by T5 and Turkish Stringfellow
Within Naecken's soul, a war was raging for the control of the powerful body. The Demon Lord Kwaiziel had realized his chance to break free earlier than the others, so he had the upper hand in the mental struggle.
And soon he would be in total control.
Naecken's eyes fluttered repeatedly, their deep hues alternating with each blink. A large vein protruded along his forehead with exertion, throbbing with the unseen battle raging within. His body convulsed and twitched, spasming with momentary jerks of a fitful nightmare. And still he hung, upside down, as his soul hammered within his heart.
"Excellent."
The voice was thick and deep. Its sighs, momentary gasps of breath from a million tortured souls, echoing as it did within the beyond-ancient architecture of marble walls. The echo, however, seemed to bounce in reverse, like a record spun backward, each word glinting past the bone structures of dead seraphims, their stark, naked wingspans etching along and within the surface of the entropic enclosure. Time played backward at the words as dead ocular sockets of mythological warriors suddenly produced wide, horrified eyeballs, tearing and searching for the words as they passed their eternal imprisonment.
"That's right... come to me..."
Black hair writhed and caressed across an even head, spiraling upon its own like a serpent coiling for a strike, hissing with murmured curses and whispered pleas.
"...give me that which was mine eternal, and evermore shall be my life's blood."
A sharp, golden pinprick of light resonated from his bottomless eyes. Cracked and weary from wars that man would never hear of, blood red in their aura, a film of nausea coating around the iris.
His skin was gaunt ivory, stretched across the skull like the thinnest plastic, taut wrinkles seemingly holding the entire cheekbone structure in place, the sinew of decay and putrid muscle sliding together with every expression.
A nice Italian business suit, the blackest of nights, held to his body with a finesse that was foreign to most living cultures, accompanied by slender black slacks, and literally flawless black loafers. A single white rose, each imperfect petal tipped with fresh blood, adorned his left breast pocket.
"Yes... yes... give it all to me... my servants... my children... my fallen brethren..."
The being known only as Smith leaned forward toward the convulsing Naecken, his neck stretching slightly further than possible. His rancid breath rolled slowly over Naecken's face in a hushed pant, steam literally flowing from his open lips. His nose brushed past the sorcerer's chin with a malicious caress. He inhaled deeply, razor-sharp mini-tusks of calcium lining what could be considered a smile.
"...my glorious... glorious... loves..."
Slowly, with a molesting passion, he dragged a long, fat tongue across Naecken's throat. The hideously dry, wagging tentacle crackled and rolled with a rough glee along the crux of the man's windpipe.
"ENOUGH!"
Smith's right hand whisked out to his side, catching a solid, barefooted kick. He held it briefly, slowly turning his smiling visage away from his prey. He released the hold, indignant as if being interrupted from a sensual encounter.
"Aahhhhhh..." he whispered, "...the Prophet of One..."
Two fists snapped quickly at his face, each rebuffed by casually placed palms. Tips of a robe whipped over his head, as he followed the leap with his eyes, calmly turning his head completely around in place.
Another kick connected hard against his spinal cord, the splintering of bone evident. The thin, wiry smile never parting his pale lips, Smith's back cracked and popped as the spinal cord reasserted itself into place.
"Have you no joy, Prophet? Have you no wish of peace that this place may give you in your last hours?" he asked, casually turning his body around to accompany his view.
And Turkish Stringfellow, a foreign expression of emotional outrage, took a single step back, relocking a defensive position. His hands, arched flat with posture and grace. His bare feet, turned and poised along the ground, versatile in possible movement at a moment's notice. The smooth ends of his gray robe tucked back behind him. And neo-purple eyes, shadowed by a furrowed brow, peered back at the antilife before him.
"If I do..." he breathed with obvious intent, "...then it is that you are stopped from this rape of life itself."
Smith's chuckle resonated backward with a bodiless echo of despair. "No wonder the... charm... of this place has little hold upon you," he hissed, beginning to unbutton his fine Italian coat. "You wish for a truly impossible thing."
Turkish's feet slid without sound slowly up into a full-weighted stance as he released two hidden leather cords near his neck. His outer-layered robe dropped from him, crumpling lightly to his feet. His inner tunic, tight against his chest, strained a bit as he stretched his bare, muscular arms out in a roll, briefly broadening his chest with muscle tension and then cocked them back into a rigid, defensive hold. As he briefly arched his ankles forward, mini-snaps came from his feet, his toe-knuckles popping as he spread them evenly against the cold, hard floor, as cold and as hard as the expression rolling over his features.
"Like Alice..." the Prophet spoke, watching as Smith's coat fell to the floor as well, "...I always believe three impossible things before breakfast."
There was a pause as the two beings met each other's gaze.
Immediately, Smith threw a solid punch, straight out, Turkish clipping his wrist with a flat palm. Rolling around, his bare foot whisked over Smith's ducking head, instantly launching himself into a backflip off his remaining foot. A dark fist, fluttering black smoke from its trail, flew straight under Turkish's aerial arc, shattering a marble railing as if so much glass. The Prophet landed flatfooted, twisting and turning at triple lunges, wrist-blocking each strike.
Smith growled, and a wave of ebony energy pooled from his body, flinging Stringfellow into the air. His body tossed like a dead leaf along the wave, he twisted his torso in midair, his feet landing perfectly against the side of a sheer wall. The dark creature sneered, clenching his fingers into a tight fist, the wall exploding under the monk's feet. Fragments of marble shredded his tunic, cuts ripping along his cheekbone.
And Turkish fell, landing hard against the floor. Smith did not pause, tendrils of black energy snaking out, coiling around Stringfellow's form. The monk immediately began muttering something under his breath as the dark energy flickered and struck against an unseen field of inert atoms. Rolling under the stream of power, Turkish came up onto his feet. He flung his arms wide, and the very walls began to rumble and shake. Then, slamming his hands together, the walls began to fracture and burst as chunks the size of small rooms began separating themselves from their eternal perch.
Smith cackled with glee at the chaotic onslaught, his physical form battered with exploding masonry. He flung his arms wide, and the stone of the walls themselves began to erupt in blacklight flames. Muttering came through gritted teeth, Stringfellow's fingers dancing fervently. There was a slight ripple in the air as Smith suddenly flung straight up into the air.
Turkish grunted with an unseen barrier as Smith suddenly halted fifteen feet off the ground. Dark eyes narrowed, and the monk's bare feet began to crack the floor below him, sinking. Turkish whisked one hand downward, attempting to resist the gravity, as the other stayed focused against Smith.
"You cannot win against me, Prophet," Smith announced as he began forcing Turkish's feet further into the floor. "I am your paradox and your lie... I am the anti to your every... I am the undiscovered country..."
Turkish strained against the sheer power that exuded from the man. Stringfellow was the Prophet of life. He was faith incarnate. But, against this being, against this power, he was simply...
"...and you are a traveler, all the same."
...not enough.
A flash of blacklight shot from Smith, colliding directly with Turkish, ripping his feet from their moorings in the floor, throwing him forty-two feet straight across the castle structure. There was a spit of dust and crumbled marble as he landed motionless against the ground.
The echo of battle slowly faded as the only evident sound was that of Smith's fine Italian loafers once more meeting the ground with a soft, muted tap.
He chuckled to himself, walking over and picking up his fine Italian coat. Dusting it off with a glance of disdain, he briefly paused to inhale deeply against the blood-tipped white rose. And, as he slipped the coat back on, one might have noticed that the tips of red along the petals had grown thicker, broader.
And as the dark being sighed, returning his attention toward Naecken, the tips began to slowly run along the petals, blood dripping off its white beauty in silence.