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Sign on the Line (Story)
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Post by
oneforthemoney
The sound of the crack of bone resonated in the large dark room. Perhaps his opponent’s nose? It was difficult to concentrate beneath the cries of the men and women surrounding the ring, their shouts of encouragement and derision mixing together in a swirling tornado of aggression and adrenaline in Petron’s ears. His opponent sent a flying right, smashing into his cheek and making his ears ring like he had just borne witness to an explosion.
Petron felt himself stumble slightly, slamming into the circular chest high divider surrounding him and his opponent. The rough wood composing the barrier scraped slightly against the bare skin of his back, having abandoned his shirt for the beginning of the match much like his opponent. Petron leaned against the wooden wall, catching his breath which escaped him in ragged gasps.
The crowd let loose a particularly raucous shout of joy at the sight, signifying Petron’s hearing was returning though he wondered at the cause for the renewed cries. The taste of iron entered his mouth then, and he realized what had come to pass that had riled the crowd up so much more.
He was bleeding.
Admittedly it was but a split lip, likely from the blow his jaw had suffered at his foe’s hands. Petron had suffered far worse in the fight in terms of injuries, the constant blows equalling blunt force trauma which hammered into his form far greater than a simple split lip. But the fact remained that the fool had spilled his blood, as such it behoved him to respond in kind. Petron spit out the red fluid pooling in his mouth, moving his jaw about to check and make sure it had not been dislocated in some way, he strode back into the ring, his bare fist slamming into his palm as he watched his fellow combatant begin hopping about on the other side expectantly.
His foe was a large man, easily seven foot tall and broad in frame, thick meaty fists made up his weapons and he kept them up in a guard near his face, waiting for Petron to move in once again. He was covered in injuries and pockmarked bruises, far worse than Petron was, yet he would suffer worse before the fight was through.
Petron brought his own fists up, his frame wirier than his opponent’s and as such he had a much quicker gait and speed. Compensating this though was his physical strength, which though nothing to laugh at, was a far sight from the strength his foe might bring to bear. Petron had been relentlessly pounding on the other man throughout the illegal underground fight, throwing punches and kicks at any opening he spotted yet the other man refused to yield, stalwartly maintaining his footing and ever striking back in an attempt to land a blow on the other man.
And he was succeeding, as Petron could well attest to. His own lithe body sported several large bruises, nicks from the larger man but again, the relative strength was a wide gap and even a nick would send Petron spinning away in aftershock. Meanwhile the other man grimly absorbed everything Petron could throw at him, seemingly unflappable at even the smaller mans mightiest of strikes. But they would take their toll, the fist fighter knew that much.
Petron grimaced slightly as he dropped into a guard, his feet moving him quickly about to keep his foe from landing a good punch too early. He would likely be out cold by now, not even here now in fact if he had not had… assistance.
The back door of the pub was thrown open, a battered man following suit moments later to fall heavily into the filth choked alley with a cough of pain. He struck the street heavily to sputter as he landed in a pool of foul brown water. Petron forced his hands beneath himself and heaved, rising to his hands and knees painfully, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead into the disgusting pool beneath his face.
He heard the door close behind him and saw the light cast from inside the bar vanish along with it leaving him alone in the dark, thrown out with the refuse. Petron coughed again and tried to rise but then he felt the telltale burn of acid in his throat. With a heave he retched; foul smelling fluid pouring from his mouth and into the already defiled water of the puddle, causing it to overflow slightly in an unholy concoction of grime and what had been in the human’s stomach.
The stench of cheap regurgitated liquor filled the already pungent aroma of the alleyway with its sickening stench though Petron could hardly tell. It was an odour he could barely even distinguish anymore, his own clothing and form soaked in the smell from countless taverns and bars he had travelled to. With another cough, hack and spit to rid himself of the foul acidic aftertaste he attempted to rise, only managing to regain his feet for a moment until he fell backwards with a slurred curse. The man crashed into a pile of refuse piled outside, the garbage cushioning his fall with a disgusting squelch.
There Petron lay, his eyes half lidded and staring into the nights sky hazily in an attempt to gather his wits once again. He didn’t know precisely how long he lay amongst the refuse, though he supposed it had been for years if he took a retrospective look at things, having passed from deliriously drunk to introspective. This of course meant the comings of sobriety, though slow in process, was sneaking upon him with its dreaded hooks set to drag him back to the real. Yet enough liquor remained in him, permitting him to think back with senses dulled enough to not feel the full weight of his loss.
Petron begun to try and struggle free of the trash, his mind beginning it’s recollection and that something he had no desire to experience. Fel, the whole reason he sought to drink himself was to avoid it. That in mind the only sure cure he knew to flee his memories’ cold embrace was to find yet more alcohol to drown in.
A black cat atop the opposite wall of the alley watched the wallowing drunk, curious yellow eyes, golden disks reflecting as they watched the man floundering about the trash. At length Petron managed to free himself of the garbage, foul odour clinging to him more so then usual from his brief interlude amongst the trash. The man looked up to the cat, which tilted its head in a signal of contempt.
Petron scowled at the midnight creature and raised a fist shakily. “You think yer better than me? You think you know who I am? I’m Petron light damned Vargas! I was…”
“A champion fist fighter in the underground circuits of Stormwind, culminating in your career making bout with Gregory Tranin for the championship title. Which you lost, sad to say.” Petron spun around, bloodshot eyes of the drunk squinting in the shadows in an attempt to spot the speaker.
For a moment the former fighter could see nothing, the shadows of the alley thick as oil. But gradually he managed to make out a man amongst the darkness, shadows seeming to wrap around him like a protective affectionate shroud.
“Who’s there?” Petron blustered, determined not to show his fear though the slight quiver sneaking into his tone did not aid the matter.
There was a flash from down the alley and Petron spotted the outline of a mouth, the light of the moon reflecting off of a pair of rowed teeth, their ends sharpened to dagger like points and fitting together flawlessly like the stitches of a wound. With several clicks of shoes on the cobbled steps of the alley the figure approached revealing further features to the defamed fighter, the shadows almost reluctantly revealing the stranger. A black top hat of the style Petron had seen on some Gilnean nobles sat perched on onyx-black hair. A waistcoat of similar shade with split tails hung loosely and garbed the grinning man along with an iron chain, supporting a golden disk hung from his neck securely. A gem topped cane was in hand, the facets of the jewel sparkling lightly in the dim light of the moon. Black gloves snugly grasped the stranger’s fingers.
“Who are you?” Petron asked again, deciding the man to be a noble of some sort judging by the cut of his clothes, not to mention the gem on the cane.
“Simply a fan of your career, and an entrepreneur. But that is merely a vocation.” The man glibly answered, still grinning as he continued to lazily approach.
“I like to have names to go with faces.” Petron sourly retorted, the drink in his blood granting him an irritable mood and courage to express it.
“Of course, my name is Faust Kaufman.” The stranger declared with a sweeping bow. “How do you do?” He asked pleasantly with a disarming smile. There was a slight rattle from above, a glance informing Petron the cat had fled as if the mere sounding of the name had frightened it somehow.
“I’m fine.” Petron returned with a scowl as he looked back to the stranger. “What’s it to ya?”
“Well now, that entirely depends on you I suppose.” Faust replied easily with a sweeping gesture. Petron raised a brow and huffed when his addled mind managed to piece together what the noble seemed to desire.
“If it’s money you want I don’t have any.” Petron spat.
“But you have other items of considerable value. Tell me, I followed your career for a great deal of time but sadly missed your bout with Gregory Tranin. I profess that I am something of a perfectionist so I couldn’t help but desire the completion of the tale. Hence seeking you out and, as such, I implore you to please impart what occurred during that famous fight.” Petron felt his bluster edge away slightly at the words. If there was one thing he enjoyed it was relating the past; the present was something he tried to avoid with a passion.
Still, the end of his rise and beginning of his fall was not one he enjoyed to tell. “Fine, buy me a drink and it’s yours.” Petron answered at length. Faust grinned a little wider and flourished his hand in the air as if summoning a waiter. With a flash of purple smoke from his fingers and a startled yelp from Petron, Faust presented his hand, now holding a bottle of high grade liquor.
“A drink for a champion.” Faust flattered, holding the bottle outward in offering. Petron grinned slightly beneath the sycophancy of his companion. Mages were not an uncommon sight in Stormwind so he managed to recover from his surprise quickly enough, reaching out like a benevolent deity to take the offering.
“Great, good stuff here.” Petron quickly responded before finding a nearby crate and settling on it, twisting the top of the bottle off with a grunt. The former fighter took a hefty swig of the drink, sighing happily as the smooth taste rolled onto his tongue, savouring the flavour before swallowing in satisfaction.
“Oh, that’s the good stuff. I used to have a bottle of this kind of drink on hand all the time. And a beautiful woman on the other.” Petron laughed throatily at his own joke. Faust contributed his own light chuckle. Pulling a scarf from a sleeve and settled it on an empty crate opposite Petron, he sat on the fabric and leaned his chin on his glittering staff to watch the other man attentively.
“I can only imagine the grandeur.” Faust added.
“Like you wouldn’t believe! There were parties, wine flowing like water, women who looked like their faces had been carved by the Titans themselves and you should have seen the amount of respect.” At the last word the timber of Petron’s voice became bitter, the hand holding the neck of the bottle tightened. “Everyone looked up to me. Mob bosses, their kids, the women, other fighters… You know what they called me?” Petron asked.
“The Pit Bull.” Faust immediately answered with a grin. Petron nodded approvingly pleased that he had found an audience who actually cared for once about his tale. It was a glorious change from the ^&*!@s who just listened to please him and line their pockets, the other drunks who did so just to wait for their own turn to regale the others with their tales of woes, and the miscellaneous others who did so to feel marginally better about their own lot in life.
“Yeah, the Pit Bull. Nobody wanted ta mess with me. Somebody came up trying to pick a fight I’d lay ‘em out with a single punch. Just bam! Down. Those were the days.” Petron grimaced again and took another swig, looking at the bottle approvingly. “This is real quality. You wouldn’t believe the watered down swill they try to serve in some of these joints.” Petron stated with his respect and, what could almost be called affection, for his sole audience growing with each passing minute.
“Indeed, I’d wager the drink they offered before your final bout was of the highest grade.” Faust replied, not saying more on the bar thought to encourage Petron, yet not berating either to lose the man’s growing trust.
Petron nodded enthusiastically, actually looking forward to recounting his story. “It was, it was. Like heaven in a bottle.” He quickly declared. He paused then, a shadow crossing across his face to obscure his enthusiasm as thoroughly as a storm would the sun. “Then it all went to fel.” He growled, revealing the second reason he gained the erstwhile nickname of Pit Bull.
“Go on.” Faust gently encouraged though his grin remained.
“It should have been easy. ‘Win this fight’ they said ‘and your name will go down in history’. Bah!” Petron spat, taking yet another swig of the bottle. “It all started fine. He was a big guy, had little speed but he could practically break a tree down with those meathooks of his. I was like lightning, moving in fast and layin down the hurt, then backin’ away before he knew what hit him. Huge guy though, tall as a mountain and durable as one too. He just took everything I gave him and kept on comin’, every time he got me it was like being hit by the Deeprun Tram. I was woozy but so was he, took me a long time to get him there but likely nobody else could do it.”
“Truly? A most impressive feat.” Faust silkily prodded, Petron’s chest puffed out slightly at the praise almost to the point of surpassing his gargantuan gut.
“Damn straight. But I knew just a bit more and he would go down. I rushed forward, slippin’ under his guard and shot my fist up to slam into his head. He dodged it though. Didn’t think he had it in him but he did. That’s when it hit me, he had been leadin’ me on the whole time.” Petron paused as Faust snickered slightly.
“Heh, how droll. ‘Then it hit me’.” Petron gave the grinning figure a confused look.
“Huh.” Faust stared at the other man for a second and sighed slightly.
“Nothing. Do go on.” Faust almost dejectedly told him with a slight dismissive wave. Petron coughed a little, feeling like he had missed something but shrugged it off.
Post by
oneforthemoney
“Uh yeah. So anyway, where was I…” Petron trailed off for a moment before his expression hardened again. “Oh yeah, he had been playin’ with me. Treating the crowd to a show and for his amusement, making me think I had a chance. Then he just whips around like the snake he was, slamming his fist into my gut. I doubled over and while I was like that he slammed a foot into my leg, breakin’ the bone. I went down and couldn’t get up while he pounded on me, fists like a storm. By the time I woke up from the beating I was lying in a cot at some quack doctor’s clinic.
I lost, and it took me too long to recover, I guess. By the time I got out of there and my leg all healed up nobody knew me anymore. All they cared about was some hotshot new kid who took everything I had. People didn’t know me, treated me like a stranger or worse, with pity! I was the Light damned Pit Bull and they treated me like some damn cripple!” Petron shouted, his furious cries reverberating on the walls of the alley and echoing into the night. “I was a champion, and some pup who hadn’t even been wetted behind the ears took my place. He wasn’t half the man I was!” Petron cried, raising the bottle and casting it against the wall of the alley furiously in a desperate need to punish something, anything. The glass shattered on the wall like his dreams, the liquor running down the wall and the expensive wine slipping between the cracks of the cobbled street to be lost amongst the filth.
“And, what if you could get it all back?” Faust asked pleasantly, unaffected by the rage the other man had exhibited though the bottle had struck but inches from his head. Petron laughed caustically at the suggestion.
“You kidding? Look at me.” Petron demanded, running a hand in front of him in example. “I’m a drunk, out of shape, I couldn’t beat a child like this.” He bemoaned, voice gradually softening until he lapsed into a sulking silence at the end of the tirade, worn out and defeated from admitting his situation aloud.
“Then, let’s make a deal.” At those words it seemed like the air stilled, the slight breeze that had been drifting through the alley dying abruptly to cast the pair in an eerie silence akin to the eye of a storm. Petron shuddered in the unnatural still of the alley, the situation understandably disturbing. Petron suppressed a shudder at the presence Faust seemed to radiate at that moment. It felt as old as time itself, and as powerful as that which had known the world and shaped it as pleased.
“What kind of deal.” The fighter asked hesitantly. Faust’s eyes flashed at the words and he gestured skyward with a flourish.
“Why it’s actually contemptibly simple my friend. I will grant you what you lack in order to win the championship denied to you so long ago. The opportunity of a lifetime you lost so long ago given again with possibility of even further gains.” Petron stared at the other man suspiciously for a moment. It seemed farfetched, yet the drunk could not help but feel, in the very core of his being, that this man may well actually be able to do it.
“Saying you could do such a thing, what’s the catch?” Petron asked suspiciously.
“There’s no catch, though there is a price as a matter of course.” Faust remarked casually. Petron grunted and shook his head sadly.
“Huh, so that’s what it’s all about. Sorry Faust, you have the wrong guy. I don’t have bent copper to my name like I told ya. Better try someone else.” Petron grimly informed the grinning man as he attempted to rise.
“Now let’s not be hasty,” Faust quickly returned his cane flashing as it rose and gently pushed Petron back down onto the crate, “As I informed you earlier, you have other items of considerably more valuable currency than some shiny melted ore.” Petron permitted himself to be lowered back onto the crate, his brow raised in curiosity despite himself.
“Oh, and what might that be?” The other man swept his hand in the air in a dismissive gesture as if the item was of no real value despite what he had said but moments before.
“Your soul.”
“What!” Petron demanded, eyes wide with horror as he pressed his back against the wall he leaned against.
“Oh come come now, let’s not overreact.” Faust offhandedly advised as if such a request were an everyday occurrence.
“You want my soul!” Petron shakily shot back.
“Indeed, but let me ask you something. What has it done for you hmm?” Faust asked mildly, tapping the butt of his cane on the ground lightly. “Has it fed you? Kept you warm in the dark of the night? Comforted you after the loss of your fight?” Faust asked, the click of his cane punctuating each query.
Petron was unsure how to answer that. He knew his soul was a precious thing, the priest at the cathedral had always spoken such whenever he had gone (not as much late in life admittedly, but his mother had insisted he attend services as a youth) and he had been inclined to believe the wizened white robed man.
“But, I thought my soul was, you know, who I am.” Petron challenged, albeit shakily.
“And who are you?” Faust demanded sharply, startling the fighter into silence once again. A gloved hand traced a loop in the air, purple smoke forming from the movement until it made a complete circle. Petron stared at ring, eyes widening as he realized that it was showing him an image. Within the shadowy band was a man, eyes wide and bloodshot with a mangy stubble clinging parasitically from his face. Dirt and grime coated his features and the greasy unruly brown hair with streaks of grey here and there. Blubber weighed the skin, and the flesh itself had an unhealthy and grim pallor.
Petron gasped in horror, the man profiled in the smoke doing the same. It was a mirror.
“Is this you?” Faust demanded, leaning casually on the top of the smoke with a sympathetic expression on his face. “Or is it this?” He asked with a gleeful look, tapping the mirror with his cane making the image wobble.
When the mirror ceased it’s shaking Petron gaped in awe. Reflected now was him as he had been back during his days as a fighter, a champion, an idol to all. Short brown hair with the sheen of vitality sat on the head of his past self. Clean shaven with sharp piercing eyes and a cocky grin, as if ready to take on the world, his reflection stared at him as if daring him to take the offered deal.
“Think of it, you could be as you once were again! You just need to sign.” Faust informed the still awestruck fighter. With a snap of his wrist a roll of parchment appeared with another puff of purple smoke in the sharp toothed man’s hand, his fingers releasing the end to roll down and cover the reflection, favouring the neat script inscribed to the image.
Petron started when his vision of the mirror was obscured. He glanced up to the grinning mans visage nervously. “I’m still not sure…” Petron uneasily informed the merchant.
“Just think about it.” Faust declared in excitement, disappearing behind the mirror only to slide onto the crate beside the fighter, an arm snaking around Petron’s shoulder to pull him close tightly. “You could have it all again. I can see what the headlines would proclaim. The Pit Bull rises again!” Faust declared in contagious excitement, sweeping an arm before the two of them as if illuminating the future. “Imagine, showing all those who thought you were nothing, dismissed you as a has been. You could prove them all wrong; show them that the Pit Bull never gives up, never gave up! Instead, he rises from the ashes like a phoenix from the flames, illuminating the ring in your blinding light as you fight your way to the top yet again and take it all!” Faust declared, clenching his fist tightly in the air as if grasping fate.
Petron stared, almost seeing the potential illustrated as the other man described it. But then reality set in and doubts arose once again. “But… how?” He asked, cursing the desperation that crept into his tone but helpless from preventing it.
Faust grinned slyly and reached into his coat pocket with the hand not holding the fighter, retracting with a potion in hand. “With this. But a sip of the concoction contained within can rebirth the fighter you once were.
And all it takes,” Faust continued, spinning the bottle in his hand, the blur resolving into a pen with a curious midsized purple orb perched on the top, “is to sign on the line.” He sang, holding the pen out to the fighter expectantly.
Petron stared at the purple bauble, eyes widening somewhat when on the inside surface of the gem a white smoke like edifice of a screaming skull drifted across, only to disappear back into the depths a moment later leaving him to wonder if what he had seen had not merely been a trick of the light.
Petron shuddered and glanced from the pen to the paper. The black inked words ran along the length of the scroll to end, culminating a hard line, whereupon he was to sign his name.
Petron chewed on his lip, hope flaring in his chest. Could he really have it all back? The fame? The glory? The respect? Or would he turn down the offer, reject it and abandon the chance offered.
The fighter took a deep breath to steady himself, closing his eyes in thought. When he opened them again they were hardened in decision, steeled like a blade forged in the fires of life’s hard realities. Snatching the pen form the other man’s hand Petron brought it to the paper. Beneath the wide sharp grin of the contractor Petron brought the marker down and scratched the signature ‘Petron Vargas’ in a series of quick neat strokes.
As he finished he pulled the pen back, eyes staring at the finality of the etched words. Then, before his eyes his name began to glow a sickly green light. Faust began to laugh then, a dark cutting sound as he slid from beside the fighter, lithely taking the pen from his hand and standing before Petron with shoulders shaking in mirth. The sky darkened at the humorous cackle, a cloud moving across the moon to shadow the alley in impenetrable darkness. Faust’s laughter was like nothing Petron had ever heard before and something he wished never to again. It was dark and cutting like an assassin’s blade, seeming to mock all that was good and pure in the world with its cruel cackling.
The green light illuminated them both even as Faust snatched the contract up in greedy gloved hands. White fog seeped from the orb atop the pen to encompass the grinning man in its clinging ethereal embrace.
“Don’t forget to drink the potion.” Faust sang as the thick clouds of the fog devoured his body, his sharpened teeth the last to be obscured. “Best to do it in a private locale, nearly a decade of unabashed excess extraditing itself is not a pretty sight.” He declared in amusement, his final reminder slowly petering out as the cloud shrank into the ground, disappearing and taking the man’s voice with it.
Petron sat stock still for a moment, his mind blank at the arcane sight he had just witnessed. He could very well believe the entire ordeal had been a dream, a beer induced hallucination brought about by his consumption from within the pub he had been ejected from. Perhaps compounded with the head injury he had suffered being forcefully ejected from the establishment.
Except for the bottle, sitting upright unassumingly precisely where the man who had flourished it but moments before had vanished in a cloud of smoke.
Petron eyed the bottle hesitantly for a time, wondering if it was booby trapped or something of such ilk. When it made no motion to prove for or against his theory the man eased forward and reached tentatively for the container. Pausing in a final show of hesitation Petron cringed and snatched up the bottle in cold clammy hands.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Petron sat in his small apartment. Empty containers of intoxicants and dust covered nearly every surface of the residence, coating the home with the oppressive feeling of neglect and despair. There was a sole exception to this however. A single trophy case in the corner of the room, its glass doors immaculately polished to shine in the sun and reflect its contents. Sequestered within were dozens of medals, trophies and the ilk with the name Petron Vargas engraved on them all. In a way, it was the sole shining ray of glory amongst the despair trash ridden apartment, a suiting synonym to his life, Petron had mused once in a small moment of sobriety.
Such a nearly unheard of event of temperance was occurring right then, as a matter of fact. The overweight ex-fighter was seated on his bed, though the term was used loosely as it consisted of but a bare thin mattress and blanket, both of which were filthy. Petron had his head held in one hand, eyes staring at the nondescript bottle the other.
The bottle was not much to look at. A small cork stopper prevented its contents from leaking out and its shape was atypical, round bottom and fat body culminating in a smaller spout at the top. It was this small item that may be his saviour. The contents within promised to restore him to his life before the downward spiral he had ridden thus far.
But dare he drink it? It could be poison, Faust merely lying to him in order to cause the fighter to seemingly commit suicide. But why bother killing him? Faust was obviously a man of means, be they unnatural or otherwise. He had no motivation to kill the fighter. Petron was nobody.
The sober drunk frowned at that. That’s right, he was a nobody, but he hadn’t always been. He looked up, the trophy case gleaming in the light cast by the window. What did he have to live for anyway? If this thing turned to be but a cruel joke, could he even live past having his hope restored only to be dashed on the rocky shores of disappointment?
Petron steeled himself then. Grasping the cork he yanked it free and threw the drink back, the liquid flowing into his mouth and down his throat. He had hoped it would go down like the fine wine Faust had given him, smoothly and with a slight grape tang.
He was dead wrong.
It burned down like it was composed of lava, searing his throat with a vengeance. He gagged and dropped the bottle where it shattered on the floor amongst all the other abandoned glass containers, hands flying to his throat and grasping it in a vain attempt to soothe the agony. His throat clenched in closure causing him to gasp in a desperate attempt to force oxygen through. Just when he felt unconsciousness begin to grip him he found his throat reopening slowly. Greedily he sucked in great gasps of air into his lungs.
Then the fluid reached his stomach. It was as though the liquid was made of hooks and grasped everything on the inside of his body, tearing at it and attempting to force it up and out of him as if to purge the impurities by fire. Petron fell to his knees, hands moving from his neck to his stomach in the same vain effort as before, though the pain in his throat had yet to abate. Petron began to roll about the floor in agony, his muscles burning like they were filled with the licking tongues from the flames of hell itself.
He arched his back, mouth opening in a silent scream as the crack of bone sounded in the apartment. His joints began to twist, writhing beneath his skin as if trying to escape their prison causing his flesh to bulge in odd and unnatural places. His skin warped as if composed of maggots and his limbs convulsed with painful spasms. At one point he lost control of his bowels but the fighter was long past caring of such mundane matters, his mind only able to process the agony as every nerve sparked and screamed in protest of what was occurring to his body. He dug his fingers into the wooden floor in an attempt find something to comfort the pain, but then his fingers began to twist on themselves as well, writhing like snakes and winding to impossible shapes before his horrified eyes.
He began to weep at some point, begging for unconsciousness to take him only to be denied each time it’s comforting embrace. He lost track of time, it had little meaning to him at that point anyway, only knowing that each moment of agony would be followed by another, and another. An endless cycle of torture he could barely fathom the depths of. If he ever managed to scream he didn’t hear it, the sound of his own blood and heartbeat roaring in his ears being far too loud.
It could have been hours, weeks even that he lay on that hard wood floor, body warping and twisting in abnormal ways. Gradually however he began to notice the pain was abating, stealing away like shades in the night. It felt like an eternity, the pain so great that he wasn’t even sure when it was over until it was.
He lay there on the floor, eyes wide and staring at an upset bottle lying on its side. Perhaps he had fallen unconscious or asleep, he was unsure. All he did know was that he couldn’t feel pain anymore. Instead of the mind bending torment it was the sensation of the hard wood of the floor beneath his skin that he experienced. A breeze drifted in from a window lightly rustling his hair and he could hear the birds chirping outside, their musical melody a sweet relief from his screams of torture he wasn’t sure he managed to cry or if they had merely been in his mind. The smell though was foul, his head lying in a puddle of vomit.
Gingerly Petron rose to his feet, wobbling slightly as he gathered his bearings. He wandered towards the door and grasped the handle, yanking it open and stumbling down the stairs. There were some surprised looks cast his way but he ignored them, forcing himself out of the building and towards the back.
At last he reached his objective. A single well stood in the back of the apartment building, bucket sitting on the stone rim. Peter stumbled towards it, nearly falling and forced to lean on the well for a moment as he collected his bearings. Gradually his breathing evened out, the man standing on shaky legs. Grabbing the bucket he brought it over his head and closed his eyes contentedly as the water flowed over his form, washing free the accumulated filth he had collected in its cleansing flow.
Petron sighed in relief, throwing his head back in happiness at being rid of the clinging grime. Shaking his head to free his hair of some of the water he tossed the bucket back into the water, drawing it back up after hearing it smack the water below with a wet splash.
Petron marvelled at the ease drawing the bucket back out was, pulling the rope fairly without effort as if the weight on the other end did not exist. At length the pail once again came into view and he grasped the handle, heaving it upward and stumbling back when he overcompensated for the weight, nearly flinging the bucket away. Petron swung the bucket around and gasped when he caught the reflection within.
A stranger stared back yet, as Petron peered closer with eyebrows furrowing he sucked in a breath in surprise.
It was him! At first he thought he had aged backward, his visage lean with a strong jaw like he once had before rolls of fat had multiplied his chin several times. As he peered closer he noted that his brown hair still held several streaks of grey, so he had not aged backward. Rather, his face had been altered to the same muscular form he once had. Dropping the bucket Petron grabbed the stained linen he had been wearing as a shirt and peeled it off quickly revealing toned muscles and abs, barely an ounce of fat on his body. He looked to his arms, flexing them experimentally and smiled widely at the bulges straining beneath his skin.
“I’m… back.” He whispered in disbelief before he began to laugh joyously. “I’m back!” He shouted into the air, thrusting a fist skyward. His booming laughter reverberated around the backyard of the complex in joyous expression, filling the sun filled sky with the fighter’s confident and ecstatic cries.
And now here he was, beneath an ‘abandoned’ warehouse just outside Darkshire, his opponent before him and all that remained. Petron had immediately gone back to fighting following his discovery, having retained enough contacts to at least gain some preliminary fights. It did not take too long to work his way back up the ladder, his skill and back story of a fighter, rising from the ashes to ascend once again and take back the title of the best.
It all culminated in this, the championship bout. If he downed this man across from him he would gain the long coveted title. He knew it would not be easy, and clearly his foe deserved his place at the opposite side of the ring.
Petron kept moving, ensuring the larger man could not pin him down and force him to take the blows instead of dodging about. But he was growing tired, breath coming in short gasps as the constant battle began to take its toll. He had to end it soon or the other man and father time would.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of sharp teeth and a top hated head amongst the crowd. Petron nearly lost his footing when he realized that Faust was amongst the crowd, watching him fight expectantly. He had not seen the sharp toothed figure since the day he had vanished without a trace before Petron’s fearful eyes.
Yet he was here now, watching him battle it out in the match of his life. A match he had granted the old knuckleduster.
Petron ceased his constant motions, his feet gripping the sandy arena and throwing him forward in a rapid motion. It was do or die and he was throwing it all in a risky move. His opponent was caught off guard by the sudden assault and sent a surprised but clumsy swing at Petron, but Petron merely ducked beneath the blow and rushed forward and beneath the other mans guard.
Petron grit his teeth and bent his knees, rising with a rush from his running crouch and slamming his head into the other mans chin. There was a loud crack from the impact, his foes head jerking back from the impact as meaty hands reflexively rose to his face. Petron pressed the advantage, slamming his fists into his opponents bare midriff again and again.
The man towering above Petron groaned and swayed on his feet, the slightest breeze likely to knock him down. Petron could have taken advantage of it then, played to the crowd like a showman and merely lightly tap the towering figure contemptibly to send him crashing.
But Petron wasn’t fighting for the pleasure of the crowd. He remembered what it had been like following his defeat so long ago, played like a puppet for the jeering faces surrounding him. That in mind if his opponent was to lose he was going to lose with dignity. Petron slammed his fist forward, striking the other man’s chin with a second crack. The mountain of a man fell backwards, the ground shuddering slightly as he slammed into the earth to lie still in defeat.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, hands thudding into the wooden wall of the ring like a drum beat as the voices cacophonous cry shook the very rafters of the basement. Petron threw his head back, relishing in the noise like an addict, his jaw slack as his body relaxed in ecstasy.
He had won. At long last, he was the victor, and no one could take that away.
Silent as a ghost a figure slipped through and away from the crowd, sharp teeth in a wide pleased grin before they vanished amongst the shadows of the arena like they had never been.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Petron stumbled out of the large building, a wide grin plastered on his face. The joyous sounds of celebration came from within until the door slid shut once again, leaving the fist fighter alone in the night. Petron sighed in happiness, an uncorked bottle of wine in his hands.
He had not touched liquor since his glorious rebirth, reasoning the liquid had been a crutch he no longer needed. But tonight, tonight it had been a celebrant! The wine flowing like the words on the annals of victory, he had drunk to his heart’s content, stopping just short of intoxication. Once he had his pleased buzz he had foregone the drink, leaving the partygoers with a bottle in hand.
“One for the road eh?” Petron turned about, searching blearily for the source of the amused query.
“Show yourself!” He demanded, eyebrows crinkling as he squinted into the shadows encompassing his surroundings. Petron brandished the bottle threateningly.
Petron started when a hand reached around his shoulder and plucked the bottle from his grasp like it was a grape from the vine. “Hmm, a very nice brand.” Faust mused with the bottle Petron had held moments before in hand, reading the label casually. “This bottle is nearly comparable to the one which I magnanimously granted you when first became acquainted.” Petron gasped and spun around to see the grinning man inches away, seemingly having apparated from thin air.
“Faust! You scared me.” Petron gasped, hand clutching his chest in surprise at the sudden appearance of the other man. Faust glanced at the fighter and grinned easily.
“My apologies, I merely wished to come and congratulate you on a victorious battle. Truly you have conquered the odds and become the champion you always knew you could be.” The suited man declared, throwing his arms out grandly.
“It was brilliant.” Petron agreed enthusiastically.
“It was wasn’t it?” Faust cheered. “I can see the tales they will tell of this day to come. Petron Vargas, the Pit Bull, the man who rose from the ashes of defeat, his loss but the opening act to his rise and success in claiming the greatest victory. That which had been denied to him so long ago taken from the jaws of defeat.” The sharp toothed man declared, sweeping his cane in a wide arc before him, much as he had the first night they had met. “His return to the fighting world was only overshadowed by his leaving it, disappearing in the night of his victory, never to be seen again.” Faust finished, his grin taking on a considerably more malicious turn at those words. Petron eyed the other man in shock, taking a cautious step back at the premonition.
“W-wait, what do you mean?” Faust grinned darkly, turning to fully face Petron, both hands clasping the head of the cane before him. The suited figure tilted his head down slightly, casting a shadow over the grinning man’s face and obscuring his eyes. Petron shot his own eyes about, now noticing that there was a deathly quiet embracing the two of them as if they had entered a world separate the one from moments earlier.
“Well, you did sign the contract,” Faust began and gesturing to his side, the scroll Petron had signed so long ago unfurling in a cloud of foul purple smoke to hover in the air, hanging by invisible strings behind the grinning man. Petron stared at the paper, its size twice as large as it had been that fateful night giving him a grand view even from the distance of his written name. “And I have fulfilled my end of the agreement to the tee. Now, I have come to collect my payment, as promised.” Faust uttered, his voice conveying cheer at odds with the atmosphere. With a flick of his wrist the pen adorned with the curious purple bauble appeared in his hand yet again with a second puff of smoke.
Petron took another step back as Faust casually unscrewed the top of the bauble from the pen. “It’s only fair after all.” The man informed Petron in a cavalier fashion as he held the bauble in his hand.
The fighter stared at the orb, was it always that size? He was certain it had been small enough to fit atop the pen, yet now it fit snugly in Faust’s clutching hand, the grinning man’s fingers like talons gripping the orb. Petron watched in growing awe and horror as a fog drifted from between the claw like digits, reaching about like the grasping fingers of the damned and surrounding them in a stifling air of menace. Petron sucked in a breath through his teeth when he saw the fog seeming to bulge in places, figures of screaming skulls composed of the stifling smoke rising as if trying to escape, only to be drawn back in before they could fully flee the body of smog clawing around the two men.
“Y-you can’t. I-I finally w-won.” Petron finally protested, taking another step back with panic filled eyes.
“And so did I. Now then, if you would just come over here…” Faust took a step toward Petron, the fog surging forward with his motion, reaching with smoky grasping skeletal hands for the human in the clearing.
As if having Faust take a step forward broke the spell he had on Petron, he started, spun around and fledinto the woods like the hounds of hell were upon his heels.
Faust shook his head sadly at the retreating figure, his vision obscured by the gnarled trees of Darkshire. “Ah, they always seem to run. Gentlemen,” Faust declared serenely, the smoke whirling about with the skulls of damned souls screaming in silent agony turning attentively, “it would appear your new compatriot is attempting to flee his obligations. Now is that really fair?” There was a chorus of wails in answer, the shrieking sound filling the air with its deafening cries of protest.
“That’s what I thought.” Faust agreed with a sadistic smile. “Let’s go fetch him shall we?” There was another howl of pure tormented rage before the fog rushed towards the woods, drifting around the trees in a flood of otherworldly smog. The murky fingers reached around the trees, searching for the fleeing human as Faust walked casually through it, his shoes and cane tapping on the ground and matching his strides placidly.
Petron pounded through the woods, the tree branches seeming to claw at him with gnarled twisted hands to attempt and hold him. The crackle of dead leaves and his gasping breaths filled the air with an ominous tune.
The fighters skin was dotted with lacerations from the trees, Petron having abandoned his shirt at some point during the party leaving his chest unprotected to the lashing assaults. He kept his eyes forward as he stumbled through the woods, too fearful to look back and see how close the frigid and dour fog had grown to catching him.
The foliage constantly tried to block him; almost as if offended he would run from his contract. Roots seemed to lift up from the ground with the sole purpose of tripping him and slowing him for the encroaching fog to catch up; the trees themselves looked down at the running man, his panic driven mind seeing leering faces in the bark with gnarled expressions of contempt staring down at him, amused smirks carved in edifice on their wooden skin. Now and then a tree would look as if it had sprung up directly before him, moving to block his path only for Petron to scramble around to continue his flight, fingers splintered and bleeding from the rough bark and coarse ground he fell against.
In what seemed like an eternity Petron finally broke the tree line, appearing in a rounded clearing like refuge on the road to hell. His relief was short lived though, lasting only till he saw the stone monuments rising from the ground, grim reminders of what lay beneath their mourning stone forms. Words were scrawled on their surfaces, names and dates of deceased and damned recorded on their weatherworn features in silent reminder to an uncaring world.
He had stumbled into a graveyard.
Petron had little time to curse his misfortune as the creeping mist drifted around the tree trunks from all around him, filtering through the trees to silently waft across the ground of the clearing. The man cast his frantic eyes about, but to his horror the mist came from all directions to slip around tombstones like a parade of phantoms coming together for a celebration of his joining.
Petron sped away from the creeping mist coming from behind him, gambling the seconds he had before it reached him to rush in amongst the tombstones. Crouching behind one of the granite grave markers he pressed his back against the unyielding stone, his breathing rapid and laboured.
Petron grasped the gravemoss beneath him, eyes wild and staring as the mist drifted around the gravestone, coming closer and closer to his bare arms which rose with goose-bumps in response to the creeping cold. The mist embraced him, a dead weight settling about Petron. He could well imagine the oppressive load brought with the fog to be the burden the souls that composed the dour cloud carried with them. To his relief however the mist did nothing more, merely drifting further and further until it held the entire graveyard beneath its hefty shroud.
Petron let out a relieved breath. Though he could barely see his hand before his face through the thick mist, it seemed to still.
The calm of the grave was broken with a gleeful croon sounding as clearly as a bells solemn knell. “Oh Petron, where are you?” Petron glanced about in a panic-the gleeful voice seeming to come from everywhere at once. Then the tapping began, the sound of Faust’s cane upon the earth he realized, growing in volume with each measured tick like the hand of a clock. Petron sucked his breath in, holding it as the noise grew closer and closer, sounding the seconds before his discovery. Petron darted his eyes about but the fog was too thick, filling his vision with its murky view and obscuring the threat it hid within.
The tapping grew closer still, relentless in its growing volume. Petron gripped the earth in white knuckled fear. Closer, closer it came with no signs of hurrying, knowing exactly when it would arrive and how but such knowledge kept a secret known only to itself. Like death incarnate.
Then it began to drift away. Petron remained where he was, afraid to believe it was not just his mind playing a cruel trick but it was true. The telltale tap of Faust’s cane was gradually losing volume until it was gone altogether, fading into the night. Petron remained seated where he was for a time after that, his palms gradually releasing their death grip on the ground and he let loose the breath he had held, a sigh of relief escaping his quavering lips.
“Boo.”
Petron screamed shrilly in fear and leapt away from the tombstone to land on hands and knees. Twisting around he stared at the grave he had been seated against, atop which Faust casually leaned with arms draped over the headstone limply. The purveyor of Petron’s damnation’s mouth was open in its trademark grin with cane held casually in one hand, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
Faust let loose a light chuckle at the terrified man and rose from the grave, cane tapping the ground once again as he approached the quivering mass that was his contracted prey. “Well, I must profess I was fine doing this near the inn but the atmosphere here is much better I admit.” He informed Petron in a deceptively friendly tone. Petron tried to scramble to his feet and flee again but the fog seemed to coalesce in wane wraithlike forms, bony arms and clawing fingers gripping his arms and legs. Four of the shrouded beings composed of dismal zephyr grasped him harshly and when he tried to see the faces there was only a shadowed hood, faceless and pitiless visages of the unknown. Together with disturbing synchrony they forced Petron to his knees before their master.
“End of the line dear boy. Now then, in fulfillment of your contract I will now extract my payment.” Faust informed the quaking ball of fear and nerves with a delighted grin, producing the purple orb once again with a puff of purple smoke Petron now associated with the man’s foul conjurations.
Faust grinned and held the globe before Petron. As the ball grew nearer Petron snapped back to his senses and tried to struggle away with defiant shouts. But the shades grip was like that of demise, cold and unrelenting.
Sickly and pale fingers much like those of the spectres gripping him extended themselves from within the orb, reaching towards Petron with focused intent. Petron struggled in renewed fear and screamed shrilly, the sound echoing off the stones as his sole epitaph.
Then the fingers found his face, wrapping about his skull solidly like it was a lifeline. Petron screamed again, the sound fading away as the hands seemed to feed on him, drawing a white mist akin to the one surrounding them from the human. Faust watched in casual interest as Petron withered like a mummy, his soul pulled into the glass ball in hand.
With the silence of the predator the orb ceased its feeding, hands withdrawing into the massive soulstone as silently as they had come, disappearing within once again. Faust smirked in satisfaction and with a hushed command in a tongue as ancient as the mountains themselves the mist swirled about him like a hurricane. The sinisterly grinning man watched as the four wraiths joined the swirling mass of ethereal fog, sucked with the rest into the orb and joining their wails with the others as they spun about him in growing force and were sucked in with their cries cut off abruptly, the last of the trailing mists vanishing into the sphere leaving no remnants.
The graveyard was silent once again, the souls without voice once more in their graves. Faust stared into the purple orb, a smirk working his grin wider as a screaming face moved across the surface of the orb. He glanced to the mummified face of what was once Petron Vargas, skin stretched taut over the bones of the corpses face and eyes rolled back revealing but the whites. Arms and chest were in much the same state, emaciated from being drained of all vitality.
“Contract,” Faust began, snapping the orb into place, which was now the size of a marble once again, “fulfilled.” He declared with a grin of self satisfaction, shadows embracing him once again, teeth winking out into the dark.
Post by
oneforthemoney
I'll put up the second half in a few days. Waited a long time to submit this but always held back as I put a large amount of effort into this piece.
Post by
355559
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
oneforthemoney
No hurry, part 2 will take a bit to post anyway.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Well, at least he doesn't charge interest.
I wrote this over the course of a single day, editing of course taking several more. When I gave this to my editor and she returned it to me what was written by the part where he throws up after drinking the potion was 'not again!' I laughed.
Now, to start working on the second one... But first! Comments on what worked, what did not and anything I need to improve on would be appreciated so the follow up can be even better.
Post by
355559
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
oneforthemoney
Less and editor and more a relative who read it over for punctuation. Made sense to me as she is a librarian and the only other person I could ask is an artist.
Dammit what the hell is under the S key... I have to pound on the damn thing...
Post by
Atik
Less and editor and more a relative who read it over for punctuation. Made sense to me as she is a librarian and the only other person I could ask is an artist.
Dammit what the hell is under the S key... I have to pound on the damn thing...
My O key does that all the time.
Sucks for RPing, because most of my characters have Os in their name.
Post by
355559
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
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