Marvel: My Way's Journal|
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|Friday, January 1st, 2016|
An unusual Ascention Day.
Ragnar awoke with a start, not because of any bad dreams but of the scents hitting his nose like a punch from a power fist, but far far far more pleasant. A melange of scents his brain was rapidly identifying, whilst the names were still a bit unfamiliar to him he could smell sausages, bacon and some kind of bird that smelled awefully like a Fenrisian Mountain Grouse.
It took a heartbeat to let his eyes adjust to the pitch black of his cell before he slid out of his bed. That itself was still something he was getting use to in part. Use to a solid slab of mountain granite covered in a pelt the soft and springy bed had surprised him at first, just not use to the luxury of having something to lay on that yielded to you. The blankets were also new, whilst he in essence didn’t need them due to the alterations made to his body making him near immune to cold temperatures Ragnar had to admit that being able to drape a blanket over him felt good. Combined with the pillows Rangar found himself in the habit of curling up in a mass of sheets and pillows. Totally not a nest or den..okay…maybe a bit.
Adapting to not really having a schedule had been challenging, the Marine still busied himself in the morning either going for runs round the facilities grounds or going to the danger room most of the time but it felt ‘strange’ to have free time. But thoughts of going to the Danger Room or going for a run were firmly banished from Ragnar’s head, he could smell delicious food and that became the overriding matter for the Marine.
Pulling some jogging pants on and a T-shirt that still felt a bit too small the Marine padded downstairs, literally following his nose.
|Saturday, October 10th, 2015|
The face is the same, the person behind it is not.
Victor was padding round the mansion mainly following the dictates of his growling stomach. Remembering to pull some pants on he'd padded downstairs and followed his nose, not needing to turn the lights on. He didn't know what time it was, the moon was shrouded behind clouds and he'd left his watch upstairs.
He stopped only to bend down and scratch idilly at the skin that was being rubbed by the tracking and tracing bracelet round his right ankle. It reported his location to the Mansion's computer and was wearing it as an act of faith, he knew that in reality most folks round here would trust him as far as they could throw a black hole and he didn't blame them. At times he didn't trust himself, waking up snarling at things that were not there, pillows and sheets shredded.
Shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind where they belonged Victor walked into the kitchen, his head tilted eyes closed for a moment, the big feral's breathing coming in loud huffs as he breathed in for a moment sampling the scents of the kitchen from the lemon detergent used to clean the sink to the apples in a bowl and the meat in the fridge.
Grinning slightly Victor muttered "Pay dirt.." to himself as he opened the fridge, reaching for a plate he started getting a late night..early morning snack.
|Friday, April 24th, 2015|
The chamber was dark, the black stone walls barely lit by the burning flickering torches or lux-globes that spread a cold grey light around the room whilst from the speakers hidden in alcoves or worked artfully into black iron angels, chants and prayers to the Emperor played, a low background noise in addition to beneditions against Chaos and Heresy.
“This looks familiar does it not brother?” Angron said, giving Ragnar a sidelong glance, the hulking armoured form of the Primarch seeming ghostly, one minute solid the next little more than a haze.
“An Inquisition interrogation cell…yes I’ve seen these unhallowed places…” Ragnar replied, resisting the urge to throw himself at the shadowed form of the traitor Primarch.
“And do they look familiar?”
Angron said, stepping back. A dozen meters down, beyond the armoured glass were four cold steel tables with four people strapped to them. More hooded acolytes could be seen and there was the ozone tang of psychic powers being used.
Bobby, Logan, Thor, Baird were all strapped to the tables. The blond Asgardian was encased in the shimmering blur of a stasis field whilst capacitors whined, building a charge to a large barrel descending from the roof. Thor’s face was frozen in a silent, unending shout of defiance, his blue eyes open, shining with the strength that Ragnar knew was the core of his being. But in a stasis field, there was nothing he could do, he was frozen in time.
Baird was not frozen in stasis, he kept thrashing against his bindings, the armourplas blocking out what he was saying but Ragnar was lip reading regardless.
"You're a bunch of fuckin' idiots! So brainless your asshole 'emperor' could skullfuck you and not lower your IQs one bit! Yeah, pray to your god, see how much he cares!"
The Serran looked battered and bruised, a las burn on his right arm had been crudely healed, not that it mattered, you did not leave these chambers alive unless you was extremely lucky.
Logan was next, bound, stripped and chained, his hands encased in metal gloves, lashed and chained to the table like some kind of animal, a metal gag jammed into his mouth but his eyes burned brightly with hate and anger.
Bobby was the last, metal probes were sunk into his skull and spine, connected to a host of machines and his table and body were covered with a layer of psychic frost, his expressions slack and dull.
“Of course…they lobotomised him..but even that is not enough for the followers of the Corpse Emperor is it…Brother..” Angron hissed, his words pouring into Ragnar’s ear like hot lead as the Wolves stomach lurched before he started pounding his fists on the armourplas view port.
“Save your strength Ragnar Blackmane, you know what comes next…”
Down below a door hissed open and cherubim flew in flittering in patterns round the chamber as a robed Inquisitor in full regalia came in, followed by his servants reading aloud from the books of Pain and Punishment. A taller, armoured form was at his side but Ragnar could not make it out due to the darkness that defeated even his low light vision. A crimson robed Adept of the Mechanicum was also present, although to call him Human was a stretch of the imagination as his mechandrites snapped and swayed like a nest of snakes above his shoulders.
“For crimes most foul against the God Emperor of Mankind, for Tech-heresy, for causing the death and injury of His most Holy servants, for refusing to accept the Emperor’s light into your hearts and souls, for genetic impurity, for perverting the most Hallowed Form of Man and for refusing to be taken into His most Holy service with psychic abilities, you are all to be sentenced to death. Your crimes are many, your heresy obvious and the damage you caused before being subdued extensive. There can be no redemption for you, no mercy. Abhor the Witch. Hate the Mutant. Kill the Heretic. So as it was, so shall it be, God Emperor be blessed.”
Over all this Baird was laughing, pouring white hot scorn onto the Inquisitors words that had no effect, forming a background noise to the Inquisitors amplified voice but Ragnar felt proud at his friends defiance.
“Why..why show me this…to break my will?”
“Ragnar..that will break eventually…but not here, not now.” Angron replied with a chuckle that sounded like a tank’s engine starting up.
“But you have forgotten who and what you are. You ape their emotions, you copy their friendship…longing for the brotherhood denied to you…you know what you are…what you do. You’re a killer…and you will turn on them in the end. All of them. The wolf will take you…and they will not survive…the death they suffer here..is far more merciful…”
Down below in the chamber the armoured form walked forwards and Ragnar wanted to roar in refusal. He saw himself, fully armoured, Frostfang in hand, walking towards the bound prisoners, getting to Baird first.
“Just fucking do it already…at least I won’t have to eat any of your shitty prison food…fucking worst junk I’ve ever tasted.”
‘Ragnar’ raised Frostfang, the blade roaring to life.
“In nomine Dei Imperator . Mors est haereticus .”
The blade fell and Ragnar awoke, a scream barely held in his chest, his body bathed with sweat, Angron's cold chuckle still ringing in his ears.
|Thursday, January 1st, 2015|
I dreamed the dream...
Ragnar and Damon’s binge went on for a good few hours, the two drinking and just enjoying the food whilst Ragnar refreshed himself with the bottle of turps he’d found, only grumbling about its lack of any distinct flavour and that it was a dull drink that relied on its heat. Thanking Damon for his company the marine stood to leave and on auto-pilot Ragnar returned to his room, his belly full with some of the finest and yet strangest foods he’d ever tasted and a pleasant buzz from his drink that his bio-engineered organs were quickly filtering away.
Although his mind was still buzzing about the events earlier in the day he disrobed and lay on his bed, hands laced behind his head. When he wanted sleep he could go to sleep in the space of a minute yet despite trying, Ragnar didn’t get to sleep for a full thirty minutes, drifting off slowly into an unsettled sleep.
His armour was torn, internal systems faltering and dying, the fusion reactor in his backpack was making truly alarming noises but Ragnar grinned savagely even as his blood ran down his breastplate. His target was in sight, the object of his hate and scorn. The architect of the lies that had shaped his and uncounted trillions of lives and was willing to spend them with barely a thought. Its guardians had fought and died bravely but they could not, would not stay his hand.
But all it was, was a corpse, sat atop a massive golden throne who’s intricacy and ostentation were covered under thousands of cables and wires going into the armoured skeleton that sat immobile and upright, a sword of huge proportions across its lap.
Pulling Frostfang back to strike the marine rocked back as a voice hammered into his mind.
“Because I must…because everything you stand for, everything you are is a lie, a lie you could stop, but do not.. why? Because I must. Because humanity will never be free with you at its helm. Tyrant!”
Ragnar’s blade descended with glacial slowness and just as it made contact with the skull of the Emperor everything went black.
‘Have I done it? Are we finally free?’ Rangar thought, glancing down to see his armour repaired, looking good as new, there was no pain, no blood, just darkness. Darkness that filled with fire and booming footsteps.
The…creature was immense, as tall as a Warhound titan, its fists the size of a rhino, its head savagely saurian with iron and bronze dreadlocks coming from the back to form a mane of hair. The runes on its armour burned Ragnar’s eyes to look upon them and he knew what this was even as the stench of blood reached him.
“Well done little mortal.” The things voice was like tank treads on rubble or the rumble of distant thunder and artillery fire.
“You have done what I never could…what Horus never could…”
“Who are you…” Ragnar growled, his teeth bared.
“I have so many names…titles and honorifics…I will settle for the most simple…Angron.”
Ragnar’s hearts skipped a beat, his blood running cold. A traitor Primarch…
“You and me..we are alike, in more ways than you know. Like you I hated our father, he betrayed my brothers and sisters, left them to die…chained us ALL to his will…but you…brother…you severed those chains for ALL of us..” As the great beast approached its form was shimmering altering changing into something more human in looks if not scale. The face could have once been handsome, but rage had altered it into something hideous.
“I…did what was needed…”
“As did I…”
“You broke your oaths!”
“You killed the Emperor…driven by your hatred, your strength your need for vengeance..there are rewards for such acts of slaughter…and you ARE a killer Ragnar Blackmane..Brother…”
Ragnar blinked and his gaze was drawn down, gone was his storm grey armour, in its place was armour the colour of freshly spilled blood edged with bronze that seemed to pulse with an inner light in time with his hearts beating.
“Say it…say the words you KNOW you want to…deep down, we’re the same…killer, butcher…weapon…servant of Khorne..”
“NEVER! I AM NOT LIKE YOU! I WILL NEVER BE LIKE YOU!” Ragnar surged forwards even though he knew it was death to do so. He would not submit, not again, not to any ‘god’ or creature that fancied itself as a god. He was now free…and would live and die free.
“So be it…” Angron growled, his axe, swinging, biting into armour, flesh, bone…organs.
Ragnar roared in pain. “I’ll die a free man…not a slave..never a slave again…traitor…” His last act was to swing his blade as the world went black.
Ragnar awoke with a start, his hand embedded in the wall up to the elbow, his sheets kicked off him, one pillow torn to shreds the other flung against the opposite wall. Pulling his arm out of the wall Ragnar put a hand on his chest, his breathing hurt and his hearts hammered, his body keyed for combat.
“I’m no traitor...if I could do that…I’d do it gladly..to be free..”
|Saturday, August 23rd, 2014|
The Eureka Moment
The computer scans had been sitting on the front of his tablet for a while; for most of that time, the familiar smug leer had sat on Damon's weathered face.
Shit... this tech might be advanced but I can actually do better. I'm. So. Fucking. Awesome.
He plotted out the modifications and he knew what he could improve; 3.87% improved heat dissipation. It'll keep him comfier in the suit and the Hydrogen cells will last longer. Indeed, when Damon found out the suit used a minaturized hydrogen fusion reactor he didn't know whether to cum in his pants, reverse engineer and patent immediately or to panic over having an atomic hot potato which could destroy half of New York State sitting in his lab.
All he needed to do was replace some conduits in the suit with silver ones laced with synthetic diamond, and use a new thermal paste which Hank helped him cook up; also based on synth-diamond plus some carbon nanotubes in it as well.
There was, however, one little problem with Damon's plan; a problem which was quite well signified by the fact that Frostfang was still embedded in the floor right outside his workshop. He remembered when Ragnar tried to slice his door open; his knuckles were white as he gripped at his firearm.
Religious fanatic. Serious true-believer type. Priests tend to his armor. Its gotta be sacred. There's no fuckin' way he wants me modifying this.
But Damon knew he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it. And who knows, maybe Psycho-Puppy will actually be less chemically brainwashed now and listen to some fuckin' reason. Immediately he sent a text message to Ragnar and asked the man to come down to the workshop.
And take your chainsword with you on the way out he added to the end of his note.
|Wednesday, August 13th, 2014|
A New Brotherhood (Warning: Smut!)
The Asgardian's teeth tore through the flesh of the boar with relish; the crispy fat crunched as his incisors plunged into the flame-roasted tissue. The rich, meaty flavor danced across his tongue and jumped at the roof of his mouth. Thor groaned with contentment as he grinned at the feral.
He remembered their earlier hunt; there was no true danger or even challenge, yet that was not the point of this. The Asgardian had grabbed the beast, but left Victor the killing blow; he remembered that the taller man made it quick and painless for the boar. One lethal talon straight into the brain had terminated the life of their meal.
On Asgard he had sat around the fire with Hogun, Volstagg, Sif and Fandral as they had shared the meat of many beasts. He recalled the deep sense of contentment of those occasions; meat in his belly and his comrades in his presence. The warmth of the fire was nothing compared to the warmth of the bond shared between them. They all shared each other's beds eventually.
And Thor would be lying through his teeth if he claimed he didn't want to bed Victor. The tall, incredibly muscular mutant had always been handsome, yet now the man's worthiness had been established and proven beyond any possible contest. The other version of him may be a beast, but they are not alike.
Both of them sat around the fire in the woods; Thor then placed his arm over the larger blond's shoulders. He looked into Victor's golden eyes again; his grin had softened into a warm smile.
"After we hath finished this meal, I wish to make you my shield brother officially, Victor," he said in an eloquent tone underlaid with an affectionate rumble. He had not yet stated exactly what that process necessarily implied, but he had an idea that the feral had at least a vague suspicion.
|Friday, August 8th, 2014|
Divinity and the devine.
After tidying up the kitchen, Ragnar had helped himself to a few of the cylinders of metal that contained alcohol, not bothering with the can's pull tab he just bit into it, snorting and coughing in supprise when he got a high pressure jet of beer shoot into his mouth. He used the ring pull on the second can.
Spying a hearth with coals and wood in it the Marine got a fire going and he hauled one of the couches round so he could sit looking into the fires, listening to the crack and pop of the wood, the wind hissing through the trees outside. It was..strange to be at peace like this, it was almost meditative for him.
Unbidden the lyrics of a song came to mind, not one of the rowdy songs sung at the feasts, far from it. But for the life of him Ragnar could not remember where he had heard it, it was of Fenris that he was sure. But where.. He didn't even realise he was singing it quietly, looking into the fire, trying once more to grasp at smoke in his mind
"Heyr, himna smiður,
hvers skáldið biður.
Komi mjúk til mín
Því heit eg á þig,
þú hefur skaptan mig.
Eg er þrællinn þinn,
þú ert drottinn minn.
Óðinn, heit eg á þig,
að þú græðir mig.
Minnst þú, mildingur, mín,
mest þurfum þín.
Ryð þú, röðla gramur,
ríklyndur og framur,
hölds hverri sorg
Gæt þú, alvaldur, mín,
mest þurfum þín,
helzt hverja stund
á hölda grund.
Send þú, konungur Russ,
öll er hjálp af þér,
í hjarta mér."
The words were a prayer, a prayer for peace, strength and fortitude..and Ragnar could not remember where he'd heard them, only that some time in his life, he had.
When he finished Ragnar snorted, his eyes damp The heat from the Hearth no doubt..
|Sunday, August 3rd, 2014|
What a difference two weeks make. - for Bobby.
For two weeks Ragnar had been living in the Mansion, padding around, getting to know the place and those who lived at the Chapter House. He'd been more pleased when he had found the Danger Room and had been instructed on its use. It was different to the Practice Cages he'd trained in but in this case different was a good thing. Fully programmable, any environment he chose and with a huge catalogue of things to fight. As a consiquence of this he spent most of his time in there, or out running round the Chapter Houses impressive grounds.
This had only caused one minor kerfuffle when he and a large blond had met for the first time and argued over who's turn it was to use the Danger room. This had ended in what could be called a friendly brawl, Ragnar sensing something of The Wolf in the big man who even had teeth a bit like his own. Bruises and scuffs were traded and the beginnings of a bond but also something else could not have gone unnoticed by Ragnar. After the fight his hands were..shaking, not from adrenaline..and he didn't know why. Assuming it was exhaustion Ragnar returned to his Cell to meditate and rest.
But the shaking didn't stop, indeed it was joined by an ache in his stomach that brought Ragnar out in a sweat. Muttering a prayer to the Emperor Ragnar growled to himself as he tried to will his body to heal.
What was happening though was beyond his control. In the food and water of the Fang that was given to the Marines, chemicals that helped to balance certain functions were part of the meal. Not out of malice, but because it had been that was for over 10,000 years as the Emperor had decreed. And none challenged the decree nor even thought about what was going into the food.
Without regular 'refils' these chemicals could be washed from the body, naturally purged or weakening as they were not reinforced and this is what had been happening over the two weeks since Ragnar's arrival and now at long last, it was starting to show. Hormones that had long been denied were flowing once more, the Marine had even found himself inexplicably getting hard during his scuffle with Victor
I've been drugged...by something powerful enough to overcome me..only a thing of Chaos could do that... Ragnar thought as he pushed himself to his feet unsteadily. Then he began to think of who it could be and if he was Emperor damned honest, he wasn't thinking straight. He recalled the scents of rut that he'd picked up coming off the short hairy one called Logan, off the male who had eyes like a Salamander's, black and crimson, but the body and build of an Imperial Assassin. Of one of the rooms he'd walked past that reeked of sweat and other bodily fluids. Slannesh...here? The thought that Stormborn Drake had inadvertently put him in a place where worshippers of the God of Excess lurked chilled Ragnar to the core, but then he realised that Bobby didn't have the Imperiums experience with cults. But he did.
Swaying on unsteady legs, Ragnar grabbed the vox (phone) and keyed in the code to speak to the Stormborn, but when there was no answer and he got the vox's servitor asking him to leave a message he had no choice but to do so.
"Stormborn...this is Ragnar, there is danger at the Chapter House...a cult of the Dark Gods has taken root here." Ragnar stopped to shake his head to try and clear it. "I need your aid, they have put a sporific into me..but worry not Stormborn." He said, glancing over to Frostfang, his chainsword that rested against a wall "I know how to deal with this heresy..."
|Thursday, July 17th, 2014|
Just as planned...or not.
Somewhere in the 40th Millenium.
Deep in the Warp there lurked consciousness’s. Broiling, turbulent storms of sentience given form through emotions refined, distilled, amplified, twisted and warped into polarising facets. These entities were as old as the universe, as old as sentient life and in the psyco-active substance of the Warp they were lords of domains that were cyclopean in scale. Realms of madness and endless violence for the Gods warred with one another for supremacy for that most delicious prize. Reality itself. Although these storms of sentience that could easily be called Gods desired the mortal realm, it was hard for them and their underlings, daemons to interact with reality. So they operated through pawns or used raw power to breach the barriers between the Warp and real space, flooding regions with their underlings. And now one of those maelstroms of malevolent intellect watched as a Mortal, a puny, ephemeral thing worked to undo His plans. Again.
For a moment it envied its 'brother' who felt nothing but rage because He felt something akin to that now as the mortal, a genebreed, or Space Marine as they were called slaughtered his way through cultists, disrupting a ritual that would have seen a world of billions plunged into madness and never ending Change. This would not do.
The God resolved to simply remove the object of its...frustration. It could not strike at the Mortal directly..but there were a billion and one ways to skin a wolf.
Ragnar Blackmane's blood sang, every sense keyed and alert as he waded into combat, the Chaos cultists were no challenge, they were humans, armed with little more than slug throwers and insane courage, no threat to an armoured Space Marine, let alone one of Ragnar's skill and ferocity. Even without his armour Ragnar was quicker, stronger and far more deadly than his foes but the thick ceramite Power Armour covering him augmented his speed and strength even further.
He could hear the other members of his Pack around him, he didn't need to turn his head to look, he could smell them and that was enough for the Space Wolf, with his Brothers with him and the foe before him there was no place he'd rather be.
Tzeench how ever had other plans. All it took was a flicker of concentration, a tug on the lines of fate, destiny and reality and a flicker of power at His command as Ragnar leapt, howling like a wolf, chain blade swinging towards the lead Cultists head for reality to shift in a blaze of blinding white light as Ragnar was sent...elsewhere, but not exactly where planned. No..far from it.
New York Financial District.
The offices of Jeremiah Sach's had seen more than its fare share of..'interesting things'over the years of being a leading interior design firm catering to the super wealthy. They had entertained Liberace, two European Royal families and Gaga but getting 7'4 of fully armoured Space Marine (a ton and a half in armour) appear out of thin air was definately a new one. Ragnar had been at a full sprint but appeared in the air, momentum and gravity conspiring to make him bulldoze back first into a rather ghastly statue of a nude woman before a ceramite armoured boot hammered through a metal, oak and glass table like a wrecking ball. His fighters instinct and training made him kick and push out with his arms, throwing his body up, into a half crouch but this mearly meant that he came up and then down onto a large photocopyer.
The machine didn't stand a chance, buckling, snapping and breaking under the sudden application of battle armoured marine but its frame held, momentum from his jump transferring into the wheels, the mangled and crushed photocopier with its grey armoured burden jerked and hammered into the tainted glass window separating the Sach's office from those of Bobby Drake. The thick glass never stood a chance, showering Ragnar with bits of safety glass as he was wheeled on his back into Bobby's office.
|Saturday, July 5th, 2014|
Loki waited a few moments as he watched Creed slip into heavy sleep. He paused there, reaching over to touch the feral's dog-tags, idly examining the bits of metal. It was amusing how such little things seemed to mean so much to Victor Creed. As ever, mortals were mired in a sentimentality that Loki rarely allowed himself. He frowned, mentally gathering himself. Mortals had taken him off his guard, weakened his resolve. He would not allow himself to be weakened by sentiment for his mortal allies. To allow sentiment would create feelings of which enemies such as Heimdall and Odin would readily take advantage. Heimdall would come soon, and he still was unable to shield himself from the Watcher's gaze. Odin's magic continued to pervert his own like venom seeping through his bones, corrupting the very core of his being. He'd been able to perform some magics in the last few hours since recovering but still found himself desperately hindered. He could not shapeshift. He could not open a portal unless it was following one of Clarice's recent doors or if it was to a close location. He knew if he entered into true battle with another mage it would take greater efforts than ever to triumph. All he had now were his words and his mind...and Creed's trust. It was a fragile thing, but something he must handle with care to achieve satisfactory results. After he was sure that Creed was well and truly unconscious he laid the dog-tags back to rest on the feral's muscled torso that was already growing healthy tissue where there had once been blackened necropsy.
Satisfied that his ally would recover with no further help from him, Loki stood and went toward Thor's closet, remembering the array of garments the thunder-god housed there. He found nothing worthy to wear while facing off with Asgard's sentinel and his frown darkened as he turned away from the closet, unsatisfied. Returning to the bathroom, Loki leaned down to retrieve the ruined length of leather that had once been a pair of trousers. He frowned, then used what little magic remained embedded in the leather to transfigure its shape and texture. The garment dissolved into mist, swirling in front of him and with another flick of magic and a clear image in his mind he altered it to his liking once again. He chose a familiar Midgardian garment that slid to cover his flesh in folds of black fabric. Now clothed in a crisp black three-piece suit, embellished with a green scarf that draped across the back of his neck somewhat lazily and gold cuff-links that glittered at his wrists, he felt a bit more like himself. The boots, like the trousers, were easily transfigured into sumptuous Italian leather Oxfords that completed the ensemble. It wasn't armor, but it would suffice. He didn't need to armor his body now...it was his willpower that needed strength. For this battle Loki's armor need not be of metal and leather.
He turned to the tub, waving his hand to dissipate the ice crystals still floating there, melting them down into steam that wafted behind the mage in a gentle cloud as he exited the bathroom. The tub itself seemed undamaged in the blizzard following Loki's Jotunn form and the water that had flooded the area was slowly evaporating away so that the area was no longer a disaster. He was dressed and Creed was resting. Loki felt his work in cleaning up his own mess complete. True, he was sure that Thor would not thank him for the presence of a naked Victor Creed in his bed, but he'd approach that issue when the need arose. He stepped toward the door into the hallway, closing his eyes and feeling for the unique aura that was Clarice within their "palace."
When he found her he didn't open a portal within her room, he chose to walk the halls. He used the short walk to cement plans and solidify his own resolve. Clarice, like her father, needed to be treated carefully...as the flood so evidenced. If she suspected that he had ill intentions toward her family the result would be messy and difficult to repair. As he considered all possible avenues and conversations he would have in the near future he paid little attention to the mortals he passed as he glided toward the warm presence of Clarice in his mind, stopping only when he reached her door. He took a deep steadying breath then raised a hand to knock upon the door. He knew that all he needed to do here was check on the girl and ready himself for Heimdall's arrival...somehow he thought it wouldn't be nearly so simple.
He'd learned long ago that nothing in the life of a god was simple.
((OOC: for ferociousferal = Clarice))
Do You Have Any Idea How Many Forms You Have To Fill Out To Do Import/Export?
At first sight, it was hard to believe he managed to avoid showing up on any US radar.
The thunderer streaked through the sky; Mjolnir was clutched in his outstretched right arm. Seemingly without very much effort, one very large barrel and one more medium-sized barrel, both wrapped in a net of thick ropes, were being held aloft by his left arm.
He landed on the thick lawn of the institute moments later, freed the barrels from their confines and then hoisted the larger one over his shoulder with seemingly no effort. The smaller barrel was tucked beneath his right arm, and his hammer remained in the grip of his right hand.
With a grin as sunny as the day outside, he strode through the door. His biceps bulged impressively as gently lowered the wooden vessels onto the polished marble floor.
"Victor!" He announced enthusiastically in a voice that bounced off the walls, "I hath the mead! And the scrumpy! Let us drink!"
'Tis party time, as the Midgardians would say!
[OOC: For viccreed]
|Friday, May 23rd, 2014|
How to Restrain a Warhorse
Sleipnir sat in his stall, staring down at the floor while deep in thought. When he heard footsteps his ears swiveled forward, his alertness sharpening. He heard clanking. Chains beside a hammer. When the guards came into view his eyes were already on them, as if daring them to step forward. They seemed adequately wary of nearing him. "This is madness." One of them muttered. "How are we supposed to get these on it" The man lifted a set of eight iron horseshoes as if to express the hopelessness of their situation. "when its flailing all eight legs around trying to kill us?"
A valid question. Sleipnir mentally growled.
"Shut up! We do as the AllFather commands!" The other guard shouted. "Get the chain over his head. If we keep his head in control his feet won't be so much of a problem."
The Doubter snorted in disbelief but moved to follow his companion's request. Altogether there were five men and the all approached him with uncertainty and fear. They were right to be afraid. He sidled slightly to the left and backward, away from the strangers. As they neared him he made a low groaning sound and his sides trembled, his breath coming harder and more audible. He refused to leave the stall even when they lowered the rope that blocked the entryway to the rest of the stable. The head guard approached him, stepping into the stall with him despite the doubter's scoff of protest. The guard's young face was full of concern as he laid a hand on Sleipnir's shoulder. "No need to be afraid, boy...it'll all be over in a minute if you stay calm..." He stroked a hand over Sleipnir's silky black mane. "Easy lad...easy...." he whispered in a gentle tone, the tone one used to soothe a beast of burden.
Sweet kid...such a shame. Sleipnir thought, his shivering ceasing, his breath leaving in a solid puff. The guard then knew that he'd been duped into entering a zone of danger, weapon sheathed, ill-equipped, and completely vulnerable. His face went pale as his hand dropped of Sleipnir's shoulder and he made a last desperate bid to step away from the eight-legged monster. Too late. Sleipnir shouldered him with all of his strength into the post of the standing stall. The post shattered from the force of the blow while the guard who'd attempted to soothe him crumpled into a bloody mess a few feet away.
There was screaming. He could smell their fear. Good. He shook slightly, a spray of blood leaving his coat. When the next guard came at him with a sword drawn he reared, one iron-shod hoof meeting the sword and throwing the guard off balance while another hoof found the man's chest. He barely made note of where that man fell before another was upon him, trying to fit the chain over his head. He twisted, and rather than trying to pull away from the single chain he practically leaped forward with his head down. Being headbutted by a man was painful, his skull included several pounds of power as well as the metal bridle over his brow.
Two. He thought as the man crumpled. He didn't even have to look when two more came at him. He bucked slightly, kicking the guards away like annoying gnats. The final guard cowered against a wall, watching as his companions were smeared beneath the warhorse's hooves. He raised a trembling sword, his eyes wide and his face pale. The doubter. Sleipnir recognized, then lowered his head. The sword cut across his shoulder but he paid it no mind as he placed his bloody brow close to the young man, meeting his eyes with his own blood-red gaze.
"Am I a horse?" He asked, his voice a deep gravelly sound, punctuated by the clink of his teeth against the bit in his mouth.
"N-no sir." the guard responded meekly.
"And you. Are you not one of the Kingsguard?"
"Yes sir." the boy whispered.
"Then go back. Tell him that if he wishes me restrained he should do it himself." With that he stepped away, trodding through blood-smeared hay back to his stall.
"Sir...he will execute me for my failure here." The guard said tremulously and Sleipnir turned to gaze over his shoulder.
"Then there are two choices open to you. Die for delivering your message to the king or remain here and die for your cowardice of hiding from me while your shield-brothers fell bravely before me. That is your choice."
The man shivered, meeting the stallion's blood-red gaze for a long moment before he turned and ran. Sleipnir didn't know if he went back to Odin or not. He didn't really care. Either way, his message to Odin was painted all along the floor and walls of his stable. He knew not why Odin had sent guards to restrain him, perhaps as punishment for last week's bite. Good. Maybe now Odin was getting the point that he would no longer bear being a beast of burden.
|Monday, May 5th, 2014|
*edited* Fishing trip - Open to all.
So...it seems that thanks to being asleep in a sound proof room Victor had missed all the 'action' of having the lower levels flooded out by some accident with Clarice. After putting on the tracking bracelet he'd learned fuck all about it from Logan and was left to his own devices to figure out what had caused the flash flood.
Victor actually felt a bit bad he'd missed the action, at least it would have given him a chance to talk with Clarice who seemed like a nice girl even if she wasn't his and to see if she was okay. Bored and with everything drying out the feral found himself padding outside towards a distant lake that was still on the grounds. The sun on his arms and hair made Victor smile, all be it toothily, without realising it. He'd only stopped to partially re-attach one of the double doors leading outside, using the tip of a claw as a screwdriver to put the door more level.
Breaking into a jog it didn't take long to get close to the lake, he wasn't going swimming, like his feline code name Victor didn't really like swimming, bathing fine, but if he went to a beach (not that he'd done such a thing for as long as he could remember) he'd be content to sit on the sand rather than spend ages getting wet. The glint of scales and movement beneath the water did provoke something else, calmer and more controlled as he was there was still a desire to hunt, a desire that would never go away. He knew there as deer on the grounds and would track one down and kill it for Remy to cook, bringing it down the good old fashioned way. There was no deer, but what appeared to be plentiful trout, he didn't have a rod but there was other ways to fish.
Tugging his top off before kicking his boots and socks to one side the feral slowly got into the water, moving slowly to just before where he assumed it got deeper and he'd have to swim. The movement naturally startled the fish, scaring them away but he could wait. He was a patient hunter.
Ignoring the cool water round his thighs and the mud oozing between his toes Victor watched the rippling surface of the water, a hand raised, fingers hooked as if to strike but he kept his claws retracted as far as they would go. No need for them here. All he had to do was wait for a fish to come close enough for him to strike. He'd done this years, decades ago and he remembered that it was one of the few things that even at his worst, brought him a measure of peace.
But..there was a down side to this amount of focus. Like a big cat he was focused entirely on what he was doing, all his senses directed towards the water. Anyone could have come up to him and he'd not have noticed until they were right upon him.
Crashing Through Walls ((tag: Heimdall))
Loki spent a good while staring at the hexes and curse runes surrounding his own magic. Now that he was alone he fell even deeper into examining the spell, his mage sight and his keen mind uninterrupted by social graces. No one had yet come to inspect the disaster and he was glad for the privacy. He ran long fingers along them as one would caress a lover, looking for secrets. When he realized what was holding the curse stable he almost laughed to himself. It was his own magic. When he'd made the walls to stand alone without his constant supervision he'd also inadvertently allowed the curse to remain, guarding Heimdall's sigil. The sigil was his true goal, as it was the means by which the guardian had stopped the torrential flow of water and stolen away his son. He knew if he could examine the sigil it would lead him to wherever Heimdall was and perhaps to the location of his son.
He stepped back from the cube he'd made and with concentrated effort broke his own spell, releasing the accumulated water within to splash through the already sodden hallway. There had not been a cleaning effort made yet so he could see no reason to be careful about the matter. He watched as the hexes faded, their power having been leeched from his own spell, and sloshed through the water to come closer to the sigil. This power he knew.
This power he could crack.
His hand raised to touch the sigil as he had touched the hexes and he felt all the familiar pinpricks in the guardian's power. Normally, he would use those pinpricks to travel from one world to another and leave the guardian blinded to his activities. This time he found the link which tied back to Heimdall. Briefly he wondered if he should gather his allies. It was only a brief thought. Heimdall had always been a thorn in his side as Odin's guardian and stalwart supporter. With the latest crime of stealing away Loki's son he'd sealed his own fate in the trickster's eyes. Now Loki would not rest until he'd plunged a dagger into Heimdall after finding where the guardian hid his son. The need to find Jormungandr and possibly free him was strong enough to take him back into his days before he'd had allies, assuring him that he could defeat any enemy with his wits and magic alone.
To that end, he slid his aura through a single pinprick in the sigil. He connected easily with Heimdall's aura, having practiced for centuries, and with a pull that was slightly painful he pulled himself through the tiny imperfection he'd found. It was more disconcerting than teleportation, as it felt like he'd stretched his entire being into a single thread during this travel rather than his normal activity of stepping through a door.
With a shock he realized that Heimdall was in Odin's sitting room with the Allfather himself present.
There were many fascinations he'd had about murdering Odin. At this moment there was nothing he could do to enact any of those fascinations. To kill Odin now would not free his children, merely consign them to eternal confinement. Therefore he decided that he'd kill one god at a time, shifting his teleportation and his shape, he transformed into a sparrow, landing unnoticed among other birds on the balcony. He'd long since been able to escape the notice of Odin's ravens, Huginn and Muninn, so he knew he'd escape here with Odin being none the wiser until it was far too late. He'd remain here for the time being to follow Heimdall with ease.
"HOW DARE YOU DEFY ME?!" Odin bellowed, causing Loki's wings to flutter in shock. He gazed at the two gods with an inquisitive quirk of his head.
What's this? He thought, mentally frowning. Heimdall had never defied Odin. Even at great cost to himself the guardian had always remained loyal to the Allfather. What could he have possibly done to earn such fury from Odin?
Odin strode toward the guardian, his face twisted with his anger and his spear held in a white-knuckled grip. "I say again, guardian. You will open the bifrost and allow my son to deal with Loki once and for all. I have forgiven many things from you Heimdall, but this treason must end. Loki is a danger to all of the realms and will bring Ragnarok upon us." His voice lowered into a low growl as he glared at Heimdall with one furious eye. "Do not make me go through you to open the bifrost myself."
Loki stared between them, nearly chirping with surprise. Why would Heimdall keep the bifrost closed from Thor and Odin on his behalf? Was it truly on his behalf or for the benefit of the mortals with whom he'd kept recent company? Why did Odin insist upon the Ragnarok myth to Heimdall when the guardian clearly knew it was a lie? After all, Heimdall saw everything, obviously he'd seen that Ragnarok was merely Odin's fabrication...right? There was no possible way that Odin had been able to fool even Heimdall...and no possible way that the myth was true, he'd spoken to the Norn Witches himself. Ragnarok was a lie...right?
|Thursday, May 1st, 2014|
He seems to get himself into a lot of confrontations...
Finally having cleaned himself, Logan once again stalked through the halls with a new tracking anklet in his grip. His knuckles were white as he followed the scent of the new Victor.
This'll be a real test he thought as he imagined how their other Victor fought wildly at the first sight of the healing cell. He knew that any Victor would resent this.
But he also knew that if this Victor weren't lying, this Victor would understand the necessity of such a temporary precaution. If he truly hates what he was... he won't blame me fer hatin' that too.
And he knew that once, he was such a danger to others; there were times he feared he'd wake up with the blood of Jean or Ororo or Remy or Scott or sometimes even Jubilation coating his claws and dripping down his palms.
I ain't gonna let a psycho get tha drop on me. I ain't gonna let an animal slice up my friends.
And so his footfalls landed steadily as he tracked down the mansion's newest resident.
[OOC: for Viccreed]
|Wednesday, April 16th, 2014|
The new scents and sounds struck the Canadian's nose and ears immediately; ozone and hair products with the slightest saltiness confirmed the presence of Thor, and the crackling whirr of energies hinted at the presence of either powers or sorcery.
And that other scent... the scent of a woman with the evil Victor lingering all over her...
He wasn't surprised when he turned the corner and saw Thor standing near a shimmering, luminescence-wreathed schism in the air, and the familiar pink face of Blink proceeding through the green opening.
Not her portal then he quickly deduced. He saw a third man still on the other side of the tear and made the obvious inference.
But he was surprised when he noticed their eyes all intently cast towards him. The presence of Mjolnir in Thor's tight grip was hardly reassurring, but he knew from Victor's altercation with the Asgardian upon the thunderer's arrival that Thor was a just man.
Hope tha cooler part of his head is gonna prevail.
He took a draw on his cigar and let the smoke unfurl out of his lips. He clenched his fists but kept his posture straight; he strode directly towards Thor and Blink and the new presence without striking a predatory stalk. He was still several long strides away from the others when he spoke.
"Looks like ya wanna have a word with me," Logan stated in his gravelly rasp.
He did not yet know that it was the object he was holding in his right fist - a tracking anklet - which the others were confronting him over.
"I'm here. Go fer it."
|Friday, March 28th, 2014|
Waking Up On The Wrong Side Of The Bed
The Thunderer's immensely-built body stirred beneath the sheets as he surfaced from a dreamless sleep with a small smile still on his face. His joints creaked and he rubbed his eyes; a long and sonorous yawn escaped from his cavernous mouth as he sat up and stretched.
"Morning, brother" Thor announced warmly as his irises focused on the dark-haired mage watching him. Sunlight trickled in through the small gap between the heavy curtains and laid itself across Loki's face.
How happy I am to see him still. And how overjoyed we shall both be to overthrow that tyrant.
Almost immediately, his thick arms reached around his brother's body in a hug.
"Did you sleep well?" he inquired.
Sometimes even tech support needs tech support
It may have been the dead of night but Damon knew precisely where Stark was at that hour. Follow the smell of coffee, scotch, maybe martinis, and the sound of rock music. Bingo. Stark. Of course he didn't need to follow the smell since he and Tony shared the workshop. Damon had no complaints so far, which was the equivalent of a compliment.
His feet fell heavily on the workshop's concrete floor; the soles of his boots made solid thuds that echoed off the walls. He moved towards Stark's part of the room.
"Hey, Stark. Can I get some assist?" he asked.
[[OOC: For heartofiron]]
|Sunday, March 23rd, 2014|
Victor Creed yawned slightly as he woke up, four hours of sleep was all he needed thanks to his regenerative healng but this morning was different. There was a taste in his mouth that could best be described as 'metallic' and his head felt slightly groggy.
Acting on autopilot the big feral kicked his sheets off and stomped into the bathroom, stopping only to scratch his ass.
"Maybe a shower will clear my head..." He mumbled to his reflection in the mirror before doing just that, having himself a shower for a few minutes. At times he regretted coming to the Xavier institute, it was a cage, a gilded one but a cage none the less and he loathed being caged up. Still, the showers were a one up from what he had lived with before.
Half shaking and towling himself dry, his long blond hair combed back before it fell over his face again he still could not get the metallic taste out of his fanged mouth. 'Fuckin' psych stuff with the Professors done this to me...have ta say later' the blond mused as he pulled on some jeans and a shirt that still fit him.
Stepping out of his room Victor immediately knew something had changed, he knew the Institute intimately well thanks to his sense of smell and suddenly there was new scents, different ones, Even the hallway smelled of a different cleaning fluid.
"The fucks going on?" Victor asked to no one in particular as he started padding down the hallway.
Proof you can teach an animal tricks
Name: Victor Creed
Hair Colour: Blond.
Eye colour: Amber
Until two years ago Victor Creed, aka Sabertooth was one of the planets most infamous mutants, a killer for hire and a killer for pleasure he took part in assassinations, bombings, killings, robbery, you name it, searing the name Sabertooth onto the conciousness of the world. But all things can and do change.
In a battle against the X-Men the rampaging feral was trapped under a collapsing building, burying and pinning him under tonnes of rubble. Raging for days but unable to move the feral was left for dead by everyone, even his 'allies'.
In this time he did something he usually didn't do in his feral state, he..thought and with that came realisation. That he was quite alone, not even his 'friends' had come and helped him. He slowly calmed, getting control of himself, alone with nothing but his thoughts.
Calm, truely calm for the first time in decades, able to think freely he realised he WAS alone and in truth he didn't want to be. He knew why he was alone, he had done terrible things and that hit him like a bucket of ice water. He had done terrible things when enraged, when slaved to his feral nature, the desire nothing more than to hunt, kill, take and kill anything that got in his way and..it shocked and scared him when he realised what he had done without even thinking about it.
Fully healed he was able to slowly dig his way free and then he simply dissapeared off the radar for two years. Not a word was heard by SHIELD or even the X-Men, he missed two of Logan's birthdays leading some to think and hope he was truely dead. He was far from it and very much alive, roaming the border between America and Canada, seeing if he remained in control and if his feral nature would reassert itself.
It didn't much to hs supprise. Victor began viewing Sabertooth as another part of his personality, as 'someone else' but this didn't mean he'd been declawed. When a couple of idiots tried to mug him they were lucky to survive even if he didn't use his claws, and homes were broken into when money was needed to get stuff, food was as fresh as it could be, he'd hunt and bring it down himself.
8 months ago his wanderings took him to New York State and to the gates of the Xavier Institute where he asked for entry and asylum. To say that the discussions about having him even in the masion were...loud is an understatement but Xavier, being the forgiving soul that he is had Victor admitted. Placed under the tightest security and exposed to a battery of tests, psychic, physical and psychological to verify the truth in his words took months for the Professor, Emma and Henry to be utterly sure of their results whch were all positive.
Victor was admitted into the 'general population' although once more was very much alone, people pressed against the walls when he walked down the corredors, not even meeting his gaze. Still he resolved to prove that he wasn't going to rip their throats out purely 'because he could'.
And so did a normal day begin of boring lessons and trying to keep himself amused for Victor Creed, he woke up his head woozy for some reason, the slight dizzyness didn't pass until he left his room and stepped int the 'Asylum'.
The big changes with this Victor is that he's not a raping, murdering psycho, but nor is he a simperng goody two shoes or submissive whimpering thing, piss him off and you'd regret it. He knows what he did and the truth of it shocked and horrified him, the result is a nicer, more approachable Victor.