∴The Son, the Dame, and I∴

[Lewis!]

Campbell lay among the dead, retching with each breath, the stench of decay burning his throat, a vile thing that clung to his skin and hair like the damp earth of a grave. The air was thick with it, a putrid miasma that had soaked into the very ground, and yet he remained there in the pit, bound to his trial, his only comfort the cold and distant light of the moon above, hanging like a pale wound in the sky.

When his prescribed hours had passed, he pushed himself up from the corpses, his limbs heavy and stiff like those of the dead beneath him. He crawled from the pit, dry heaving until the last of his stomach's contents splattered onto the sand at the depot yard. His body shook with the force of it, and for a long moment, he knelt there in the dirt, staring at the stain he'd made, before rising on unsteady legs and stumbling back toward the nexus, a place of sharp angles and brutal shadows.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of cheap cigarettes, a smell he welcomed, for it cleansed his nostrils of the rot that clung to him still. She was there waiting, as he knew she would be, sitting by the table with a glass of liquor before her and one already poured for him. He crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, his bones aching with every movement, and sat across from her, his hands falling onto the table's cold surface as he reached for the drink. They did not speak, for there was no need of words between them.

Fourth Defender watched him with eyes like pale ice, and from her pocket, she drew a crumpled scrap of paper, sliding it across the table to him. It bore his next instructions, simple words, yet they carried the weight of iron shackles.

Inscribe a crimson mark upon your flesh
Let blood spill forth a sacrificial mesh
With each incision pain shall be defied
Baptised in crimson flow, your devotion amplified
For in suffering's embrace true power shall reign

Campbell almost laughed, but the sound died in his throat as he looked at her again. This, a bit of blood, a mere cutting of the flesh, after the horrors of the night? How could this compare?

But her gaze, cold and sharp as a blade, cut his mirth short. Alma Geyer, Fourth Defender, a woman who held in her the power to command both his loathing and his reverence. Her blue eyes narrowed, and the words he might have spoken caught in his throat like a shard of bone. She was not a woman to displease, and he knew then that this trial, small as it seemed, was but a shadow of something far darker that lay ahead.

KING TWO​

 

[Lewis!]

In her arms, I found solace deep
A mother's love, a promise to keep
Yet now she leaves, duty calls to obey
My black heart aches, I weep, and I pray​

 

[Lewis!]

 

[Lewis!]

​

...and yet, I still find an odd pleasure in recalling that night. Our blood intertwined in such a way. It was a peculiar bond as then, as it is now.

Though forged in the haze of drunken revelry, the memory holds such a sickening delight for me.

The weight of my actions, the battles fought, the wounds endured... even the lives lost, all seem insignificant in comparison to that one thing...

Her word.

Nothing we have done, no sacrifice made, no accolade received. Nothing can rival its significance.

∴You have my undying respect, Edward∴
@PeaceAndMagick89

​

 

[Lewis!]

...but those were different times, veiled in an elusive tranquillity that clouded my vision. Duty bound me, shackled my spirit, preventing me from understanding the truth in his words.

We wiped the Volunteer Corps from the face of the Earth. Labelled them as traitors and terrorists. It is only now, as I witness the decay of cities, the corruption of minds, besieged on all sides by the putridity of a decaying world, that I comprehend the validity of Ismails way. War, war, war.

That dream of prosperity, of universal triumph which I had pursued for over two decades, now appears only as a distant mirage, unattainable unless through the purifying flames of righteous annihilation.

∴What would you know of true loyalty, Campbell?∴
@Amiro ​

 

[Lewis!]

Funny that he could not remember exactly what his frater had said, the whole discourse had seemed to blur together in his mind. He sat alone in the Sanctum, contemplating his next move.

He was not blind to the truth in Eighth King's words, after all, to follow the trick of Diyonsus was not truly against their code, he knew that, but at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to stomach the thought of it. He was blinded, as he always was, by the all-consuming fires of hatred. A vail of fury which clouded his mind and cauterised his emotions, feeding everything back into his most basest urges. To kill, to fight, to slay, it was all that seemed to bring him true pleasure these days.

But what to do? He had no particular wish to eliminate Eight... no, she wouldn't want that, but he was not prepared to die at the hands of the "Self-Inoculate", and watch as his "plan", crude as it was, fell apart.

"Ashford."

He thought,

"Must. Find. Ashford."

His left hand twitched, its fingers yearning to grasp a weapon—an instinct suppressed, for now.

∴So be it. You pick the time, I, the place∴
@slick ​

 

[Lewis!]

​

Fourth Defender's commanding visage instilled in Campbell something that nothing else really could, clarity. The chance to see, to feel, to drift and dream in his mind, to view the world as it was, rather than through a haze of intoxicating fury. He looked to his Brother, Eighth King, seated arrogantly across their runic table, they caught each other's eye for a moment. He could feel Eight's disdain, a pricing thing, right through his bloody bones, but he had felt this contempt once before, seen that same flicker of hatred behind the eyes.

Ismail had given him this look, this feeling, perhaps he had returned it to him. That had been the last thing they had shared before the Transhumans had him dragged off to an assured fate. As Alma's address came to an end, Campbell felt the need to rise from his chair, offering his respects to the Fourth Defender with a simple "Yes, Dame. Hail."

Eight's bickering remarks began once again, and Alma quickly shut him down. This feud was over, according to her at least. As the monitor which carried her image dimed its light, casting the Sanctum of Three-One-Four into its usual darkness, he heard Eight's voice again

"I will kill you.", he hissed. Campbell felt the anger boiling inside him again, barking back "Then you will die with me! I can promise you that."

He turned away from his deluded Frater, ripping his mask from its helm with a hiss of escaping air pressure, his hands thudding on the table in frustration. He needed to breathe. Eight had said something else to him then, he might have responded, but he couldn't quite tell if he had really spoken, the world around him seemed to dim into the background of his vision, and a feeling was beginning to bubble inside him, one strong enough to wash aside even his quickly returning anger.

He felt weakness, he felt who Edward Campbell really was, but a broken man fighting merely for the sake of fighting, for there was nothing else left in this world for him to do. This was his true face, and it was the face of all Inoculates like him. Weak, and scared.

"Alma is right, this is pointless... I have been weak," He said suddenly, "I am sorry Eighth-King, I truly am." The bitterness of his voice had faded, the rage suppressed beneath sorrow. Eight was stunned for a moment, perhaps disgusted by Edwards's true nature.

"Where is the Campbell I know?!"

Edward didn't respond at first, his mind locked in contemplation. Memories of his youth, of his service, of Alma, of Bluestreet, of Seventeen and of Ismail... they flooded his mind. Anger began to surge within him once more, but it was different this time—transformed. He knew he couldn't kill Eight; he couldn't bear to have the blood of another Ismail on his hands, watching once again as everything he believed in crumbled due to his own failures, for Eight reminded him of that boy from Bluestreet like no other. He reattached his mask, raising his voice to shout.

"He is dead! Edward Campbell is dead!"

"Then what remains?!" Eight retorted.

"The Clamp, the ever Bleeding Clamp! I have cast Edward Campbell aside on the streets of Tokyo, and only I remain! This is all I am and all I will ever be!" He paused for a moment, taking in a breath to continue his shouting. "Do you know the lengths I have gone to in order to ensure Alma's torch is passed to you, in place of me?! I have swallowed my pride, admitted defeat! And if you carry on like this, you will die with me in a maelstrom of terror, just as Alma foresaw!"

The contempt in Eight's eyes seemed finally to drain now, a sudden understanding reached inside him. He spoke up n a softer tone, not gentle by any means, but soft, low and measured. "Perhaps not, friend. We are the assured inheritors of this new Aeon. Men of astral significance, clearly." He turned his hip, flashing the odd pulsing artefact secured tightly in a glass container upon his belt. " I wield it at my hip," he said. "We shall evangelize this garrison, as it was intended."

Campbell shook his head, he was done pretending. He wasn't a High Priest, he wasn't built to lead men's minds. "Perhaps you will, Frater, but I... I am nothing but a fighter, a warrior. And a warrior lives to wage war, Eight. Nothing more."

Eight smiled a sly smirk, "I am a warrior too, but I carry the word of warrior-poets, visionaries far beyond my comprehension. I strip these words of their esoterics and satiate the angst of man, to prepare them for their ascent."

Campbell felt his chest rise as he went to suck in another deep breath, perhaps this matter was finally at a close.

"I have work to do." he finally said.

"As do I." Eight replied, now the two Inoculates went their separate ways in peace, but for how long?

 

[Lewis!]

 

[Tinbe]

Fake, there are no swords besides the katana in the content pack.
But there should be.

 

[Lewis!]

...and it's twenty-two minutes past six, a drive-by shooting in Possilpark earlier today has left two men dead and a woman in critical condition. The exact motive for the attack remains unclear with the perpetrator's likeness and whereabouts currently unknown, however, it is believed to be related to the recent escalating of gang tensions within the illicit drug trade...

​

 

[pimley]

∴the rock in hard place∴

Me: hello

rockleader: did you piggledom yet

Me?: no

voice: hello…