10-26-2015, 10:04 PM
Fire. Fire, fire, everywhere. Consuming all, all consuming. Nothing safe. Safe from the fire. Not even the cold. Bitter, harsh, unruly cold. City on fire, city on fire. Church ablaze, church consumed. No one is safe. None safe.
Ballad knelt onto the blood covered snow, a look of shock covering his green face. All around him were the remains of the Church of Candlelight, burned down to the ground. The metal walls were completely alight, the yellow and orange colors sparking, lighting up the afternoon air as the smell of brimstone filled it up completely. It was a repugnant smell. The smell of death and destruction encapsulating the area.
Ballad slowly looked around, seeing the charred remains of the Church's inhabitants. He knew most of these people. Maybe not as friends, but as acquaintances. Not that he cared too much... or did he? He wasn't sure, but yet he was. He had an answer. But what was it? Fire, fire. Consuming all, all consuming.
The scene shifted. He found himself standing over several of his own kind. They were in a metal room, with medical equipment strewn around it as well as a body bag nearby. His fellow people were leaning over the corpse of another. The sounds of crying filled the room, but Ballad remained silent. This was normal. No one looked at him, all too focused on the tragedy in front of them. Besides, they knew about him. The others attempted to calm the wailing one down. They failed. They made it worse. Much worse. Tears. Tears are pure. Pure like snow. He could only remember tears, but not from whom. Was it she who was crying? Was it? Or was it the devil inside, who's laughs were told to resemble the din of suffering. Who was the devil? Was it them? Or was it him? But was it his fault? Were they to blame for what happened, or was it him? Using it involves yourself, but no one would've used it if the creator didn't create it. It wasn't his fault, or was it? Was he guilty? Was he? WAS HE?!
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Ballad woke with a scream. A banshee scream, but a banshee isn't scared. So that means his banshee scream was no more a banshee than it was a child who had been stabbed in the gut. The shriek rang across the grasslands from Ballad's abode, though thankfully there was no one around to hear it. Ballad suddenly shut his mouth, his senses returning. He gazed around his shack, his eyes almost completely bloodshot.
"Fucking... not again.." Ballad uttered to himself, raising his left gloved hand to the brim of his nose, closing his eyes as he squeezed it. Regaining his bearings, he moved his left hand down to his left knee as he bent it, standing back up as he pushed downwards onto his knee. Looking down to his torso, he cracked a small smile. No throbbing anywhere. Not even in his chest, which he last remembered took a crossbow. Glad I got that armor when I could... who knows what would've happened if I didn't have it on underneath.
Ballad slowly walked out of the shack, taking a few moments to soak in the details of the land. It was still more or less the same as it was before. The ground beneath him was covered in grass that got about halfway up his calf. The mud within the earth had dried up, though the smell of early morning dew still hang in the air like piss-covered slush. The sun had reappeared up in the blue sky, with not a cloud in sight. It beat down on Ballad's stuffy body like a gang member against a weakling. Sweat had returned to plague his forehead, though it wasn't nearly as prevalent. He could probably use a removal of clothing, though right now he had bigger problems.
Ballad sighed, crossing his arms across his chest as he turned back towards the shack. "Well... great. It's been three days since I've gotten here, and I'm a wanted man, possibly made an enemy of the only faction that would want to help me, and participated in a tournament and lost to a... fucking kid."
Ballad looked down to the ground, his eyes beginning to obtain a scowling expression. "Can't fucking believe it. Got beaten by a goddamn kid. What does that say about you, Ballad?" he grumbled to himself, his hands almost tearing into his green coat as he talked to himself. Eventually, his tone grew angrier and angrier, and he began to pace to and fro, something building up inside.
"How could I have fucking lost?! The guy who invented a gun that started a war, who can kill seven out of ten guys all by himself, and is overall a giant badass lost to some stupid red teenager out on the streets?! What kind of fucking stupid lucky BS is that??"
Gnashing his teeth together, Ballad swiftly brought his hands up to his head, almost letting out another shrill howl into his gloved hands. This shouldn't have happened. If that fucker didn't get lucky, I wouldn't have lost. And I most certainly wouldn't be here at this very moment. I don't know of any other way to end this shit. This is the only way. I'm... going to..
"Kill him," Ballad finally said, his tone stone dead "no.. not just kill. I'm going to make his life hell. Make his death the most painful death imaginable. When I get my hands on that sack of shit...." Ballad dropped his hands down to his chest, the palms facing up to his face as he ended the sentence. He then chuckled in anticipation, as if he could see the kid coming up to him right now, while he crushed his hands together, turning them into fists. His yellow eyes gave off a feral expression, with little hint of sanity.
It was decided. Ballad was going to kill the kid. The question now was how. Let me think... what's the most painful death imaginable? Snow? No... no snow here. Gun? Painful, but I need something worse. No.. I need..
A metaphorical lightbulb shot out of Ballad's head as he came up with his idea. His eyes gleamed with delight, a smile forming behind his red scarf as he held his right hand outwards, concentrating on something.
-------------------------------------------------------
Roughly ten minutes later, Ballad aimed his new device towards the target, which was around six feet away. The target itself was composed of sticks, with a red robe completely surrounding them. The robe itself was stuffed with a lot of straw, resembling a standard target. But this was no standard target. At least not for Ballad. He now knew what he was going to do next, and it was going to involve the red-hooded kid who's name he didn't know. But at that point it didn't matter.
An insane smile cruising across his face, he pulls the trigger of his new toy. Immediately, the revolver shaped gun started spewing out blazing wick towards the target. He kept it aimed at the straw man, eventually lowering it once the flamethrower stopped spewing its deadly colors.
Reloading the flamethrower, Ballad silently observed the damage he had caused. The hay man was completely covered in flames, with some of said flames on the ground, still burning. Ballad snickered to himself, imagining the sounds the kid would make when he blasted him with his new gun.
"Let's hope you survived that tournament, kid" Ballad discoursed, an animalistic inferno enveloping his eyes, "because I'm not finished with you yet."
-----------------------------------------------------------
News of Ballad's outburst at The Barley-Shoppe has dramatically decreased his popularity among the civilians of Camelot. Most were particularly critical of his implications that Camelot was somehow responsible for the war between it and the Empire. OmniTwitter posts have since called for action to be taken against him in some manner, though the majority of Camelot law enforcement has refused to comment on the matter.
Ballad knelt onto the blood covered snow, a look of shock covering his green face. All around him were the remains of the Church of Candlelight, burned down to the ground. The metal walls were completely alight, the yellow and orange colors sparking, lighting up the afternoon air as the smell of brimstone filled it up completely. It was a repugnant smell. The smell of death and destruction encapsulating the area.
Ballad slowly looked around, seeing the charred remains of the Church's inhabitants. He knew most of these people. Maybe not as friends, but as acquaintances. Not that he cared too much... or did he? He wasn't sure, but yet he was. He had an answer. But what was it? Fire, fire. Consuming all, all consuming.
The scene shifted. He found himself standing over several of his own kind. They were in a metal room, with medical equipment strewn around it as well as a body bag nearby. His fellow people were leaning over the corpse of another. The sounds of crying filled the room, but Ballad remained silent. This was normal. No one looked at him, all too focused on the tragedy in front of them. Besides, they knew about him. The others attempted to calm the wailing one down. They failed. They made it worse. Much worse. Tears. Tears are pure. Pure like snow. He could only remember tears, but not from whom. Was it she who was crying? Was it? Or was it the devil inside, who's laughs were told to resemble the din of suffering. Who was the devil? Was it them? Or was it him? But was it his fault? Were they to blame for what happened, or was it him? Using it involves yourself, but no one would've used it if the creator didn't create it. It wasn't his fault, or was it? Was he guilty? Was he? WAS HE?!
-------------------------------------------------------
Ballad woke with a scream. A banshee scream, but a banshee isn't scared. So that means his banshee scream was no more a banshee than it was a child who had been stabbed in the gut. The shriek rang across the grasslands from Ballad's abode, though thankfully there was no one around to hear it. Ballad suddenly shut his mouth, his senses returning. He gazed around his shack, his eyes almost completely bloodshot.
"Fucking... not again.." Ballad uttered to himself, raising his left gloved hand to the brim of his nose, closing his eyes as he squeezed it. Regaining his bearings, he moved his left hand down to his left knee as he bent it, standing back up as he pushed downwards onto his knee. Looking down to his torso, he cracked a small smile. No throbbing anywhere. Not even in his chest, which he last remembered took a crossbow. Glad I got that armor when I could... who knows what would've happened if I didn't have it on underneath.
Ballad slowly walked out of the shack, taking a few moments to soak in the details of the land. It was still more or less the same as it was before. The ground beneath him was covered in grass that got about halfway up his calf. The mud within the earth had dried up, though the smell of early morning dew still hang in the air like piss-covered slush. The sun had reappeared up in the blue sky, with not a cloud in sight. It beat down on Ballad's stuffy body like a gang member against a weakling. Sweat had returned to plague his forehead, though it wasn't nearly as prevalent. He could probably use a removal of clothing, though right now he had bigger problems.
Ballad sighed, crossing his arms across his chest as he turned back towards the shack. "Well... great. It's been three days since I've gotten here, and I'm a wanted man, possibly made an enemy of the only faction that would want to help me, and participated in a tournament and lost to a... fucking kid."
Ballad looked down to the ground, his eyes beginning to obtain a scowling expression. "Can't fucking believe it. Got beaten by a goddamn kid. What does that say about you, Ballad?" he grumbled to himself, his hands almost tearing into his green coat as he talked to himself. Eventually, his tone grew angrier and angrier, and he began to pace to and fro, something building up inside.
"How could I have fucking lost?! The guy who invented a gun that started a war, who can kill seven out of ten guys all by himself, and is overall a giant badass lost to some stupid red teenager out on the streets?! What kind of fucking stupid lucky BS is that??"
Gnashing his teeth together, Ballad swiftly brought his hands up to his head, almost letting out another shrill howl into his gloved hands. This shouldn't have happened. If that fucker didn't get lucky, I wouldn't have lost. And I most certainly wouldn't be here at this very moment. I don't know of any other way to end this shit. This is the only way. I'm... going to..
"Kill him," Ballad finally said, his tone stone dead "no.. not just kill. I'm going to make his life hell. Make his death the most painful death imaginable. When I get my hands on that sack of shit...." Ballad dropped his hands down to his chest, the palms facing up to his face as he ended the sentence. He then chuckled in anticipation, as if he could see the kid coming up to him right now, while he crushed his hands together, turning them into fists. His yellow eyes gave off a feral expression, with little hint of sanity.
It was decided. Ballad was going to kill the kid. The question now was how. Let me think... what's the most painful death imaginable? Snow? No... no snow here. Gun? Painful, but I need something worse. No.. I need..
A metaphorical lightbulb shot out of Ballad's head as he came up with his idea. His eyes gleamed with delight, a smile forming behind his red scarf as he held his right hand outwards, concentrating on something.
-------------------------------------------------------
Roughly ten minutes later, Ballad aimed his new device towards the target, which was around six feet away. The target itself was composed of sticks, with a red robe completely surrounding them. The robe itself was stuffed with a lot of straw, resembling a standard target. But this was no standard target. At least not for Ballad. He now knew what he was going to do next, and it was going to involve the red-hooded kid who's name he didn't know. But at that point it didn't matter.
An insane smile cruising across his face, he pulls the trigger of his new toy. Immediately, the revolver shaped gun started spewing out blazing wick towards the target. He kept it aimed at the straw man, eventually lowering it once the flamethrower stopped spewing its deadly colors.
Reloading the flamethrower, Ballad silently observed the damage he had caused. The hay man was completely covered in flames, with some of said flames on the ground, still burning. Ballad snickered to himself, imagining the sounds the kid would make when he blasted him with his new gun.
"Let's hope you survived that tournament, kid" Ballad discoursed, an animalistic inferno enveloping his eyes, "because I'm not finished with you yet."
-----------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile...
News of Ballad's outburst at The Barley-Shoppe has dramatically decreased his popularity among the civilians of Camelot. Most were particularly critical of his implications that Camelot was somehow responsible for the war between it and the Empire. OmniTwitter posts have since called for action to be taken against him in some manner, though the majority of Camelot law enforcement has refused to comment on the matter.
C&C Thread
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New to OV? Need a question answered? Want a C&C of your work? Send a PM to me!
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