Featured: Tales of Elysium V1 Scene 2
Tales of Elysium
Vagus was lost. Laconian? Commoner? Abnormal? He drifted in a part of the world where the eye could not see, wandering paths unmapped towards destinations that turned to ash the moment he touched them. Where new horizons dawned only to fall into an endless night where he stood alone. This was his world now. A world of grey where he found no light or darkness, where he could find only one word that could define the person he was: A disappointment. Not Laconian. Not a commoner. Not an Abnormal. A disappointment.
Vagus often realised that he was not much different to Mycaelis at all, they both bore an intense hatred for something. Mycaelis hated weakness as it was taught to him by his father, but Vagus hated something far more spiteful than weakness, he hated hope. He hated it when it compelled him onward with false grandeurs and promises, deluding him with scenarios of what could be, and destroying him time and time again when it cast him into the bottomless pit that was reality. In a wa
Death is something that is always thought of as silent. Dead men tell no tales, dead men make no noise; they remain silent as the grave. There are even those who are said to pass peacefully. For Mycaelis and Vagus, death was never silent. They had both killed as they lived in a world where one must kill or be killed themselves. Never once could either sibling recall an occasion where death had been silent.
Death is the screams of agony as flesh is torn from broken bones, the howls of pain when entrails are split upon the ground. The cries for mercy, the shrieks of horror, the gurgling sound of someone drowning in their blood. Then come the sounds of those that behold death’s work. The screams of terror, the gasps of disbelief, the wailing of loved ones as they grieve for their loss.
As Mycaelis and Vagus sat silent in that hovel in the jungle, they could hear Death outside, and it was far from silent. The screams of those attacking monsters assailed their ears to no end. Mo
‘They were attacked,’ whispered Vagus, looking over his shoulder at Mycaelis.
The Charmander snorted. ‘It’s Prismatic Jungle, Vagus. Everyone gets attacked.’
Frustration began to creep into Vagus’ nerves. He had long grown used to Mycaelis ignorance. He had lived with it for so long it seemed as though Mycaelis was simply born ignorant. But now Vagus was reaching the end of his tether.
‘You don’t understand,’ Vagus held back the urge to yell, knowing it would alert his parents. ‘There is something out there hunting them. Hunting us.’
Mycaelis grinned. ‘Let ‘em come. Been a while since I last saw mum and dad spill some guts.’
‘They barely escaped with their lives. Didn’t you see how exhausted they were?’
‘Nope,’ he turned away. ‘Now, how ‘bout you shut yer gob and look this way. Like you’re supposed to be doin’’
Vagus sighed, conceding once agai
Left, right, right, left, left right. The amount of movement involved in this exercised perplexed Vagus to no end. His father was a colossal brute, the sort of fighter who would have powered his way through a foe’s meagre defences to literally tear them limb from limb. But the way in which Mycaelis had been trained to move was something else entirely.
The Charmander moved with such grace, precision and speed that he was almost an orange blur before Vagus’ eyes. Vagus’ legs simply couldn’t move him fast enough. The only purpose they seemed to serve was keeping his body upright while Mycaelis pummelled him in an endless stream of bone shaking strikes.
Vagus’ legs finally gave way, allowing Mycaelis to deliver a swift kick to the bottom of his jaw and flipping him falling onto his back. Vagus tasted a hint of copper in his mouth and grunted. They had been at this for many hours now.
‘See.’ Mycaelis grinned, standing over him. ‘You are
There was a certain joy for Vagus when he was left home alone. Although being strictly forbidden from moving any further than the meagre boundaries set around the small house, Vagus was able to feel a sense of freedom. The borders of his small world may have not stretched far and wide, but they seemed to stretch a lot further whenever his parents were absent. His shoulders felt lighter now the burden of his father’s disapproving gaze had left him, and his arms seemed more mobile without his mother’s chains of iron discipline. For this short while, he was free, or at least as free as he would ever hope to be.
Vagus turned to his brother, Mycaelis, who sat perched on a nearby rock. The young Charmander was making a freakishly fast recovery since his awakening some hours ago. His more severe cuts had been covered and bruises lathered with ointment. Mycaelis had torn most, if not all, of the makeshift bandaging from his body; his pride simply didn’t allow it to be present
There was always something new to be learnt here in this makeshift hovel that lay deep within this forsaken jungle. Many would say that life for Vagus the Totodile was not good enough for him, but it was his father who would say that it was Vagus who was not good enough for life. His father; the one he who ruled as king of Vagus’ small world had declared him useless and thus he conceded that he was indeed so.
Life had no room for weakness and weakness was all that Vagus had to offer. Vagus had seen firsthand what happened to those who were weak, the creatures of this jungle that were foolish enough to challenge his father. A Salamence, despite boasting the attributes of a freak of nature, lay torn to pieces in a nearby clearing. A pair of Rhydon, who attempted to intrude upon his father, lay with their rock like chests shattered and insides strewn on the ground. In the very hut which he sat, the skulls of an Aggron, a Haxorus, a Dragonite and several Tyranitar adorned the w
A new day brought with it another bout of pain, another set of bruises and more long hours of bleeding and sweating under the jungle’s humid canopy. Left , right, back, back, back, right, another right, quick left, quick right…not quick enough. Crack! Bells were ringing in Mycaelis’ head when it collided with a thick tree trunk. The shock of the impact was just as familiar as the pain of splinters digging under his skin.
All familiar and all reoccurring, it was part of yet another training session with his father. For years in the jungle Mycaelis had been beaten down, and for years more he had always gotten back up to be beaten down again.
The cycle was endless and had only but one goal: To destroy who Mycaelis was in order to pursue perfection. A soul was but one of many flaws he had been born with that needed to be remedied. To his father, a soul was an imperfection, a defect, a sickness, one that kept a healthy Charmander like him from reaching his fullest p