Ye Olde S33k & Finde

Excerpt from a holo-disc file. Row 432, Second Shelf.

The room is pitch black, save the spotlight that burns a blindingly bright cone of luminescence in the center of the space. The edges of the room, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, they are all shrouded in shadow. She can see that as she squints her eyes against the oppressive lighting.

She is the only person in the room; she is fastened to the only visible furnishing: an iron pentacle.

Her hands are bound to the highest point of the star, while her legs are bound to the lower two respectively. Her bindings are tight, but not rough. Some sort of silk strands or ropes woven so finely that they do not dig painfully into her flesh, while still managing to render her motionless.

Her eyes are deep emerald orbs in the harsh shading the light casts across her features. Her chin is strong, her brows demure, her cheeks not quite rounded, but not gaunt either. As she strains to see the room around her, she feels a cold breeze blowing from everywhere and nowhere at once. It caresses her back, and her neck, and her breasts, her thighs and areas between. She realizes that she is naked, exposed. Even more so in the blatantly focused pool of light falling upon her.

The wind brings goosebumps out on her skin, a shiver running up her spine. The cool metal was even more noticeable now. The gust subsided eventually, and she was left shuddering at the chilliness it left as a legacy.

Turning her head at a sudden sound, the grating of wood on stone, her deep crimson locks sweep over her shoulder, brushing against the swell of her bosom. Hair tickles flesh, and she becomes aware of just how tight and hard her nipples have become. The taut flesh is deliciously contrasted by her fair skin. Not a blemish marked her, porcelain delicateness from head to toe.

The sound of footsteps come closer, she turns toward them, hair tossing in a deep red cloud before resting again, a sort of second-hand modesty.

"Wh....who's there?" she manages to whisper to the darkness, pleading for her captor, her jailer, to make themselves known.

The voice that answers is not a single person. It is a cacophony at first, the discordant chorus of devils chanting in time with angels singing. It focuses slowly into a voice that is still not singular, but is coherent enough to be understood. It sounds like a soprano, a tenor, a baritone, all at once. The voice is not neuter, though if it edges toward masculinity or femininity, the movement is fleeting and alternating. It is quiet, but it is bold. It commands without raised tone, and it beckons without murmuring.

"You are to be tested. If you are found worthy, you will be set free. If you are found wanting, you will be torn apart."

The voice dies out, and a new sound fills her terrified ears. There is a rustling, like leaves in a spring wind, like vines moving across stone walls. She sees them then, the slender tendrils that are creeping along the end of the edge of the conical light source. Her frantic glancing bears upon a set of eyes, gleaming impossibly in the dark. They are bright, yet devoid of color. The gray of them is so muted that she is unsure if it is just a figment of her fear-addled mind or not.

The figure attached to the eyes takes a step forward, extending an arm to point at her. She cringes from it, as much as she can from her bound position. The hand is surprisingly human, despite the mass of wriggling appendages that crowd around the pentacle. It caresses her cheek, and she shrinks from its touch, whimpering softly in confusion and fear.

The voice is heard again, that mellowing mixture of highs and lows that sounds like saints speaking psalms and sinners seeking salvation.

"Fear me not, though fear is natural. I am but the giver of the test. Fear the thought of failure, and what it will bring. Use that fear to prove your worth, here and now. For you will not receive a second chance."

<End Transmission>

Excerpt from High Cost Of Living. Row 129, Bottom Shelf.

Another day, another dollar. 'Nother noose around my neck that's supposedly a collar. Be it blue, or be it white, it's tinged pink and purple from the blood I've spilt by biting my tongue. Come closing time, I'd rather punch your lights out than hit this clock. Comfort costs, and more than just the wads of paper that we hold so dear. From just my short existence, that much has become clear. What good are these stacks of bills when all they do is siphon freedom? What good are these hours spent breaking our backs, wading through mires of piss? What good are these mortal things when all they do is bind our wrists? What good, this noble sense of service, when all we serve is our collective greed? What good, this archaic sense of justice, when those we condemn to death are the only ones truly free?

Another day, another dollar, another broken collarbone, another fractured hollow home; another night of restless sleep, another week of nothing more to eat, another month of rent to pay, another year of sores that fester; another dent in cracking plaster; another weeping mother, another godless bastard, another selfish child grows up to be the opposite; another passing light, another fading hope, another candle burnt, another fire left to kindling smoke....

Another day, another dollar. Keep your money, I'll take my life and live it with my own hands, on my own terms; even if tearing it from your grasp takes me to my grave.

*leaves a basket full of 24 kush and one kush for the birthday boy*

Happy Birthday, Fr33k!

illianacole said:

*leaves a basket full of 24 kush and one kush for the birthday boy*

Happy Birthday, Fr33k!

Click to expand...

Thank you Illiana.

*Takes the basket and sets it on the counter. It may be the one thing in the whole shop that does not have a tag on it.*

She tiptoed into the shop and not spying Fr33k anywhere around, she left a small wrapped present for him on the counter. It was simply wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with emerald green ribbon.


~~when opened, he would find a small wooden box and upon opening it, leaning against the back side of the box was a small iron pentacle on a thin leather strap. Held up to the light, it was clearly a carbon copy of the one found in her cellar, except at the top was embedded a small emerald. Resting at the bottom of the box was a small piece of parchment that read as follows:~~


It wasn't signed, but then, it didn't need to be, did it?

*He wandered in after the festivities that had taken him away from the shop, spying the plain white gift, with a telltale green ribbon holding it closed. He unwrapped it slowly, eyes intent on the wooden box held within. Slowly, he tipped the lid back, revealing the contents to the skylights. It glinted in the light, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the small gem embedded in the charm. He recognized it instantly, and smiled as he put it on. Taking the card in hand, he read the message, a smile creeping across his lips. He propped the card up in the box, placing it next to the basket full of kushes. It seemed the amount of items not for sale was growing by the day...he chuckled softly and went about some minor clean-up of the mess he'd left on the counter*

*His footsteps find him outside his shop, breath steaming in the early dawn air. The door groaning its protest as he opens it and strides inside. A moment is taken to flip the sign on the door from "Sorry, I'm Out" to "Welcome! Please Come In".

The clutter on the counter has not disappeared, and his gifts are still sitting prominently at one end of the oaken slab. His smile slices a crescent in his face, and he settles into his post on the stool behind the counter, sifting through the junk and tech bits, jogging his memory as well as sorting pieces.

It has been too long; even brief departures leave him longing for the comfort he feels here. It has become home; his gaze moves to the wide expanse of aisles, shelve brimming with forgotten, forbidden, and lost treasures. These things are the sort of small joy that makes him truly happy. And those that come seeking them are a joy of their own.

He begins to hum as he finds the parts he sought, laying them in a row before starting to reassemble them.*

Soft footsteps lead me to the door, but I hesitate to enter. This is Fr33k's place, his hideaway. Like my Den, so I hear, only more techno savvy and not nearly as violent or bloody. With a small elegant shrug, I reach out and push the door open, smiling at his sign.

Eyes adjust to the motley rows, the bits of bric-a-brac before finally landing on his solid presence. a grin, one that widens as I see him bent, working on something that demands concentration. A husky clearing of a throat.

"Hello, Fr33k."

He never answers and I move to a corner, getting lost in the rows of treasures, all marked, all interesting. My mind and fingers flit from place to place as I pick up, and discard, each treasure. Eventually, I return to the store front and see that he has dissolved into reality.

"ah, well, I did try to visit. maybe another day."

With that thought, I slip out the door, heading for the safety of my own space. Maybe next time, he will have a bit of time to talk.

*He was so engrossed with his work that he all but missed the presence of someone familiar. He looked up to see her retreating form, a call lost in his throat. She'd be back, he knew it without asking. The trinket in his hands was now complete, an odd blocky pewter case with a crescent moon on one side. Depressing the moon caused the pewter to shift and grind against itself, slowly taking the shape of a bear. The bear stood on its hind legs briefly before returning to a quadrupedal stance, frozen now in that state. The crescent was prominently displayed on its broad forehead, right between the eyes.

He smiled at the finished project and went wandering into the stacks, ears listening always for the creaky old door to open once more...*

*pops in, leans over, kisses his cheek*

So good to have you back.

*pops back out*

Excerpt from Beyond Mythos. Row 222, Fourth Shelf.

I'm a soul eater, I feed off your emotions, be it joy or pain. I'm a soul eater, and I'm getting too full on what you have to give. I'm a soul eater, but even I can have too much of the same. I'm a soul eater, but I don't want to taste you when all I find is hate, and rage, and hurt so deep it fills the oceans doubly. I'm a soul eater, but I miss the feast of you that was bright and bubbly, carefree and never worried. I'm a soul eater, but while you're in this darkened void I don't want to try it. I'm a soul eater, but until you've cleansed yours, I'm going on a diet.

Excerpt from High Cost Of Living. Row 129, Bottom Shelf.

Go on, keep pushing me to be better, to go farther, to achieve. Go on, keep prodding me like I'm cattle, like if you force me to I'll believe. Go on, keep on shoving doctrine down my throat like bitter antibodies. You swear they're good for me, but your cure has healed me of nothing. Go on, keep your pressure up, eventually I'll crack. Go on, you've come this fucking far, there is no turning back. Go on, force-feed opinions, give me your "it's for the best I swear."

Go on give it all you've got, see if I fucking care.

Do you think I don't realize the things you say are right? Do you think I want to wallow in this squalor for the rest of my fucking life? Do you really have an inkling of just how damned tired I've become from carrying this weight around? Do you think I'm that fucking dumb? I've tried before to give a shit, that got me nowhere fast; I've tried to be a nihilist, but that too never lasts. I've tried to find my balance, find my island in the sun, but there's only so much searching I can do before I decide I'm fucking done.

And I am. I'm done with the trials and tribulations, done with responsibility's unending grasp, done seeking motivation, inspiration, or the proper fucking path.

They'd say I'm far too young yet to feel this heavy burden, but my soul is older than you'd guess just from the posture of my shoulders. And it is with this weary soul and heart and mind and eyes I declare my resignation, uttering just one last goodbye.

Excerpt from The Journal of Mechanus. Row 909, Fourth Shelf.

Clicking gears and whirring servos make up my beaten brass body. The only remnants of mortality are a picture and a name. Now in this grotesque amalgam am I far enough from human to never feel the pain?

Burning coal and spinning gyros are my fragile imitations of glowing eyes and beating heart. And in this dented, disfigured form am I close enough to monstrous for the riot mob to start?

Burnished bronze, studded silver, encased in iron I am bound. Humanity discarded, not a shred now can be found. Or so I thought...

Traceries of soul-sparks, rivulets of tears, things once all but forgotten make themselves quite crystal-clear. And even though this metal has made the perfect tomb, the man imprisoned long inside will rage against his doom.

"What have I wrought?"

*He comes wandering back out from the stacks, a myriad of trinkets in hand. They are added to the pile still remaining on the counter. He sifts through the old and new, searching for complementary parts, finding a few and beginning to tinker with them once more, eyes darting toward the door every now and then. The mechanical frog and bird whir and click, making their mechanical chirps and croaks sporadically*

*a soft voice issues from the ether* good day to you, Fr33k. I do hope you are well. Your post was wonderful... I shall respond tonight as usual.

*The mechanical bird tweets and jumps at the ethereal voice. He chuckles at the jittery construct, smiling and nodding at the voice while continuing to work*

*Another day ripe for tinkering, his hands deftly maneuver the odds and ends on the counter, assembling trinket by trinket, a small army of clockwork animal constructs. There are wolves and bears and lions and lizards and all manner of birds. In unison they take paw or wing, moving about on the counter or soaring off into the stacks. He smiles satisfactorily and digs through the small pile of remaining junk. His fingers find a puzzlebox, not unlike a Rubik's Cube. The sides are not color-coded, however; they have odd symbols marked directly into what appear to be bone-platelets. The veneer of them is impeccable despite the apparent age of the box. His hands twist and turn the box topsy-turvy in an effort to solve it, but after a long while he admits defeat. For now, at least.

He rises, watching with a bit of whimsy as the constructs look up at him briefly. They go about their mechanical motions, some leaping from the counter to explore the store, others remaining close to the junk pile that would be their birthplace. His steps carry him off and into the maze of aisles, hopeful to find something interesting, knowing that intrigue is just around the corner, especially here.*

Excerpt from a book bound in red velvet. Row 409, Bottom Shelf.

The beast craves flesh, but has no teeth. It wants for warmth, it begs for seed. The beast is unrelenting, undulating, undeniable. The beast is dark, and light, and pliable. The beast has been the downfall of many men, and women know its draw as well. The beast will promise heaven, while dragging you to the depths of hell. And you'll like it, every fucking step. Each larger pain, tempered with a little death.

Excerpt from a holo-disc file. Row 432, Second Shelf.

There are cables and wires leading from every surface of the steel-walled room. They are all plugged into a large cylindrical console at the center of the room. Fat sparks of excess electricity jump and jitter from the edges of the connection points. From the cylinder, one single cable leads along the floor. This cable is different from the others, braided metal of some sort. The sparks glow here, but do not escape the confines of the cable.

The snaking length of the cable leads to an odd chair. It appears to be fashioned from an old motorcycle. The occupant leans forward against the broad cushioned 'back' of the chair, while their legs straddle the seat. It is plush, almost overstuffed, and the upholstery appears to be fine leather. The chair is midnight black, and is a stark contrast to the woman seated in it. She is fair-skinned, the pink hue of one who has hot blood and thin flesh. She has a dusting of freckles across her shoulder blades.

The more peculiar features of her back are quickly apparent as she shifts slightly in the chair. The cable that leads here is jacked directly into the base of her skull. Or more properly, the input port that puckers the skin there. Along her spine, there are two more ports, as well as two placed opposite each other at her lower back. Their purpose is unknown, but one could assume more cables are to be connected there.

She shifts again, and her head turns. Her eyes are closed, and her face is serene, as if dreaming. Each time a spark from the cable reaches her, she gives a slight start, the muscles in her back and legs tensing briefly.

There is a monitor above and in front of her. It is displaying her heart rate, her pulse, and various other diagnostic values. Beside it is another monitor, displaying the girl, only she is not lounging in the chair.

On the screen, the girl is standing, hands grasping the bars of a prison cell. Her back is arched severely, her buttocks presented for the man standing behind her. She is nude, and clearly aroused. The glistening sheen is nearly dripping down her inner thighs.

In the chair, the girl bites her lip softly, and on the screen, she follows suit. She speaks, but no words issue forth from her lips as she lays in the chair.

"Please. I need it. I need you. Take me. Fill me."

Those are her only words, spoken with the need of someone malnourished for the better part of their life.

The man obliges. He too is completely naked, and his erection is pulsating before him, a totem of virility and lust. The bulbous head of it prods against the girl's opening, spreading her moistened lips. His hand finds the short cropped blue-black hair she sports, fingers clutching it like a prize torn from its rightful owner. Her back arches further, her hips sliding back, eager to take his length, to feel it inside. He grips her hair, jerking her head back just a fraction more; then his hips rock forward to meet hers. She is impaled in an instant.

A shower of sparks issues from the cylinder, feeding into the braided cable and the woman in turn. She shudders from head to toe, and one can only assume that it is the instantaneous response from what has occurred on-screen.

The man does as she pleaded, and takes her. Brutally, heavily, he assaults her from behind. All the while, the sparks keep feeding the woman, their intensity and frequency rising with his pace. She is panting and it has finally translated to her relaxed form, her lips parting and the issuing of her breaths becoming more laborious.

There is a nebula of light, a supernova of electrical systems overloading, and it appears the room has fallen dark. There are, in fact, a few lights still on, burning lowly, like candles. None of the systems have failed, and the readings on the diagnostic monitor appear to be dropping from a heightened state. On the display screen, the girl is barely holding herself up against the bars of the prison cell. For the first time, the shackles at her ankles and wrists are glimpsed. She is out of breath, and clearly the man has left the most intimate traces of himself behind.

In the chair, the dampness between her thighs can be seen pooling in the seat, a sheen of sweat covering her body. Her face is just as serene as it was before. From the shuddering, ragged breaths she takes on-screen, she says only one thing, over and over.

"Thank you."

<End Transmission>

*He shuffles unsteadily into the shop, wobbling from his inebriated state. He brings the flask to his lips again, the dark steel glinting in the moonlight pouring into the skylights. The mechanical creatures that are about come to him, chirping and making their clockwork noises. He smiles at them drunkenly and attempts to step around them carefully. He wanders into the stacks with one thing on his mind.

Several twists and turns have him standing before the black pearl. It pulses with a power undeniable by any person, let alone him, in his fragile state. With his intoxicated courage bolstered, he moves toward the large orb and places his hands on it without hesitation.

It pulses loudly in his mind. He can feel it even through the booze-ridden haze. It is showing him things. Clips, images. They are traveling a road, they are in a whorehouse, they are at a chapel, they are in a dark hole. It is snippets and quickly forgotten images. He releases the pearl and heaves a loud breath, nearly retching from the reeling in his head.*

So that's what this thing is. A gate. An eye. A black hole in a more tempting, pleasing form. Interesting....

*He smiles crookedly at it, then wanders back toward the counter, taking a seat once there. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and he settles in his stool, leaning back and closing his eyes for a moment or two at at time. The constructed animals are uneasy, as though they can sense his encounter with the black pearl. They calm down after a few minutes, but he can see that they still seem to know. That pearl is a taint, and all those who touch it share its mark for at least a little while.*

*It's been a few days, and the shop has been neglected, so he returns, flipping the sign. It says: Please, enter at your own risk. He wanders the stacks, finding a few interesting trinkets that he had overlooked. That's typical of this place, though. Of note, he finds a roll of inscribed cloth. He unrolls them, reading the ancient runes on them. They are protective in nature, but there are violent words amidst the spells. He wraps them around his hands, feeling the spells activate, flowing through his forearms and into his shoulders. He smiles, and it is not a pleasant sight.

His eyes close, and he continues walking on into the innards of the shop, following some unseen path. When they open again, he is standing in front of a mirror. The mirror is framed with wrought iron, twisting in enigmatic designs. They could be dragons, serpents, or simply swirls interlocking at random points.

The first strike is sudden. The glass shatters without resistance, showering the floor with shimmering shards. He feels the few fragments stuck within his hand already withdrawing, the wraps doing their job perfectly, though the errant words will leave scars as mementos. As his shaking breath exits his lungs, the glass begins to judder and shake, as though an earthquake has hit that singular spot on the floor. Like a recording in reverse, the glass pieces rise from the floor, defying gravity itself, reassembling into one solid sheet after a few moments. He smiles again. It is a caricature of what humor would be.

And so he continues, smashing the glass, enjoying the sound of it breaking into a million pieces. It returns and he repeats the process several more times, switching hands.

Once he's finally exerted himself enough, he removes the wraps, admiring the scars covering his knuckles. The wraps are not sullied by his blood, and he grins at them before rolling them as he walks back to the counter.

With a heavy sigh, he places the wraps in a drawer and begins to sift through what seems to be a never-ending jumble of discarded bits.*

*Sneaking along the rows af interesting items, bricabrac, and whatnots, I finally spot him, tinkering at his bench. So stealthy am I that he'll never know what hit him! Hurricane Thyri is about to make landfall! I pounce suddenly, wrapping arms around him tightly, sqeezing until I get a grunt from him.*

Fr33k, you have just been hugged!

That's right, there's no getting out
of it this time!

This is the start of a full-scale
Hug O' War!

So hug everyone you know!

*This time I pause, wondering if its any use to run. These humans have longer legs than I do, and most usually catch me before I make three paces. I shrug and wait for it.*

*She thinks she's being sneaky, and in fact any normal person without an army of clockwork animals roving about would have been caught unawares. He lets her have her moment though, smiling and returning the hug with great exuberance, causing her an equal grunting from air forced out through pressure before releasing her to go about her hug-spreading elven frolicking.*

I can't promise I'll hug everyone I run into. I'm not in the greatest of moods today. But I shall give the cheeriness a go, at least for a while.

fr33ks33k said:

*She thinks she's being sneaky, and in fact any normal person without an army of clockwork animals roving about would have been caught unawares. He lets her have her moment though, smiling and returning the hug with great exuberance, causing her an equal grunting from air forced out through pressure before releasing her to go about her hug-spreading elven frolicking.*

I can't promise I'll hug everyone I run into. I'm not in the greatest of moods today. But I shall give the cheeriness a go, at least for a while.

Click to expand...

*Smiling understandingly, I nod.*

It's all I can hope for. I hope you get to feeling better. I can definitely relate to the mood, that's why I'm trying to change it, at least a little.

Annisthyrienne said:

*Smiling understandingly, I nod.*

It's all I can hope for. I hope you get to feeling better. I can definitely relate to the mood, that's why I'm trying to change it, at least a little.

Click to expand...

*Shares her smile softly* Maybe I need some music. Or a punching bag. Or both. *chuckle*