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Cogitation [P, Chayden. PG-13]

Postby Mousen » 04/24/2011 12:18 PM

((PG-13 for gore and because of Chayden. She scares us all. oDo; <3))


No one ever visited this part of the coast, the dainty beaches had been replaced by harsh towering cliffs. Even at low tide the only beach there was a three foot wide strip of rock made dangerous by the slippery green seaweed that covered it. The other reason that the masses were reluctant to visit that particular bit of coastline was because of Bootham Mental Institution, the grandeur of the place was over shadowed by the scandalous rumours about the inhabitants. If you believed what the townspeople said, there was several members of royalty locked up in the cells; a princess drove out of her mind by grief, a murderous king and a queen that believed the whole country was at war. The cells were also full of dangerous, knife wielding bedlamites and strange, evil women that tried to escape every night so they could snatch children. Fear of the place was built up from a young age, children and toddlers were scared into being good, as they got older it became their weekly source of scandal. Even when the gossip was scarce everywhere else, there was always a rumour about Bootham. They seemed to be getting more and more extravagant, according to the barmaid at The Green Dragon Yard, the cells were full of raging demons and a young priest was going to be sent in to exorcise them. According to the butcher's wife, he was a cursed soul and everything he touched died, he could make angels and demons alike wither with a single touch.

It was flattering for the priest to be the source of such gossip, he rather liked the version in which he was made out to be a roguish criminal fleeing from the law. Perhaps it would be best if they never really found out who was really making their way toward Bootham, Hans wagered that they would be rather disappointed. He was a tall man, with short blonde hair and steely-blue eyes. He had the kind of face that was easily forgettable, an honest face nevertheless. Hans seemed like the quiet sort of priest that could be inspiring and lively when he wanted to, but never was. He had no coat with him today, nor was he wearing the traditional cassock that singled out busy priests from the townsfolk. Bootham was a few miles away from any form of civilisation, the walk wasn't a pleasant one. The path twisted through muddy fields and overgrown Mooreland, gorse bushes filled with yellow flowers delighted in scratching the unwary, while deep pools of mud waited for the clumsy ones to trip and fall into the knee-deep filth. Thankfully Hans had travelled the path often enough to know where to avoid. Well practised feet stepped over the puddles and around the thorn-riddled plants, and it was a mile or so later that the path evened out and one could see the asylum resting on the headland.

Personally, Hans despised the place, the grandeur was nothing but a show, a mask used to make the seem better than it was. What was the point in having the extravagant front garden if the patients were half starved? Long ago he'd come to the conclusion that Bootham was more likely to make patients insane rather than cure them. With that thought still clear in his mind, Hans opened the door and slipped inside. He was quickly greeted by several of the asylum's employees, they spoke earnestly about some mental illnesses that didn't exist before they ushered the young priest down one of the darker corridors. It was amazing how quickly the place could go from the light and extravagant main hall, the place that looked like something out of a health brochure down towards the candle lit, damp smelling incurable ward. The workhouses were terrible, you had nothing but the clothes on your back and whatever scraps of food they remembered to throw at you, they worked you to the bone, it didn't matter if you were dying of cholera, it just mattered that you were making the rich richer. Though, in the incurable ward of Bootham Mental Institution, the Workhouse seemed to be a better alternative. The smell of death hung in the air, a rotting smell that clung to the inside of your lungs and made you cough up blood. The walls were lit only by candles and by the few windows that were scattered around the ward. The windows cast an odd, grimy light upon the place. Then there was the patients.

The women's ward was kept separate, but no doubt it would be just as bad. People lay in their cells, thick iron shackles clamped to their wrists or ankles. They were all so thin, one might have mistaken them for skeletons if it weren't for the eyes. Sunken, shadowed eyes glared back at Hans the minute he stepped into the ward. Some of the eyes were angry, others were begging. Many of the patients yelled, some screamed, the worst ones were those that were silent. They were either too insane or too close to death to bother, those were the prisoners that frightened Hans. 'Glass eyes' they were called, it wasn't hard to see why. The priest tried to concentrate on something else as he was lead down the cells where patient after patient lay, after a moment or two they stopped and the doctors muttered something about last rites and gestured toward Hans.

"Why bother? It's not going to change anything, is it? You know what better than I do, Hans. You know all the gods they worship, you know it's all lies." The voice whispered in his ears, echoing around his head. No one else heard the voice, even though it rang loud and clear in Hans' head. It was almost ironic to think that the priest himself was probably more insane than most of the patients in the ward. It was amazing really what you could get out of with enough backing, with enough lies. Why he didn't for one minute believe anything they he was preaching, the only reason he did so was so that he could keep himself out of the ward. For months on end the whispering, hissing voice would lay dormant, it wouldn't say a thing, then it would be back again, louder than before. The voice seemed to twist everything he believed in and throw it back at him at the worst possible moments, it was a constant pressing mist at the back of his mind threatening to take over the minute he let it. It was lucky for Hans that he didn't believe in much anymore. It was for the sake of the poor 'patients' in that place that he tried to convince them that there was something better after death. He could see why they believed in everything he said so whole heartedly, looking at what was around them they really had little choice.

He barely heard the doctors telling him he could leave this ward, but there was a dying woman over in the next ward that he should really hurry to. Hans nodded, feeling oddly lightheaded, there was a pain at the back of his head too. Almost as if the voice had become solid, occupying a space in his head where his own thoughts should be. If we were to fall down the stairs and he his skull were to crack open they'd probably find black blood in with his own, Hans was beginning to believe that the voice wasn't something his own twisted soul was coming up with. It was little wonder that at one point in time they'd believed the insane to be possessed by demons or some other hideous creature from hell. "Just a moment, if you please." Ha. For everything that he believed in, Hans even sounded like a priest. There was a superior-sounding kindness to his voice, you never heard that tone of voice anywhere else. It seemed that his job was beginning to rub off on him, much to his disgust.

Outside, the cold sea air was bracing and harsh, though it did little to clear his head. The cry of gulls could be heard as they circled looking for any unfortunate crabs that might have been washed up by the tide. The fights between the gulls were interesting to watch and they provided Hans with a distraction, something he could focus on for a little while, just until the whispering between his ears became inaudible. All too quickly it would be time to traipse back into that horrid place, he just hoped that the voice had finished. He wasn't so sure how much longer he could stand having a possible demon sat on his shoulder. Quite frankly, Hans was sick of voices, imaginary or not, they were all giving him a headache. As he leant against the institution wall, he considered the source of the voice. It could be merely be part of his mind, a hideous illusion of some sort, that was the most likely option. It could be a spirit haunting him, cursing him for some grievous sin he'd committed in a previous life, Hans didn't believe in spirits, unless those spirits were finely aged and came from a vineyard of some description. Scratch that, so long as they were even vaguely alcoholic Hans believed in them. Was it possible that some kind of dark creature, a demon of sorts was the source of his torment? The notion was completely ridiculous, demons didn't exist any more than the gods did, and yet the idea had settled like a thick, chilling mist over Hans.

((Sorry for the massive wait in posting this. D8 I'm so lazy. <3 And ignore the fact that I'm being so historically inaccurate. x3 Blame the internet and it's lack of reliable information on late 1800's mental asylums. x3))


We’re all hysterical & going nowhere together.

C’mon rapture. Let’s go bedazzling.

Nothing gets futured without its own spitshine
& I’m already not not not not not not miraculous.


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Re: Cogitation [P, Chayden. PG-13]

Postby Chayden » 04/30/2011 1:49 AM

This is a romance. My kind of romance <3


The rumors did well for Krotte Helmsley [for that was the identity that he assumed here]. There was no one brave enough, no one foolish enough, to face him. Each and every one of the ignorant townsfolk feared him. They thought him to be the Devil incarnate, sent to this world to wreak havoc and tempt the minds of the sane into madness.
Wasn't it ironic, then, that he worked at the asylum.

Regardless of the circumstances, the rumors blazed on.

Heathen. Heretic. Necromancer. Black magician. Blasphemer.

Krotte could deny none of their claims. Truly, he did work against the faith that they held so dear. It was foolish of them to refuse his talents because of that, but he could care less about those who thought of him only with contempt. Or, rather, he should not care for them. Alas, he could not stop himself from it. Even the slightest, most unimportant townsman provided him with trouble. The lot of them were nothing but cockroaches, but cockroaches are difficult to kill.
What was the expression? "Stuck between a rock and a hard place." Krotte's position could be explained no more concisely. One option was to give in to the daily torments, to endure the bothersome existence of the peasants and let them live in their ignorance. That way, he could stay here, and earn his measly living at Bootham.
However, it was not the monetary gain that kept him here. It was the strange sense of insecure security that overwhelmed him whenever he set foot within the place... The feeling crawling beneath his skin, sending shivers down his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck with whispers. The feeling that something would come along, finally, and restore his world to the way it used to be.
Who had been the one to f/ck it up?

Before, everything had been simple. For hundreds of years - or so it had seemed - Krotte had busied himself with creation. Since the God that everyone else was so preoccupied with had no time for him, he decided to make his own way.
It started out very slowly. He would create the body of something small: a bug, or a plant. It would exist, then, for of course he created them flawlessly. The only problem was their lack of life, their lack of drive. What could a mortal do to give will to another?
Nothing... By themselves. Luckily, Krotte knew Life, and so his problems were solved. He was free to create and to give life without constraint. The reputation that he gained from it in certain places [like this shithole] was inconsequential, so long as this gift remained intact.

But, as I said, someone had f/cked it up.

Now, he was reduced to this.

Krotte kept his eyes trained on the ground before him as he made his way to Bootham Mental Institution. Although he was still a good half mile away, he could already feel its presence. It welcomed him, lead him in so that he could be pulled once more into the soft embrace of insanity. He knew that it showed in his eyes, that desire, so past carnal as it was... Were anyone to see such a thing, they should probably go blind. His "condition" was nothing suited for those accustomed only to banality.

He was greeted almost fondly by the employees. There seemed to be some sort of fuss... A man? Another man? And this time, it was not to be a crazy.
No, this man must be beyond institutionalization.

For once, Krotte was going to allow himself to be distracted. He did not follow his usual route into the depths of the asylums where his more fortunate friends lay. The screamers, the moaners, the bleeders... Even the silent ones, frightening in their unpredictability. Those ridiculously lucky beings... They had reached a point which he himself could never even aspire to reach. He who meddles in that which should not be meddled in shall never be allowed to take the easy way out....

Shaking his head softly to clear it, he set himself to finding the source of all this muted commotion.

The culprit, a man, was alone outside, looking troubled. Krotte stood motionlessly in the doorway, watching him. He could sense nothing from this newcomer aside from the stress that was visible on his face. Was it possible that he, too, experienced Bootham from the perspective of its inpatients? As a prison, and yet still endlessly more attractive than the world outside?
Krotte had to remind himself that there was no such thing as hope killed too soon.

So. There he was: a tall, harmless blonde thing. And there was Krotte Helmsley: tall as well, but with dark hair, and eyes green like swamp water. His frame was deceptively thin and his face deceptively handsome. Now that face betrayed none of the tearing that had been going on in his brain beforehand; it was calm, shielded. Even though it would have been easy enough to guess, he wanted to know for sure what this priest was doing here...

Never had two words as much biting sarcasm and seductive intonation as these. "Greetings, Father."


cogitation - n. thoughtful meditation or pondering. Yeah, I looked it up |D
And I know I'll be shot for this, but historical accuracy be damned here. I have no idea what I'm talking about x3
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Re: Cogitation [P, Chayden. PG-13]

Postby Mousen » 05/06/2011 8:11 PM

Nails on a chalkboard, that was how the hissing voice sounded when it said; "There's a demon out here, Hans and I don't mean you or I." It was the first time the voice had made itself sound like a separate entity, it was also the first time he'd heard it sound even remotely scared. As much as the voice was trying to hide it, it was scared, a nervous kind of fear rang in ever syllable. Perhaps it was putting far too much stock in the rumors, one should never believe the gossip that was started in the 'quaint' country taverns. A few hundred years ago, the Black Death had ran riot between small towns and smaller villages. In the cities it was doubly worse, but one should spare a thought for those who'd died in the wheat fields. The scars of the event were fading, but they were still visible. Only able to be seen in pieces of bone that looked too odd to be a rabbit's and too old to be of any importance. Perhaps rumors were the plague of this day and age, less deadly than the bubonic plague, but rumors spread like wild fire taking fear and uncertainty with them.

Hans blocked out the voice, ignoring it. It could have said anything at all and he wouldn't have given it a sliver of attention. If he'd been feeling slightly less stubborn, he'd have noticed how the voice referred to itself as a separate being. It was just lucky he didn't believe in demons, or anything at all, really. If death was just death, if there was nothing more in the world it would be a mercy for many. If there is nothing new found in the world, and one day soon we reach the limit of our understanding it wouldn't bother Hans one bit. He wanted to die in peace, not be worried about sin or his short comings in life. If reincarnation was the case, he wagered that he'd probably been a plague doctor in a former life. Hid underneath a bird-like mask, hurrying from patient to patient spreading infection rather than curing it. All that effort, only to make things worse and die from the plague himself.

As the man approached him, Hans found it hard to believe that the man was the demon that the voice had spoke of. There was something odd in his expression, but to Hans he didn't seem much worse than the snide, know-it-all doctors back inside Bootham. Nevertheless, at this point in time, the dark haired man was probably one of the last people he wanted to see.

"Greetings, Father."


"Looking for enlightenment are you?" Hans spat back, forgetting that he had an appearance to keep up, forgetting that without the protection of the church there was every possibility that he would be thrown into Bootham himself. Strangely, the pale haired man didn't even attempt to stumble over his words in an apology, there wasn't any point. Instead he let them stand, a vicious, defiant expression creeping up onto his face, it didn't suit him. Despite everything, Hans was a kind man and it was rare to see him act so bitter, his plain but relatively handsome face seemed... lopsided somehow, as if the mask of quiet concern had slipped a little, revealing the clockwork underneath. Normally the only person who saw the bitter cynic in Hans was his long suffering sister, but even she had distanced herself. It wasn't because their beliefs differed so, in all honesty Hans scared her. The way he spoke of this echoing in his ears, it terrified her. "If I were you, sir, I'd pick another priest to tell you crackpot old fairytales." It seemed the mask had slipped a little more, and it wasn't bitterness that showed in his expression, it was pain.

For as long as the voice had been there, they'd always been a gnawing, a pain that only bothered him when he'd thought about it. It was like ringing in the ears, there wasn't really a cure for it, so one just had to distract themselves and hope it would go away eventually. It never had. Over the years, all the gnawing had done was peak and go away, leaving Hans confused as ever. If he thought about it, the pain might have been the thing to come first. A vague gnawing feeling that wouldn't go away, a pressing at the back of his skull. At the times he noticed it, he would've just shrugged it off, assuming it would go away on it's own. Then again, maybe the hideous whispering had come first, quietly slipping in thoughts that weren't quite his own, trying to convince him that the pain was a separate problem all of it's own.

Hans pinched the bridge of his nose, half trying to will his thoughts clear. It wasn't a good plan to be acting so weak when confronted with someone like Krotte. Perhaps Hans was weak, a stronger person might have been able to ignore the voice and not let it seep into his thoughts like venom. Perhaps, to a stronger soul the vicious pain would be no more than a light headache; easily pushed to one side. Maybe, it was his own fault that everything had happened, after all, there's no place in this world for weak souls. If he'd been weaker, he'd have accepted the beliefs he hated so much, and they might have provided him with solace. Too weak to be a leader, to strong minded to be a simple follower.

((Chayden! D8 I ran out of things to say about three paragraphs ago, the rest is just senseless nonsense. <3 Sorry. D8))


We’re all hysterical & going nowhere together.

C’mon rapture. Let’s go bedazzling.

Nothing gets futured without its own spitshine
& I’m already not not not not not not miraculous.


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Re: Cogitation [P, Chayden. PG-13]

Postby Chayden » 11/26/2011 3:07 AM

I remembered this when I was going through the Ownership Records to remind myself of which Lucain I have... There's no need to feel like you have to reply; I was just struck by the need to finally continue my end of the story, sooo. Yes. It's perfectly fine to ignore this whole thing <3

And so it began. Here they were: the gun had been shot and they had begun to move off from the starting line. This was to be a monumental battle of wits, undoubtedly fated to be marred with stalemates and tampered with by emotions.
Since his time with Life [so, so long ago... Krotte was beginning to doubt that he was even the same person he had been back then], Helmsley had been trying to teach himself to reject emotions. They were treacherous things. They distracted the best and the worst of the human race, kept even the most resilient men from the necessities of everyday life... And, most dangerously of all, they were impossible to understand.

Lust was rational. Fear was rational. Hunger, fatigue, pain... All perfectly logical reactions to various situations, reactions whose fluctuations were as measurable and regular as the paths of the stars across the heavens.

Love and hate were so, so much more difficult to comprehend. Perhaps it was Krotte's lack of understanding that had kept him from breathing life into his creations.
For he did not know what it was that caused hearts to flutter... Love, that despicable four-letter word. Hate, that horrendous utterance.
Both love and hate could affect people so strongly as to have them stray away from the course of fate. Krotte had known countless individuals over the years who had been f/cked over by their emotions... Businesses were ruined when their benefactors grew to hate each other. Governments crumbled because of distrust amongst officials. And like in the tale of Romeo and Juliet, however distantly in the future its author would be born, the structures of entire towns had been compromised when love between family members bred hate, the spawn of some long-forgotten dispute.

He had tried so long to fight against it... And yet he could not stop the queer happiness that blossomed within him.

It probably was not right of him to smile just then, but Krotte did, all the same. The way that the priest's face contorted... Such a snarl was ridiculously out of place on a man from whom placation and benevolence was usually expected.

"Oh? I've nothing to plead to you - perhaps you are the one in need of telling tales. Forgive me, Father, but I did not know that we would be dropping our facades so soon."

As he spoke, Krotte could feel his awareness heighten. It was not a brute, animalistic peak like the one he had experienced in drawing closer to the asylum; this was a sharpening done of his own volition. Where the energy of the insane had reached out and snagged his consciousness like a hook, this was the capture of a line. Krotte had grasped it willingly - he felt in control. Even with the keening of the freed minds in the cells behind him ringing in his ears, he felt in control.
It was a feeling he had grown unaccustomed to. Truly, it had been too long since the man [man?] had been all right.

But with the change that the catching of the line brought on came knowledge. Just little, inconsequential tidbits of the stuff, niggling at the edges of his thoughts, worming their way into his brain... Almost as if Krotte had managed to find a fuzzy broadcast of the wavelength of the other man's mind.

In fact, Krotte could almost pick up what the priest was thinking, or at least the general emotion of it. It was a bitter thing indeed, tinged with an understandable fear and perhaps even a hint of sadness...
And... What was his name? Henry? Harcourt? Hans? Hanson?
It was Hans, wasn't it?
He'd have to save that fact for later, maybe surprise good ole Hansy just when he was beginning to think that he could really get the upper hand.

Ah, yes... The rabble was justified in the fuss they had made over this one.
Life was about to become quite beautiful.

And oh, well. Rambling Chaydens will ramble |D
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Re: Cogitation [P, Chayden. PG-13]

Postby Mousen » 12/04/2011 1:59 PM

(( Figure I should let peoples know. Hans' religion is one I made up, er, making up, even. Any resemblance to any real religion is purely coincidental. Thanks. <3))

He shouldn't have said that. He'd knew that the minute he opened his mouth to speak, not that the thought had made any difference to him. Perhaps the pain was dulling his wits, by the end of the year he'd probably be stupid as well as mad. What made a person unhinged? A physical abnormality in the brain? Circumstance? There was many types of madness, he'd observed. From those that became violent at the merest thing, those that shouted, yelled and cursed, then there were those that didn't say anything at all. Why these things were so, he couldn't say. Many wanted to know, but none had the answer. Not yet, atleast.

Hans stood up, he was shorter than Krotte but only just. One hand dug into the brickwork of the building, as if hoping the structure might lend him some support. "It was a rather transparent façade." The pale-eyed man allowed himself a small smile there, sometimes he tried, he'd spread the word of the three gods, and of the nine legends, of what many perceived to be the 'truth'. The mask had to be complete one. But It wan't often that people fell asleep when those legends were told.

He was a better mad man, than a priest.

In hindsight, that wasn't too hard. Nothing kills a man dead quite like conviction. He might not believe in what he preached, but he did have conviction. Or was it more of an obsession now? Yes, he supposed it probably was. He had a decent amount of medical knowledge, previously having been on his way to becoming a doctor, the various mysteries of the time were one of the few things left that still held his interest. Absent mindedly, he fished a leather bound book from his pocket. It had always struck him as odd that they used the skin of a dead animal to bind books that were supposed to speak words of 'enlightenment'. Perhaps it was only fitting.

He was odd in the way that he still had those defined, naive ideas of what was 'right' and what was 'wrong'.  Hans liked to stick to those juvenile ideals, he still thought of himself as something of a good person, despite everything else. It was possible that was just his own ignorance speaking. Hans had never stopped trying to help, even when he knew when things weren't going to work he felt bound to try. How adorably hopeless.

"I doubt you're planning to expose me, so it matters not." Hans added to his original statement after a moment. Even if this dark haired man did intend to say something, he could be on his way within the hour. He wouldn't have to set foot on the damned soil of the Bootham institution again.


((I haven't dared read back what I wrote in May. ;3;; So if any of this contradicts what I wrote then, ignore it, dear. Also, how do you manage to sound so elegant when you write? ;w; My prose is always so juvenile-sounding. X3;; ))
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