Saint of Spirits

Saint Of Spirits:

AND THEN THEY CAME TO ME AND WHISPERED INTO MY EAR AND I KNEW ALL THAT YOU HAD DONE. THE TIMES OF SAND ARE SOAKED RED WITH MY BLOOD AND IT IS FULL OF THE TAINT AND WRETCHED STENCH OF YOUR BETRAYAL.

Jecis Adamkavicius

-SAINT OF SPIRITS-

The air stirs softly this accursed night. The dead whisper softly into the ears of those who can hear, and the tidings do not bode well for those living with the gifts, nay, curse, of second sight. Jecis treads heavily down this troublesome path. Mumbling to seemingly no one, yet every word is heard. "Once again dear brothers, oldest of my friends, we watch as life is ripped screaming from the arms of it's mother." Shaking his head in a simple gesture of sadness, yet his eyes remain cold and callous.

"There's so many of us, Jecis. Usurper in name and spirit." Fredrick cackles madly as his eyes burn a bright blue. The red spiral of his mask slowly spinning, drawing the eyes constantly around the opaque shades of black that hide his features. His shaggy mane of hair untouched by the stirring of the wind. "You cannot see us dear little brother, but fear not we are here, as always." He mocks giddily as he floats beside the dark brooding man. "One of the joys of being ethereal is that we never really have to walk anywhere. But I do rather miss the days when I could run and jump, feeling the earth rush up to meet me. Now all I have is this damn chain!" Fredrick reaches out and holds up his left hand where a shackle binds him at the wrist, the chain of the most intricate kind, multi-faceted links within links ever winding and twisting about each other, fastened securely to a chain that seems to stem from the base of Jecis' spine. He rattles it about wondering if Jecis can feel every links' bounce and rattle, he pulls his arm testing to see if the chain will pull out the very spine of the one he is bound to, yet to no avail, the chain merely seems to grow with the distance, getting heavier with every inch and foot that he pulls away. "Blasted thing!" he shakes his head in a playful manner as he lowers his arm yet again. "And yet you feel nothing little brother, you merely hear me don't you?"

"For as much as you speak, little trickster, I rather wish I didn't." A cold reply from Jecis.

"And what would you do but think, if not for the sound of my ever elegant voice constantly whispering my madness into that delicate little skull of yours?"

"I would enjoy the peace and quiet Freddy. I would ponder what it would be like for me to actually have a thought of my own, uninterrupted by your maddening rambles. Sometimes I think you simply speak just to hear the sound of your own voice."

"The dead are restless this evening brothers." A statement, made by a third figure just as ethereal as Fredrick. His "body" completely covered in many different fashions of armor. Not a single patch of "skin" could be seen on him, if Saint Jecis could actually see him. Some parts of the armor seemed thicker than others, and overlapping in many places. It all meshed together to make up the hulking behemoth of Big Brother. Surprisingly, every movement made by this restless creature is fluid yet precise. From beneath his gauntleted right hand, a heavy chain extends also into the base of Saint's spine. This chain is heavy and black, absorbing all the light that flows to it. It is almost as if it is made of the void of space itself, consuming the very essence of life, as it were.

"Ever the one to set the mood with a genius observation!" Fredrick cackles madly again as he jibes softly at Big Brother.

"I have little regard for you petty feelings and moods Mad One. I have little use for you as it stands, do not overstep your usefulness to us lest you find yourself no more." He softly replies.

"Enough!!" Jecis screams into the cold night air, his voice carried upon the gentle wind his hands clawing at his head as if he were trying to claw the voices from his mind. Even the dead stop their mumblings at his cry. "Never a moment of silence with you two constantly bickering. I would rather listen to the dead speak of nonsensical things than listen to another one of your trivial arguments!" Fredrick begins to laugh maniacally and Big Brother just shakes his mailed hand rattling the onyx chain in a gentle reminder that there is nothing that can really be done. Jecis' breathing slightly ragged pulls his hood over his head and begins to walk down his path once more and the dead begin to whisper to him. Not everything they say makes sense, and he never really listen to any one ghost or ghoul for very long. Never does he worry about harm coming to him, for many have tried to devour him or simply maim him, but Freddy and Big Brother always are with him and will defend him. In the even that those to fail to protect him, or if they are outnumbered, he always had his "God sense". A seemingly divine gift bestowed upon him from his birth. Many hours of meditation and several encounters with the nether creatures that had hounded him all his life had taught him how to defend himself.

The wind stops its gentle breathing and the rancid stench of Death begins to creep into the nostrils of the Saint that wanders about the night. He stops abruptly feeling an icy chill slither through his veins like a serpent moving through his body stopping at his heart and constricting there. Big Brother moves in front of Jecis taking up his role as shield and protector. Fredrick moves behind Saint and hovers above his head looking all about with his cold eyes no longer filled with mischief and mirth.

The sound of many voices can be heard all whispering in a language long dead. The velvet night sky seems to harden and the moon hides its' face from the world. Saint Jecis stands where he is, digging in his heels, a small silver relic held in his right hand, thumbing it gently. The silver of the token is bright and seems to glow from within. He gently runs his thumb across the well worn edges. Decades of use has made it as much a part of him as if it were another hand. He speaks and chants softly speaking to the little silver charm as it glows on this most wicked of nights and he pricks his thumb on the tip of it drawing a small amount of blood which upon contact with the ancient little relic begins to grow and turn silver itself. The now silver blood extends vertically from the charm and begins to flatten and widen, forming into the blade of a magnificent sword. As the blood continues to flow upwards, intricate etching can be seen within the body of the blade looking as if it had veins within it and with each beat of Saint's heart, the pulse can be seen within the sword's "veins".