Comes and Goes (In Waves)

In which Benton becomes EON.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Quix
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Sun Jul 22, 2018 11:55 pm

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Achtus 20, 2705....
Waves.

The constant pendulum of nature, crashing in, retreating out, in, out, in and out, over and over, taking away and bringing back. Waves were unbothered by the passing tides and fancies of men. It was nature's breath, in and out. Steady breathing. In. Out. Each breath in brought life: shells crawling across the shore waiting to be collected by some exploring child imagining himself to be running his fingers through the very artifacts of Atlantis, fish brought to the feet of a man dying of hunger, and crabs washed from their shallow homes just to cantankerously burrow back into their surroundings. Each breath took away, too: the footprints of a traveller effaced from the sands to be recorded in the silent tombs the ocean wrote on the white tips of her tides, the corpses and souls of skeletal fish ready to be taken back into the arms of their mothering sea, and the pools of watery messengers it had sent to collect the very sunshine and soil the ocean would miss while it was away.

Mysteries were brought to shore by the waves; histories were washed away.

Today, on an especially cold Achtus day, there was a mystery who hoped the waves would wash away its history aboard the Papillon as it navigated through the snow falling on the navy waters of Mahogany Bay. The Papillon was a light-weight, tri-masted sloop-of-war, a small ship once used for quick escapes, now used by Fenrir Henway for quick trades and shipments of cooking spices throughout the kingdoms of Vita. The very wood of the boat carried the sharp smells of earth and spice familiar to curry with it, almost pungently enough to drown out the smell of salt and fish from the water below it. Fenrir Henway was a kind and trusting man; he had let a mystery aboard his ship, given the promise that it would help him unload on arrival to Old Rose Harbor.

The mystery was in the ship’s crow’s nest: a young man whose clean-shaven face had nearly shaken away the pollen that followed him from the Spring season of his young life. Snow sprinkled and frozen into the strands of his dirty blonde hair danced like stars in the wind, and now and again the hair came to whip him painfully in the frosted red skin of his face. He squinted his eyes, the same grey as the sky around him, against the wind as he tried to find the dark grey mass of land through the storm. The biting breeze forced tears out of his eyes, but they froze onto his cheek before they could descend. His jaw quivered in the cold, and he wrapped the thin jacket around him tighter, trying to squeeze the last bit of heat out of it as if were merely an orange he was juicing.

He had never felt a winter quite so cold. Yet, winters in Bastia felt the caressed his face the same way, combed his hair with the same force. The large furnace beneath the deck of the ship could beat back any cold that nipped his fingers, but it could not touch the frost that had gripped his very soul. Everyone the boy had ever had was gone. Even now, months later, the thought of it combined with the churning of the ship nearly made the boy vomit onto the ship two stories below him. He had gone home after his brother had died, gone home to see if he would find his brother, mother, and father there like he had so many years before, yet the silence in the house was deafening, the darkness blinding. He had had months to recover, years to prepare, but he was still free falling into the pit in his stomach, unable to steady his feet on a solid piece of-

“Land!” he cried hoarsely as the dark outline rose forebodingly on the horizon. “Land ho!” he repeated his squawk, pointing wildly starboard. He searched the deck below him to ensure that a member of the crew saw him. Mr. Davey, the caned helmsman, caught sight of his wild gestures, and deftly hit the helm with his cane.The boy fell back into the wooden nest roughly as the ship turned, every movement of the ship exaggerated when so high up. He sat back up and rested his arms and chin on the edge of the nest, watching the land approach.
---
“A’ight, Benny, let’s getcha down ‘ere,” called Captain Fenrir Henway up to the crow’s nest as the ship slid slowly and gracefully into the pier. Obediently, Benton Borteillo, affectionately donned ‘Benny,’ swung his legs over the side of the crow’s nest. He waved them blindly in the air until the caught the pegs meant to serve as ladder rungs, and began his descent. After a short minute, his booted feet connected with the deck and emanated a dull thud. He looked down at and awaited orders from the short captain, a bearded man with a belly that looked like it had never released any of the food he had eaten in all 48 years of his life.

“Getcha a few boxes, Benny, an’ start t’rowin’ off ‘ere to teh dock boys down t’ere. Afta’ that, ya’re free ta go. We’ve ‘ad a real good run, you an’ I. Ya alwehs gotcha a place on my Papillon,” the man smiled, his eyes crinkling from behind his beard before he turned towards the mentioned crates on the deck. They were empty now; Fenrir took the boxes to the other kingdoms full and brought their empty ones back to be filled in Old Rose before he repeated the whole ordeal. It was a quick job, an easy one Benton had quickly accepted in exchange for a ride to Old Rose. As he threw the boxes down the wooden incline to awaiting hands, he could feel the bulky package rubbing oddly against his stomach where it had been tucked into the waistband of his pants. Old Rose was the place to be for business.

Last edited by Benton Borteillo on Sun Jan 13, 2019 4:02 pm, edited 4 times in total.
In hell I'll be in good company.

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Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Quix
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Tue Aug 07, 2018 3:25 am

Image
Achtus 20, 2705....
Benton raised his pale and splinter-filed hand in a final goodbye to the crew of the Papillon. The final box had been unloaded, and both ends of the deal were fulfilled: Benton had been brought to Old Rose, and he had, in turn, helped unload the ship. The whole time, the bulk of the envelope in his waistband rubbed at his stomach anxiously like a stone in the bottom of his shoe. The package had barely moved from that position for nearly a month now, and the skin it had hidden was shocked at the coldness of the Anaxas air as he extracted the brown paper packaging and turned it over in his hands. He had moved away from the busy shore now, the thin soles of his shoes stumbling over the unfamiliarly solid and still ground beneath them. On a quieter street, he observed the package. Where the hasty pencil marks had once read BENTON, the letters E-O-N were the only faded and smudged charcoal letters remaining. He ran his cold fingers over the scrawled marks and felt his own body heat seeping out of the package. Inside was nearly a concord's worth of opium, and, despite the name on the front, it wasn't his.

It had been Benton's own hand that had foolishly scrawled his name in the package so that if it was lost, a noninquisitive scavenger would return it. Truly, it only framed him with illegal substances, but he hadn't thought of that one. He had stolen the package- or, rather, he had intercepted a delivery. The delivery ghoul was even more foolish than he, and the boy had easily taken the delivery, address, and map from the ugly man in Bastia. The delivery man had been tasked with collecting the coin as well- a whole concord for this thick package. And Benton, with none of his own coin invested, was going to retrieve all of the coin for himself.

That was, of course, if he could find the house. He had never stepped foot in Anaxas until this very moment, and now he was suddenly immersed in it all with a tiny map and messy address in his jacket pocket. He tucked the envelope under his arm and reached into his pocket. The crinkled paper of the map and address met his hand, and he pulled them out, unfolding the map and holding the small square of the address with his thumb. He hadn't the slightest idea what he was doing. He looked at the map, then back down the street towards the bay. That would mean the map would go... this way. And that would mean that the address would be that way. Yes, that made sense. He tucked the package back safely under his shirt and set off on his way.

Last edited by Benton Borteillo on Mon Aug 27, 2018 6:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
In hell I'll be in good company.
User avatar
Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Quix
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Wed Aug 22, 2018 5:22 pm

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Achtus 20, 2705....
The houses became progressively more rundown the farther Benton followed the map down the streets of Old Rose. The number of broken windows and loose shingles went up exponentially as the space between every tall tenement building shrunk into near nothingness. He had long since lost sight of the bay, and the sun had begun to set. Many of the street signs had neglected their duty and fell, leaving Benton unsuredly counting the streets he passed after every sparse and faded street sign. Shadows grew over the street, drawing Benton to begin following close behind a lamp lighter as he ignited each of flickering lamps. The lamplighters was a gruff human man, by the looks of it. Surely he noticed Benton quickly, but, then again, the muscular man didn’t have to be afraid or unnerved by the stringy boy following him. Eventually, however, something caused the lamplighters to turn as Benton stumbled after him.

“Water you lookin’ for, boy?” he asked, his voice rough like the sound of a match striking its box. Benton jumped as he was addressed, instinctively drawing himself and all the papers he held in to a small and cowardly mess.

“I’m just following you for the light, sir. I’ve got a map to follow, but it’s nearly impossible to follow in dim light,” Benton said sheepishly, waving the map slightly above his head.

“Agh, just give me the damn address,” the man commanded, slinging his long lighter across his shoulder, and grabbing at the papers Benton clutched. Benton recoiled instinctively, stumbling away from the man. The man kept his dirty hand suspended however, waiting for the address. Benton untucked it from the rest of the items he held before handing it over tentatively. The man turned the small piece of paper to best catch the light of the lantern above them, and, as he studied the paper, Benton drew closer to the protective aura of the big man. The lamplighter squinted a moment more before sighing, turning the paper for Benton to see. His thumb pointed to a single word.

“What’s this say?” He asked bluntly, not at all ashamed of his inability to read. Benton grabbed the man’s wrist to steady the paper in his swaying hands.

“That says… Moa Street, I believe,” he translated the rough handwriting on the paper. “Do you know it?”

“Aye, I know every street in this damned place,” the man frowned, pulling his hand roughly away from Benton. He flicked the paper out with his wrist with a flare of literacy, then squinted at the small numbers.

“A’ight, that’s four-thirty, if my eyes ain’t deceivin’ me,” he thought aloud before squinting down the road into the darkness untouched by his lanterns. “Moa’s the next road up there, yeah? It ain’t marked, hardly, but four-thirty is on the left turn, right side of the street, methinks. Could be wrong, but Moa’s there, at least.”

“Awful place to be at night, boy. Ain’t nothing but murderers, rapists, and thieves. You’re sure brave, going down there. I don’t even take my light down Moa. Ain’t worth my life. Brave, or maybe just stupid,” the man shook his head with a mischievous grin on his face, then turned back to his lanterns after handing Benton his address back. Benton squinted into the darkness before them, and he was sure he could see a thousand eyes staring at him, a thousand hands reaching out. He hasn’t been scared.

Until now.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Quix
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Mon Aug 27, 2018 6:02 pm

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Achtus 20, 2705....
It was not so much a house as a shack.

The sunlight over Old Rose Harbor had completely gone now, leaving a spattering of pale stars in the canvas of an inky sky. The shy moon was nowhere to be found in the deep basin of stars. The shack that matched the address with numbers simply hand-painted beside the loose door nearly blended into the darkness surrounding it. No light crawled under the door or escaped through the windows. It was simply quiet- no, silent- and dark. The shack looked as though it was once a mere fishing shack alone in the early settling of Old Rose, then had been crowded in by the other houses like a child’s crooked teeth crowding her small mouth. It had surely looked this run-down the day it was built, be it 100 years ago or only a day ago. There was no sign of life inside of it, no sign of anyone awaiting a package as important as Benton’s.

Every tingling nerve in Benton’s body was whispering for him to turn back, not wanting to disturb the silence of the night, but one voice was screaming- his hunger and need for the money promised for this small package. It was more money than Benton had never dreamed of holding, money he needed to survive this bitter Anaxas cold.

He stepped up to the shack, and he knocked. His mere rapping pushed the door, barely holding onto its hinges, into the room with a terribly long creak. His head whipped around to gaze up and down the street, but no one had heard, or, at least, no one seemed to care. He assumed that, by the lamplighter’s warning, this was a part of Old Rose subject to many a crime in a night. He turned back to the shack with a steadying sigh.

Okay, Benton.

He moved his hand up to knock again, the package feeling heavier with every passing second. The moment his made contact with the cold wood of the half-opened door, however, the door was yanked back roughly, the hinges straining under the stress. Benton stood, hand still raised for a second knock, as a shadow rose from inside the shack. His stomach dropped with a certain fear.

“What ah ya doin’ knockin’ twice, ya half-wit? Ya wanna wake the whole hood, do ya?” came a flurry of quickly spoken, frustrated words as an old hag, bent by age, shuffled into the doorway with a gnarled wooden cane. Her glasses had slid down her nose, and she squinted against the darkness at him.

“I though ya’d’ve bin knowin’ better, Olin, but you haven’t gotcha a lick of sense!” she threw her hands up before pushing her thick lenses to her eyes. Her eyes were humorously magnified, especially as she realized that she wasn’t speaking to Olin. Her voice dropped, but her annoyance stayed.

“Olin cain’t bother to come here hisself, can he now? Always out doin’ this, out doin’ that, cain’t bother to come speechin’ with his own mother, cain’t bother to get me enough money to live in more than this damn shack, always off doin’ “bidness,” always off makin’ money, he says. Always off jerkin’ hisself and everyone else’s meat if you ask me, the brat. He’s probably payin’ you with a little gift tonight, ain’t he?”

Benton merely blinked. Surely the whole neighborhood had heard that some Olin was looking to have sex with him. This wasn’t the right house. Not a way in hell that this was the right… shack.

“I’m awful sorry, ma’am, but I can’t say I know what you’re talking about. I think I’ve got the wrong ad-“

“You ain’t got the wrong address, you stupid dim. I can see that there package, and I know for a hard fact that it’s for me. Come in here, wouldja? Cain’t let the whole neighborhood hear us.”

Benton stepped into the house tentatively as she slowly shuffled in, and stood just in the doorway as he closed the precarious entrance behind him. The room was nearly completely dark, the only light entering from holes in the ceiling. He stayed in one place for fear of hitting his shin on something or breaking something else. He traced the sound of her weight on the floorboards and the rhythmic tapping of her cane.

In an instant, the sound of a match being lit met his ears, followed by her hacking cough. She cursed herself as the match went out, lighting another and using it to light three candles of varying lifetimes and colors on the small table in the center of the room. It was awfully cold in the tiny room, and the only furniture was that table, and the chair beside it, those candles, and the pile of dirty blankets on the floor. There was nothing for him to trip on, nothing for him to break.

“Bring that package here, boy. Let me see what Olin packed for me,” she waved him over dismissively, falling back into the chair beside the table heavily as she rested her weight on the cane with her gnarled fingers.
In hell I'll be in good company.
User avatar
Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Quix
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Tue Aug 28, 2018 11:57 pm

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Achtus 20, 2705....
The envelope lay open on the table, the four wrinkled flaps curling up around another, smaller package within. Benton peered over the woman as her fingers, bent by age at painful angles, moved to untie the dirty twine holding the haphazard second package together shakily. She pulled at the bowed knot and it gave way, the tightly wound package spewing open and revealing its contents, this time not simply another piece of packaging. Inside the package was a thick pile of black powder, speckled with lighter greys and whites. Benton had no idea what it was, but the woman surely did. The hag cackled, her age seeming to almost reverse before Benton’s eyes as she drank in the drug with her eyes. She reached into her layers of tattered robes, retrieving some glinting metal object from seemingly nothing and laying it on the table with a clatter. She paid no mind to Benton.

On the table, she had dropped off a warped metal spoon and a rusted metal syringe, just a glass tube enclosed in dirty metal with a long needle on one end and curled handles on the other. She pulled the candle towards her and caused the flame to dance precariously, then dipped the spoon carefully into the black powder. She shook it slightly as she brought it out of the pile, powder falling back into the packaging. She brought it over the flame, watching carefully with her sunken eyes. Benton was leaning over her now, completely invested in whatever strange ritual she was performing.

After a long moment of waiting, the powder in the spoon began to melt strangely, bubbling and liquefying into a disgustingly thick sludge. Satisfied with her concoction, she picked up the syringe, unscrewing the needled end from the body before allowing the contents of the spoon to drip slowly into it. She banged the spoon against the edges with a few metallic clanks before setting the spoon on the edge of the paper. The hag secured the needle again, bringing it to indent the wrinkled skin of her forearm in one fluid and experienced motion. She had pricked herself with the large needle many times before, it was clear to Benton. She began to apply pressure, nearly breaking the skin-

“Wait!” Benton exclaimed, and she scowled as she pulled the needle back from her skin.

“What is it, you stupid clod?” she asked accusatorily. He stepped back a little, rubbing the back of his neck. He had reversed much of this deal in his head, but never had he rehearsed the important part- getting his money.

“Well, I- I wanted to get the money for Olin before you, uh, forget. It’s getting awful late, y’know,” he stammered nervously. He was out a large sum of money if she did not pay him, even just for that spoonful. She glared at him, and Benton could swear that the old woman could see right through his bluff. He swallowed rigidly. He needed that money, needed it to survive in Old Rose Harbor, needed it to thrive in the world as he had always imagined, needed it to keep the memory of his brother alive, somehow.

“Yer damn money. Olin keeps finding hungrier and hungrier boys. No respeck for elders no more,” she scoffed setting the needle down on the table. The tenseness in Benton’s body dropped slightly as she began to reach into her tattered layers, muttering insults under her breath.

“Out yer damn hand,” she ordered, and Benton obeyed. A cold metal touched the flesh of his hand as she pulled her wrinkled hands out of her layers and placed it on his. As she pulled her hand away, Benton’s eyes widened. A whole concord lay in his palm.

“I’ll write Olin, tell ‘im I gave you half an’ I’ll give him the rest. He trusts me, y’know, but I on’t trust you with two damn concords. One’s too much, but Olin always insists that I pay half at delivery, the damn fool. That’s probably what happened to the boy before you. Know Olin chopped off one of his hands for stealing, do ya? Olin seduced him to thinkin’ he did a mighty fine job and was gettin’ a special reward, then he chopped off his damn hand, the same one I put that concord in,” she rambled. Benton stared at her, concern highlighting his young face.

“Oughta be damn careful who you cross, boy,” she declared, picking up her needle again. Benton only stared in horror. Did she know? Would this Olin know of him? He sure hoped not. He was young, afterall, and knew himself to make poor judgements of character. Would this Olin find him, seduce him, and cut off his hand or worse? Well, ticks, he hoped not.

“I think I should be going. Olin wants me and all,” he nearly whispered, an uneasy feeling creeping up his spine.

“Well, that’s perfect. I summoned to come in this morn. Should be here any minute.”
In hell I'll be in good company.
User avatar
Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Quix
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Thu Aug 30, 2018 9:06 pm

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Achtus 20, 2705....
Benton felt the metallic cold void of pure fear filling his veins as all of the lively pigment drained from his face. He looked back at what would barely be called a door, afraid of the identity of every silhouette that passed through the lines of lamplight outside the door. He swallowed, a shiverish temperament taking hold of his body. The concord felt impossibly heavy in his palm, weighing down, down, down towards the floor. His muscles tightened around the concord, but it was still there like a wild blue eye of a corpse open and watching from beneath its resting place below the floorboards. His stomach writhed like an army muscular worms whipping away from the fishermen’s hooks.

Oh, gods, he was going to die.

Beyond that door was a man who he had never met, a man who he had already stolen from, a man who would not hesitate to murder him before this old woman, and the concord would fall from his clasped fist, roll across the floor, and escape under the door, and onto the street. The concord would escape, but Benton would lay, a dagger thrust between the space between his ribs and sternum, straight through a lung. The feel of it breaching the surface of his breast would be strange- at first the elasticity of his epidermis would strain to fight it, but the blade would win over and puncture the fabric, the skin as if an angry author was thrusting his sharpened quill through his frustrated paper. The blade would pierce his skin, narrowly avoiding a collision with his fragile ribs or sternum and instead move to pass through the blankets of diaphragm muscles that would expand and collapse only a few more times. As the blade cut through these muscles, it would catch momentarily, but Olin would push. Here Benton would feel the pain unbearably, pain no punch, scratch, or burn had ever reached within his chest. A bored frustration would cover Olin’s face as he continued to push the stubborn knife further in, the handle nearly reaching the surface of Benton’s sternum. The pain burned, the sterility of the vessel of his body marred by the knife dirtied by a thousand other murders. Benton would try to scream as the tip of the blade punctured the smooth muscle of his swelling lungs, but the air would leave his left lung slowly like an airship impaled on a tall tower. The blood would rush into his lungs, a strange warmth filling his chest as his blood rushed to explore the cave yet unexplored by hemoglobin. He would choke, but still feel pain as blood would dribble out of his mouth and set crimson trails of exploration dribbling down his face. It would not be the initial blade by Olin that would kill him, but he would drown in his own blood as it pooled in his lungs, in his mouth and dribbled down the front of his shirt and out the small hole in his chest.

The brisk rapping on the door shook the foundations of Benton’s skeleton as he jumped. He backed into the comforting darkness of the room, bumping into the table at which the old hag was still attempting to insert the needle into her arm with shaking fingers. Benton stared. The door creaked. A shadow passed. Benton did not breathe.

In walked a young man barely older than Benton, with kind eyes and a warm smile of straight teeth separated by the smallest of gaps in the front. He was taller than Benton with smooth pale skin and astoundingly blue eyes set like gems in the rocky face of his carved jaw. Was this man Death? Or was he an angel? Benton shrunk back away from the Angel of Death, but the man did not look at him.

“Mama,” the man who could only be Olin Halpine acknowledged the old woman, his smile warm and genuine on his pale face. She scowled at him with the few yellowed teeth still clinging to her receding gums and continued to busy herself with the needle now sticking out of her arm. Yet, the man rushed forward to stoop and embrace her, and, as he pushed his face against hers, her scowl broke into a sheepish grin.

“Thought you wou’n’t come, you stupid git,” she scolded him as he let go of her. “Thought you was always too busy doin’ this an’ sellin’ that and fuckin’ everyone you coul’ and here you are, back to see yer ol’ mama when she’s got money for ya.”

“Mother-“

“I ain’ tellin’ no lies, Olin Halpine. You know as much as you know that the sun rises e’ry morn that you been busyin’ yourself in every other thing besides family for the last few years. Ain’ we just talk about that, boy?” she asked for some back-up, pointing at Benton with her cane. Olin turned, perplexed, and spotted Benton for the first time. The gears in his brain were obviously whirring as he stared at Benton, both suspicion and surprise in his bright blue eyes.

“Can we have a moment, Ma?” Olin asked, his calm voice betraying the cold face that only Benton could see. Benton tried to swallow down his fear, but nearly choked.

“’Course, long as you come back in here an’ introduce me to yer new toy,” the old woman cackled, her lack of filter making it clear that she hadn’t sensed the palpable tension between the two men. Olin strode across the threshold and grabbed Benton roughly by the arm and drug him out into the cold night air.

Benton could already feel the dagger piercing his chest.
In hell I'll be in good company.
User avatar
Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Quix
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Sun Jan 13, 2019 4:01 pm

Image
Achtus 20, 2705....
The air outside of the shack shocked Benton as if he had been suddenly dunked into a pool of ice. His flesh felt cold and deathly, and his jaw chattered. The stars above peeked through whispy, grey clouds, and the moon bobbed in and out of sight as if it were attached to an occupied fishing line. His breath escaped his lips and solidified in the air before dissipating, and the only warmth in his shaking form came from the rough-skinned hand of Olin Halpine wrapped tightly around his forearm.

Olin’s face was dramatic. He was only about two or three years older than Benton, and he had clean, taut, ivory skin carved by the straight lines of a trimmed black beard and sharp black brows over deep olive eyes. Olin was half-a-head taller than Benton and, although Benton’s frame certainly was made of muscle, Olin’s arms beneath his worn coat were stronger, his legs covered by the grey slacks were faster, and that hand of scarred calluses on Benton’s arm could so easily pop Benton’s wrist out of place. Benton did not fight. He wanted to live.

Benton stared up into Olin’s dark eyes, fear in his own pale ones as he cowered under the gaze of the taller man.

“What’s your name?”

“Benton Borteillo,” he replied, voice shaking of cold and fear. Olin nodded barely, but his eyes did not acknowledge Benton as they swept the street.

“Walk with me, Benton,” Olin whispered. Benton obeyed, and the pair walked down the street. Benton fell into step with the man he, without basis, assumed to be a wick. There was something wild and scary contained in that man, and he was a hulking mass far too tall to be a galdor.

“You’ve made a mistake,” Olin broke the silence when they were out of hearing range of the shack.

“I-“

“Don’t interrupt, kov,” Olin cut off Benton’s defense. “Your mistake, Benton Borteillo, was telling me your name. I can find anyone connected to you. I can find anyone who knows your name. If you really want to make it in this business, it’s safest to keep two identities: one, Benton Borteillo.” And Olin stopped under the street lamp at the end of the road. He reached into his coat, pulling out the crumpled paper of Benton’s delivery. There were three scrawled letters. E… O… N…, and Olin pointed to them. “And one, EON.”

Olin pushed the paper roughly into Benton’s chest, and Benton caught it. “You’re a clever one, but naïve. If you want to make it in this business in Old Rose, you’ll work for me, or I’ll kill you, okay?” Benton nodded.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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