Clash of the Scions (IT BEGINS! LSUs accepted)

[mattbcl]

/\/\/ Dylan Merrimack /\/\/

He was tossing and turning in his bed - even in unconsciousness, his mind was struggling to accept the ancient memories and the old rivalries, hatreds, grudges. It was an endless assault of information that his human mind could scarcely tolerate. Behind his tightly shut eyelids, his eyeballs flared with sparks and thunder roared in his ears. Arcs of purple electricity snapped all around his body, raking the blankets in which his legs were tangled and leaping from bead to bead of sweat adorning his nearly naked body. Grunts and groans escaped his throat, but while some of them were his own, others were obscenely guttural and distorted, as though several voices in unison were expressing pain and anger and betrayal.

His skin color warped and swirled between his typical light tan shade and a pale, sickly-looking color - the color of something that was either not truly alive, or possessed of life beyond normal means. His entire body blotched with spots of no color, only to have color return in some places and vanish in others. His cries became more intense and his writhing more violent.

His eyelids flew wide open. If there were eyeballs within, they were obscured by light and sparks that snapped and sizzled from the sockets. More small, random energy surges arced from him, emerging from his eyes, his mouth, his fingertips, his toes. All around him, carpet and upholstery began to smolder with the heat transfer from the electrical bursts.

Awareness returned to him then... a tenuous grasp on the reality at hand. With mere thought of the torment he'd had to endure through lives previous, he was destroying his own apartment. And small dwelling though it was, it was still a possession - a focal point of his life now in this world, a place where he could still be himself and none would care.

He closed his fists and clenched his eyelids shut, willing the energy to stop bursting from him and remain within him. He had learned how to exercise rigorous control over electricity... he'd had to learn it in order to blend in, the second time. There had been no advantage to walking amongst Humanity spouting surges of this strange energy that they had only ever seen in the sky. And now, even with the understanding and control they were able to exert over it with modern technology, it would still strike many as odd that an ostensible fellow human would be releasing such forces from his body.

The warping of his skin color eased, and returned to its ordinary coloration, while the purple static flaring all about him retreated back to his skin and then stopped its sizzling altogether.

He dared to open his eyes and release his fingers. These he looked at with a mixture of awe and horror; his nails had dug so deeply into the skin of his palms that they had nearly drawn blood, and now there were angry red prints in each hand. His eyes flew about his room, and he inhaled the acrid scent of fabric-fueled fire - his carpet and blankets were still actively smoking from the energy poured into them.

He muttered a curse and scrambled to grab a glass of water from his kitchen. Thankfully, none of the fires was larger than that which might be produced from a butane lighter... but it still meant that the carpet had a few scorch marks that had quite clearly not been there when he'd moved in.

Oh, god... Mrs. Grady's not gonna like that...

...but why should I care what a lowly Human thinks?

He stiffened as he doused the last smoldering ash on the carpet. The voice had been both his... and not. As had the thought behind it. The more the new (and yet old) memories presented themselves, sorted themselves out within his mind, the more he was able to understand of himself and the past lives he had led. Lives without ever realizing the creature he truly was.

A creature of limitless potential. At least be honest about this. Because honesty was a policy to which the Creators did not hold, and it is what separates us from Them. The Gods On High brought me into this world, and They call it an "accident".

...So what does that make me? Am I an accident?

He cast his gaze about, searching for... for... he didn't even know what. But his eyes landed upon the sheathed saber resting in the corner next to the television. A weapon he'd never had occasion to actually use, but that hadn't stopped him from finding time to practice his technique. It was a goal, at least. A purpose.

He was very much in need of that just now.

He virtually vaulted to the other side of the room and took up the weapon. Hurriedly, carelessly, he threw on a dirty muscle shirt and a pair of jeans, then raced out the door and into his yard, where he frantically drew the saber from its scabbard and brought it up to chest height. Just the sight and heft of the weapon in his hand seemed to have a calming influence on his mind, and he began to practice... thrusting at and parrying strikes from an enemy invisible to all but him. His movements were less hurried, more fluid and strong.

A more serene expression adorned his face as he settled into the movement. The dance of personal war.

Just focus on the goal. Nothing but the enemy in front of you. Nothing else exists. All you have to do is take the enemy down.

All you have to do is take the enemy down.


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Tag anybody who wants to come see a strange man swordfighting nobody at all in his front yard.