It was one of Zoisite's piano performances. Chopin Etude Opus 10, Number 3, he called it...a quieter tune than normal...more somber than usual...
He's dead.
There was a pierce into his flesh...a sharp bellow, more like a roar, as pain surged through his abdomen.
Kunzite woke with the scream still in his throat, breathless, covered in sweat...just as he had arranged it.
There was one tiny problem, however.
He was not where he had felled himself.
Kunzite felt the surface beneath him, noting quietly that it did not feel like the grassy floor of the forest dale where he had performed his ritual. Indeed, the surface was soft and springy, as if it were a mattress of some sort. He looked about, straining his vision in this decidedly evil darkness; he could not make out the trees that surrounded him as he fell, sword in his abdomen, hoping to remove the curse upon his soul. His dress, too, was unusual; instead of the ornate uniform, flowing cape, and knee-high boots suited for one of the Shitennou, Kunzite found himself in a flimsy pull-down shirt and undignified pants, and at the side of his bed, slippers to adorn his feet.
What has happened, he thought to himself. Have I been...has someone had the audacity to capture ME while I was unconscious? In frustration he stood and swung his arm across his body.
Nothing happened. Perplexed, Kunzite performed the motion again, but only managed to push a small bug out of his path. His frustration growing further, he held his hand forward, hoping to bring forth an evil fire to illuminate his surroundings. Rather than simply calling forth the flames, however, Kunzite found himself struggling to cause even a match-sized flame to fill between his open fingers.
My powers, his mind raged, my magicks have been tampered, squelched. Nevertheless, the small flare was sufficient, as he noticed a pillow tossed aside, revealing a small device that would normally be hidden underneath. Walking over, he picked up the object and recognized it to be a flashlight. A switch was pressed, and artificial illumination gave him a greater view of his surroundings. Kunzite turned on his bare heels; across from his bed laid another, inhabited by a small individual who slept soundly into the night. There was a dresser at the back of the room between the two beds; in the bottom drawer, two more pairs of slippers, and above that, two sweaters. Worthless.
Kunzite moved to the front of the room, and stood between a desk and a closet. The closet contained a large, trench-like coat, which he slipped onto his shoulders, as well as more shirts and pants. In the desk, a small journal, some batteries, a key ring, and some pens bound in a rubberband. The man acted quickly, stowing the batteries in his coat pocket and removing the rubberband from the pens. He tied his (thankfully) still-long black hair in a manner reproducing his original hair style - not perfect, but it would have to do. Performing a final, cursory investigation of his room, he clicked his tongue angrily.
It's not here, he thought to himself. He placed the slippers on his feet, and as if on cue, the door to his room swung open. The faint glow of other flashlights danced along the opposite wall. It seems we're not alone, my friend, Kunzite thought quietly, as if speaking to his roommate. Perfect.
"I shall need a sword," he finally spoke, and wandered out into the hallway (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/152147.html).
M66
A nightmare?
It was one of Zoisite's piano performances. Chopin Etude Opus 10, Number 3, he called it...a quieter tune than normal...more somber than usual...
He's dead.
There was a pierce into his flesh...a sharp bellow, more like a roar, as pain surged through his abdomen.
Kunzite woke with the scream still in his throat, breathless, covered in sweat...just as he had arranged it.
There was one tiny problem, however.
He was not where he had felled himself.
Kunzite felt the surface beneath him, noting quietly that it did not feel like the grassy floor of the forest dale where he had performed his ritual. Indeed, the surface was soft and springy, as if it were a mattress of some sort. He looked about, straining his vision in this decidedly evil darkness; he could not make out the trees that surrounded him as he fell, sword in his abdomen, hoping to remove the curse upon his soul. His dress, too, was unusual; instead of the ornate uniform, flowing cape, and knee-high boots suited for one of the Shitennou, Kunzite found himself in a flimsy pull-down shirt and undignified pants, and at the side of his bed, slippers to adorn his feet.
What has happened, he thought to himself. Have I been...has someone had the audacity to capture ME while I was unconscious? In frustration he stood and swung his arm across his body.
Nothing happened. Perplexed, Kunzite performed the motion again, but only managed to push a small bug out of his path. His frustration growing further, he held his hand forward, hoping to bring forth an evil fire to illuminate his surroundings. Rather than simply calling forth the flames, however, Kunzite found himself struggling to cause even a match-sized flame to fill between his open fingers.
My powers, his mind raged, my magicks have been tampered, squelched. Nevertheless, the small flare was sufficient, as he noticed a pillow tossed aside, revealing a small device that would normally be hidden underneath. Walking over, he picked up the object and recognized it to be a flashlight. A switch was pressed, and artificial illumination gave him a greater view of his surroundings. Kunzite turned on his bare heels; across from his bed laid another, inhabited by a small individual who slept soundly into the night. There was a dresser at the back of the room between the two beds; in the bottom drawer, two more pairs of slippers, and above that, two sweaters. Worthless.
Kunzite moved to the front of the room, and stood between a desk and a closet. The closet contained a large, trench-like coat, which he slipped onto his shoulders, as well as more shirts and pants. In the desk, a small journal, some batteries, a key ring, and some pens bound in a rubberband. The man acted quickly, stowing the batteries in his coat pocket and removing the rubberband from the pens. He tied his (thankfully) still-long black hair in a manner reproducing his original hair style - not perfect, but it would have to do. Performing a final, cursory investigation of his room, he clicked his tongue angrily.
It's not here, he thought to himself. He placed the slippers on his feet, and as if on cue, the door to his room swung open. The faint glow of other flashlights danced along the opposite wall. It seems we're not alone, my friend, Kunzite thought quietly, as if speaking to his roommate. Perfect.
"I shall need a sword," he finally spoke, and wandered out into the hallway (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/152147.html).