Post by Grave on Mar 26, 2005 19:39:41 GMT -5
The night, as it usually was in the city of Ragnarok, was pitch-black upon the sky.. The darkness shrouded all, and blinded all who dare not walk the light. But below, deep within the city's confines, the lights kept it alive amidst the darkness, glistening.. Blinking.. Flashing.. Glowing with an intensity that might blind those with weaker eyes.
A city that never sleeps.
Not very healthy.
Gunshots.
A bar inside the city's marketplace was the home of the 'rousing shots, and within it, there was the person who fired the shots. A crowd of people tried to mind their own business, but the smarter patrons ran.. Not wanting bullet holes through themselves. A rather portly man ran out from the bar, panting and stumbling 'long the way, his eyes widened and moist in his fear.
Behind the man, out from the very same doors, came a much larger man.. Not in width, but in height, and in muscle. The man was dressed in navy-blue clothes.. A cowboy hat sat 'pon his head, with a red stripe 'round it, and a silver cross embedded into the front. On his torso, he was dressed in a heavy coat, opened, that reached down to his knees, with red lining and trim, and silver studs. And underneath this coat was the shirt, button-up, of a preacher, but with the collar ripped off, defeating the very purpose.
Upon his lower body were simple navy blue pants, but equipped with special tan thigh add-ons, buttoned at the sides for extra protection where needed, also equipped with red trim and silver crosses embedded into the fronts. Over the bottom legs of his pants were black leather boots, strapped at their bottoms and buckled so they wouldn't come off without a heavy amount of work.
And, of course, the man's coffin.
A large coffin hung from the man's back, chains wrapped over his broad shoulders and strong arms, carrying the coffin. It was a rather morbid-looking, gothica coffin, too.. With silver and metal, crosses and skulls, hiding compartments and covering secrets all along the entire coffin.. Obviously a heavy piece of work, though this one man could carry it alone.
One sparkling, yellow eye peered out from the shadows spawned by the man's hat.. Followed by the glint of silver, a cross, that was embedded over the man's other eye. His long right arm lifted, and in his right, gloved hand, he held a gun.. An ebony black gun with a long, red cross decorating each side. His finger twitched on the trigger, threateningly, as he pointed it at the portly man.
And then, there came his voice.. A low, crackling voice, husky and old, as if it hadn't been used in a long time.. A voice that could thunder if yelled, and might shake the heavens themselves. Or, at least, some would say that about the voice. Some thought that. But all said nothing. All were silent, as he spoke.
"..Michael Cooke.. You are hereby under arrest for the murder of Angelica Fosteria. Come quietly, and no harm will come to you.."
And then.. Michael ran.
And from that gun, a shot was fired.
And into Michael, that shot did go.
And Michael fell.
And the man, with his coffin hanging behind him and his gun being holstered into his tan belt, walked over to Michael's body.. Stopping beside it, and looking down upon it. And then he whispered.
"..Wanted.. Dead or Alive."
The man picked up Michael, and slung Michael over his left shoulder. The man turned, and as he began to walk away, whispers shrouded around him from a small crowd of people.. And he could hear these whispers. And among them, he heard his name.. Or, more precisely, the name the public, the law, and the government had labeled him with:
"..The Coffin Master.."
A city that never sleeps.
Not very healthy.
Gunshots.
A bar inside the city's marketplace was the home of the 'rousing shots, and within it, there was the person who fired the shots. A crowd of people tried to mind their own business, but the smarter patrons ran.. Not wanting bullet holes through themselves. A rather portly man ran out from the bar, panting and stumbling 'long the way, his eyes widened and moist in his fear.
Behind the man, out from the very same doors, came a much larger man.. Not in width, but in height, and in muscle. The man was dressed in navy-blue clothes.. A cowboy hat sat 'pon his head, with a red stripe 'round it, and a silver cross embedded into the front. On his torso, he was dressed in a heavy coat, opened, that reached down to his knees, with red lining and trim, and silver studs. And underneath this coat was the shirt, button-up, of a preacher, but with the collar ripped off, defeating the very purpose.
Upon his lower body were simple navy blue pants, but equipped with special tan thigh add-ons, buttoned at the sides for extra protection where needed, also equipped with red trim and silver crosses embedded into the fronts. Over the bottom legs of his pants were black leather boots, strapped at their bottoms and buckled so they wouldn't come off without a heavy amount of work.
And, of course, the man's coffin.
A large coffin hung from the man's back, chains wrapped over his broad shoulders and strong arms, carrying the coffin. It was a rather morbid-looking, gothica coffin, too.. With silver and metal, crosses and skulls, hiding compartments and covering secrets all along the entire coffin.. Obviously a heavy piece of work, though this one man could carry it alone.
One sparkling, yellow eye peered out from the shadows spawned by the man's hat.. Followed by the glint of silver, a cross, that was embedded over the man's other eye. His long right arm lifted, and in his right, gloved hand, he held a gun.. An ebony black gun with a long, red cross decorating each side. His finger twitched on the trigger, threateningly, as he pointed it at the portly man.
And then, there came his voice.. A low, crackling voice, husky and old, as if it hadn't been used in a long time.. A voice that could thunder if yelled, and might shake the heavens themselves. Or, at least, some would say that about the voice. Some thought that. But all said nothing. All were silent, as he spoke.
"..Michael Cooke.. You are hereby under arrest for the murder of Angelica Fosteria. Come quietly, and no harm will come to you.."
And then.. Michael ran.
And from that gun, a shot was fired.
And into Michael, that shot did go.
And Michael fell.
And the man, with his coffin hanging behind him and his gun being holstered into his tan belt, walked over to Michael's body.. Stopping beside it, and looking down upon it. And then he whispered.
"..Wanted.. Dead or Alive."
The man picked up Michael, and slung Michael over his left shoulder. The man turned, and as he began to walk away, whispers shrouded around him from a small crowd of people.. And he could hear these whispers. And among them, he heard his name.. Or, more precisely, the name the public, the law, and the government had labeled him with:
"..The Coffin Master.."
