Those Lacking Conscience [challenge 206]
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kh_drabbleChallenge [206]: Storm
Title: Those Lacking Conscience
Wordcount: 417, spread through three sections
Rating: Oh, geez. PG-13? Maybe.
Notes: This is all about death and killin'. Not much in the way of details, though. Maybe a little creepy? Organization introspect fic ahoy.
Those lacking conscience:
I: Xaldin, the beast in a cage of wind
He is methodical and exact in everything he does. When fighting, he takes advantage of the swirling currents of air to send a spear (or two, or three. He doesn't mind a little unfair in his war) at an unwary back; takes careful note of the terrain and won't stand and fight until he's sure his opponent is in a weaker position. His hands never tremble, his shoulders never shake. He is sure and powerful and in control.
What he loves, what raises the storm in his blood, is to watch others lose control -- it brings a catch to his breath to see dreams shattering while he stands behind and whispers the wind through the cracks in the walls. He wants, and wants in the most carnal of ways, to watch as love sours and care festers.
He is a perverse man, and knows it, and does not care.
II: Larxene, savage in so many ways
There is a glory in fighting, in killing, in the electric sound of flashing blades shearing away another life, that she has never found anywhere else. She speeds through her battles, sinking daggers deep into tender throats, smiling as the blood jets over her fingers; setting another victim jerking in a violated dance of lightning-seared flesh.
There is no room for doubt in her mind that this life is the superior one. She doesn't like to remember before. This is all there is. This is all she wants. The silence of the castle leaves her too much room to think, and so she leaves so she doesn't have to.
She laughs exultantly as the bodies fall around her like so many broken dolls. This is what she loves best.
III: Demyx, the boy who didn't care
Drowning, he thinks, is sweet. He doesn't really like to fight, but seeing a life slowly draining out in a stream of little bubbles is pretty, almost worth the irritation of not right-now-and-all-the-time strumming his beloved sitar. He's got a name for her, because instruments are usually girls (not always, there might've been a guitar he sort-of remembers that he's pretty sure was named "Charlie", but that could be a girl's name so who knows?)
He's glad, after a fashion, that water is his element to control, that he can make pretty dancing girls to amuse himself with, and that those girls can also be deadly, can lose their forms and wash over people and buildings and animals and he never has to get his hands dirty. They just ...die.
And then he can return to his music, which is all he really wants.
Title: Those Lacking Conscience
Wordcount: 417, spread through three sections
Rating: Oh, geez. PG-13? Maybe.
Notes: This is all about death and killin'. Not much in the way of details, though. Maybe a little creepy? Organization introspect fic ahoy.
Those lacking conscience:
I: Xaldin, the beast in a cage of wind
He is methodical and exact in everything he does. When fighting, he takes advantage of the swirling currents of air to send a spear (or two, or three. He doesn't mind a little unfair in his war) at an unwary back; takes careful note of the terrain and won't stand and fight until he's sure his opponent is in a weaker position. His hands never tremble, his shoulders never shake. He is sure and powerful and in control.
What he loves, what raises the storm in his blood, is to watch others lose control -- it brings a catch to his breath to see dreams shattering while he stands behind and whispers the wind through the cracks in the walls. He wants, and wants in the most carnal of ways, to watch as love sours and care festers.
He is a perverse man, and knows it, and does not care.
II: Larxene, savage in so many ways
There is a glory in fighting, in killing, in the electric sound of flashing blades shearing away another life, that she has never found anywhere else. She speeds through her battles, sinking daggers deep into tender throats, smiling as the blood jets over her fingers; setting another victim jerking in a violated dance of lightning-seared flesh.
There is no room for doubt in her mind that this life is the superior one. She doesn't like to remember before. This is all there is. This is all she wants. The silence of the castle leaves her too much room to think, and so she leaves so she doesn't have to.
She laughs exultantly as the bodies fall around her like so many broken dolls. This is what she loves best.
III: Demyx, the boy who didn't care
Drowning, he thinks, is sweet. He doesn't really like to fight, but seeing a life slowly draining out in a stream of little bubbles is pretty, almost worth the irritation of not right-now-and-all-the-time strumming his beloved sitar. He's got a name for her, because instruments are usually girls (not always, there might've been a guitar he sort-of remembers that he's pretty sure was named "Charlie", but that could be a girl's name so who knows?)
He's glad, after a fashion, that water is his element to control, that he can make pretty dancing girls to amuse himself with, and that those girls can also be deadly, can lose their forms and wash over people and buildings and animals and he never has to get his hands dirty. They just ...die.
And then he can return to his music, which is all he really wants.
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