Logan
09-06-15, 11:39 PM
The sun barely broke past the edge of the horizon as the psion approached the entrance to the House of Cards. Each step weighed more than the last as the events of the prior day sat heavy upon him. The stairs leading up to the threshold of the headquarters of the Tarot Hierarchy seemed to expand into the skies above as he climbed step after step. Muscles burned in places he barely knew he even had muscles.
Then it all came to a crashing halt.
A large pool of deep crimson liquid stained the wooden planks at the entrance to the bunkers. A lifeless bag of shredded meat sat motionless, and Logan could only barely make out the features of his dear friend. The stomach cavity was left wide open, and the internal organs spliced this way and that. Nearly every inch of flesh bore signs of the struggle that took place, at least the bits of flesh which were still discernable as flesh. It would take a great deal of expertise and precision to so completely maim a human body in such a way. An expertise only one person within the ranks of the Hierarchy could possess.
Silently, the psion made his way into the House of Cards to his quarters, removed the sheets from his bed, and returned to cover the mangled sack of flesh. He possessed no desire to stick around and wait for the return of the perpetrator. As members of the Hierarchy appeared to offer one another condolences or otherwise as necessary, Logan told Vincent Cain to find the traitor and send him to the Citadel. Vengeance would be his.
=======
Logan only placed three specific characteristics as essentials for the place of battle: a glass cube measuring fifty feet long, wide and high surrounded by crimson red walls, a floor comprised of a one-inch deep pool of human blood, and in the very center, two wooden chairs facing one another. As he entered into the glass cube, he took his seat in one of the chairs. He burned with a rage he had long since let go, but rekindled at the sight of such ruthless desecration. Murder was one thing, but what was done to his friend was another level of specific cruelty.
That level of cruelty was intended to leave a message, to leave a mark on the one's who received it. The psion recognized the message, and understood its underlying meanings. There was a deep sense of brotherhood within the ranks of the Hierarchy and the one who perpetrated the crime intended to strike out at the very comraderie which Logan held dear. Friendship was frail, but brotherhood was eternal. Those bonds were severed the moment the attack was orchestrated. It was not random. It was not without intent or purpose. It may not have targeted the psion, but it sure as hell hit him where it counted.
The arrival of the one who drove him to this rage was at hand, and the psion simply sat, eyes glued at the entrance, waiting.
Then it all came to a crashing halt.
A large pool of deep crimson liquid stained the wooden planks at the entrance to the bunkers. A lifeless bag of shredded meat sat motionless, and Logan could only barely make out the features of his dear friend. The stomach cavity was left wide open, and the internal organs spliced this way and that. Nearly every inch of flesh bore signs of the struggle that took place, at least the bits of flesh which were still discernable as flesh. It would take a great deal of expertise and precision to so completely maim a human body in such a way. An expertise only one person within the ranks of the Hierarchy could possess.
Silently, the psion made his way into the House of Cards to his quarters, removed the sheets from his bed, and returned to cover the mangled sack of flesh. He possessed no desire to stick around and wait for the return of the perpetrator. As members of the Hierarchy appeared to offer one another condolences or otherwise as necessary, Logan told Vincent Cain to find the traitor and send him to the Citadel. Vengeance would be his.
=======
Logan only placed three specific characteristics as essentials for the place of battle: a glass cube measuring fifty feet long, wide and high surrounded by crimson red walls, a floor comprised of a one-inch deep pool of human blood, and in the very center, two wooden chairs facing one another. As he entered into the glass cube, he took his seat in one of the chairs. He burned with a rage he had long since let go, but rekindled at the sight of such ruthless desecration. Murder was one thing, but what was done to his friend was another level of specific cruelty.
That level of cruelty was intended to leave a message, to leave a mark on the one's who received it. The psion recognized the message, and understood its underlying meanings. There was a deep sense of brotherhood within the ranks of the Hierarchy and the one who perpetrated the crime intended to strike out at the very comraderie which Logan held dear. Friendship was frail, but brotherhood was eternal. Those bonds were severed the moment the attack was orchestrated. It was not random. It was not without intent or purpose. It may not have targeted the psion, but it sure as hell hit him where it counted.
The arrival of the one who drove him to this rage was at hand, and the psion simply sat, eyes glued at the entrance, waiting.