers. Animals don't judge though, which is why I can't judge Ivy. Humans are animals, aren't they? I sniff and stand up, keeping my eyes on the mouse hole as I move over to my pack. I dig into a pocket and take out a piece of wrapped bread, which I was suppose to eat last night but has gone stale by now. I unwrap it before laying it down just a couple feet from the hole, scrunching up the paper in my hands as I wipe my cheeks. I will go off my rocker if I just stand around thinking of what I will do for Ivy. Thinking too hard isn't going to get me anywhere, cause there isn't really anywhere to go. I have to only be me, and maybe something will come to me that way. I sit down with my back against the bed after pulling a few tools, metal scraps, screws and gears out of my bag. I sit with my legs out and spread a bit, putting my things between them. That's when I start working on something I had in progress, only the foundation done. I stare at it a moment, putting the pieces together in my mind before my hands find the tools and I get to work, each piece small and meticulous. It was going to be a box with a clock on the lid, but I'm thinking of something different now. I'm not entirely sure what that something is just yet, but maybe Ivy would like it, if I'm given enough time to finish it. <br><br>A chunk of time later, and the squeaking is back. I glance over my shoulder, only to see the mouse again, but this time it's all of him. He's awfully tiny and cute, this warm shade of brown with a white belly, and large ears. He scurries over to the bread and starts chowing down on it, and I smile. "There you go, buddy. Have as much as you want." The mouse sticks around while I work, scampering around the room after he was done eating, but never getting too close. That's okay. I can understand that. I like him. On top of my work, the sound of him venturing around helps to keep me distracted from the situation. I'd probably still be crying and would have puked a couple more times before supper. Speaking of which, I'm starving. I have some food in my bag, but it wouldn't be good to bother eating and precede to have no appetite for dinner with her. <br><br>Unfortunately, and not, the same skeleton man from before comes to my room, indicating it's time for supper. I feel nauseous again, because this is it. As hard as I try, this might be my doom. I take in a deep breath through my nose as I scoop up my bits and pieces and slip them back into my bag, able to hear the little mouse running back to his home and hiding. I can't blame him there. I follow the servant, attempting to adjust myself as I walk. I roll up my sleeves, covering up the spot on them where I wiped my puke. It does showcase a faint burn mark, from when I was learning to cook and wasn't paying attention to how close my cuff was to the range, but my mother quickly took care of it. It's merely a red mark on my wrist. I wipe at my face, trying to erase any trace of tears, but I know that pink lines my chestnut irises and the area around them is puffy. I must look tired and worse for wear, but being so stressed and afraid that you get sick does that to you. <br><br>I'm brought to the dining room, which is basically a large table, two chairs, and an incredible amount of vegetation growing on the walls. I've never seen such delectable fruits and vegetables in all my years, and Moravale has some of the best produce considering the machinery made to make our greenhouses better. "Hello." I murmur before she asks for me to take whatever I want, and I barely hesitate before my fingers find a shiny green apple, not thinking for a moment it might be poison and to avoid it because I'm starving, and my other hand finds a bundle of strawberries before I join her at the table. I reach over and grab a big leaf off of a nearby plant, laying it down like a plate before I place down my strawberries. I look down at the apple, rubbing it's glistening skin gently before I take a bite of it. It's wonderful. It's the perfect mixture of tart with a touch of sweet, and it's extremely crisp. I chew it slow though, and I take a bit before I swallow, not wanting to get sick again. I watch as the skeleton gives us water, but before I can reach for it, she's asking me if I've come up with something to entertain her with. <br><br>Here we go. All I have is the truth, so the truth she will get. <br><br>"No. There's nothing I can do." I croak, honest but sad eyes meeting her striking gaze for a second before they fall back down to my fruit on the table. "I have no talents, and I'm sorry for that." I blink as tears prick at my eyes again, disappointed in myself. I'm so pathetic. "I wish I had something to offer you, but I'm an average boy." I wouldn't be surprised if those seeds I planted died right on the spot. "I help to take care of my family." I attempt to explain, sadness overwhelming me as I think of them now. "If there's anything else I can do for you, I'd be happy to do that, but I can't engage you. I'm so sorry." My face contorts as I get upset with myself, but I force myself to smooth it out and breathe, remembering what she said about crying. I distract myself from my emotions momentarily by bringing a strawberry to my nose and taking in it's sweet scent before I place it back on the leaf. I inhale another calming breath before I meet her eyes again, "The only thing I can offer is to take care of you." The edge of my lips turns up into a faint and innocent half smile as I shrug my shoulders, never before feeling so small and worthless in my life, but at least I was honest, and I tried. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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