#vitiorum

BLACK HAND THRONE

Vitiorum (2015)

IV (2014)

III (2013)

II (2011)

     Had the former legate known he would be reacquainted with old faces, ones he would much rather forget, so quickly, so easily, during his excursion through the Mojave Wasteland, he would have allowed himself the pleasure of continuing to shepherd the Dead Horses back in Utah. To guide those who treated him so kindly, those who needed the guidance, was nothing short of a luxury for the missionary. But no, he hadn’t known, and an apt price would be paid due to his ignorance.

     Joshua stared down the Frumentarius from a distance, knowing that, from the pack, the flock of legionaries the man had brought with him, he would be the only one to recognize him - the only one that knew there was something, or someone to be recognized, for the others could only see a meek bandaged man. Yes, if Caesar’s influence was as big as Joshua guessed it was, if Caesar’s words were as important to his recruits as Joshua thought they would be, there was no way a legionary would defy their Lord’s will and believe in the legend of the Burned Man.

     As for the man that lead those skirted soldiers, well, Joshua had quite a few thoughts on him. Vulpes Inculta was someone who could be described by many, many different words, but “despicable” was the one Joshua thought fit him the most. A man who claimed to fight for a cause, yet only won his battles due to wit and deceit was something befitting of  a New Vegas chairman, not an agent of Caesar’s Legion. But it was strangely fitting, as Vulpes and his frumentarii were the most explicit proof of Sallow’s hypocrisy and dishonesty. The proof that the East and West were both corrupt, both flawed, and that, in spirit, the only difference between Edward Sallow’s regime and the New California Republic were the banners their troops carried into battle.

     Those nefarious men, both Vulpes and Caesar, could be the cause of ruin of his trip through the wasteland - and yet, what he felt wasn’t fear, but ire. A fury he knew would come, one that he has prepared himself for, but one he didn’t expect would arrive so early and so vigorously.

Acersecomic:How much effort do they put into personal grooming and hygiene?

vitiorum

▂▃▄▅▆▇ ☠ ♔ ~

      Whoever said that being a ghoul was the worst thing that could happen to the man deserved to get shot in the head. Which would be less than what the doctor ordered, to be honest, because whoever said that was a fucking idiot. There were many, many perks that came with being Undying. Many.

      Way more than being a goddamned human in an irradiated shithole of a world. Take for example no radiation sickness. Puking your guts out? Have fun buddy. Also, more durable than anybody else. Stab wound? No big deal, stings something horrible for sure, but he won't die. Oh, and the best thing – no more heart problems. Thought he was going to keel over from those but nope, came along and grew a whole new sort of spine and kicked genetics to the curb.

      Sure he lost his hair and some of his teeth… and most of his skin, but who needed to be beautiful when you next to couldn't die? And you wore a shit ton of masks too, that helped a but. And people looked at him funny – till he got his power back. Keeping an arsenal in your private bunker, hiring people with old money and new money alike? Hell yeah. Knowing the ins and outs of things? Great perk.

      It also meant that an esteemed man like him gathered the attention of the many factions dwelling about. Fuck House, of course, but he was good enough to Roman and they stayed far enough apart. The NCR didn't like dealing with him, but hey, they kept him happy with Caps and NCR dollars – in the advent that the pieces of paper would be worth something someday. Someday Roman would live to see – or live to not see.

      And then there was Caesar and his legion. They wanted in. They really wanted in. They wanted control, and they wanted alliance. So they went to ask of him some assistance, sending a Frumentarii to his side. It was some low down member, some child dressed up as a man, someone who couldn't even hold his tongue or speak with any real respect to a ghoul. So Roman had him killed, sent a head back to Caesar. 'Send only your best' he said in a note stuffed right on the dried old tongue of the poor unfortunate soul.

      Guess Caesar wasn't too mad – or really wanted his help – since now he was sitting face-to-face with another young thing, hair greased down and black, hands clasped together in a look of...well, not apology, but not total impatience as well. He was dressed in 'fine' clothes (Hah, what a joke they were…!) with a common man's gambling hat – nice disguise, kid.

      The old Ghoul sighed, took a drag on the crumpled old cigarette that tasted of stale tobacco and reeked of old world filth, and exhaled the smoke towards this young thing, tapping his foot idly on the ground.             ❝ — Won'cha introduce yerself now? You know what happened to the last guy after all. You ken be polite to your elders, no? — ❞

daredevil starters.

     ❛ —. . . ❜

       Bear and bull. Like the prospects of their struggle don’t chase       around his head enough that Old World circuses and fighting pits       pale in comparison. The Mojave will be a morass of blood and sand       when they’re done. He doesn’t need Vulpes to tell him that.

♠ —- ⇻ 

      It had not rained, not that night, nor the day before, and yet his footsteps did not echo with the sound of cobblestones – they echoed with the sound of heavy boots hitting shallow puddles of liquid; shallow puddles of blood. Hunters and beasts alike had been busy – this was the gore of uncountable numbers, it would color the cobbles red for days, if not weeks, only to be replaced again by more blood.

       Once the Beasts came, they did not leave till man was gone or the Church had come; but this was not Yharnam, not where the Church came from. No, this was some other place, somewhere Henryk had not yet been, somewhere far from that dreary place and the friend and old partner he would visit with some frequency.

      Tonight had been an active one, the shawl that Henryk treasured and always wore was soaked in blood not his own, and his garb was dampened from it. It would need a wash, but it was more likely that the gore would dry and harden before the opportunity to do so arose. He would smell like the grave for days, something he was used to. So used to it was he that he could no longer smell it – only when somebody mentioned it to him did he realize that it clung to him so. Those were always the people who were new to the Hunt, or standing, watching to the side of it all.

       The old hunter prowled through the shadows of the streets, passing beneath one flickering and dirty streetlamp to another without fear or flinching. Ahead of him, something moved, and in the distance another creature howled. He squinted into the darkness, thankful that his aging eyes were still sharp as ever. Ah, yes, the thing that moved was covered in fur – the furs of a monster, and there was the bloodied glint of its claws in the filtered and cloudy light of moon and lamp. It stood above another creature – doing something? Eating it, or perhaps it was mourning. The latter would be unusual – but when beasts were men and men were beasts, nothing could properly be ruled out. Simply turning a blind eye to any possibilities was a death sentence.

      It was small, and not entirely similar to any beast that Henryk was entirely used to. Small often meant fast, and distance would be a wise thing to keep; without Gascoigne, the old man could not rely on his own speed and size to sneak around and attack. But he did have his favorite tools – his throwing knives, old companions from hunts past with their shining blade and serrated edges; carefully cared for, like children, babes put to rest till the moment they would wake, screaming into the world, through the air -

                - thrown from his hand as one was now, whistling through the air to

                                land in the beasts shoulder, and then the cries -

               - of a man, not a beast. The glint he had seen was the metal of a pistol in the moon, which was now clattering to the ground as the muscle tensed and twisted with the invasion of the knife. The other Hunter, the younger, wounded one turned around, white teeth flashing in pale face, bloodied white hair glowing like the fog over the ground.

❝ — Well – ah – well! Why wear the pelt of a beast on a Hunt? You were askin' for that knife to meet yer shoulder – and I'm sorry, I suppose, now why don't we get that out? I can spare you somethin' to heal up with, since it is my fault – unless you think you're too tough for that. —  ❞

      Zion was not enough for him.

      Joshua had thought – they all had thought – that defeating the White-Legs and killing Salt Upon Wounds would be enough for him, to bring him some sense of healing from all the Legion had done. But it was not enough; vengeance, with its flame so hot, so tempting, was not tempered. It was dampened for a while, but then the bones of the enemies came in burning, and it rose once more. He remembered the face which had ordered forth the burning, the face he had once loved and all at once:

            Zion was not enough for him.

      The Dead Horses made good men, their devotion was unwavering. They would follow him to the ends of the earth; fanatical, unending. The Fury inside Joshua made good fuel, and though it took much time, he was able to find an opening. The Fort, though no easy task, one day became his; and surprise had been on his side. Oh, to have seen Caesar's face when the bandaged spectre from his nightmares emerged from ash and smoke! It was like so many dreams of Joshua's returned to life.

      And now, now he sat upon the throne that Caesar had, now he looked upon the remains of the Legion – once his home, his kingdom from which he was cast away. He had won out though, his determination, his devotion, his faith had proven that he was the strongest force within and without the Mojave's endless expanse.

      Victory was not the end though, it never was, and there were loose scraps hanging about still. Some officers who were away, men he remembered, men he had raised and trained. Some had turned back to him upon the securing of his victory; their colors showing not as loyalty but cowardice, and either fine by he, for he would have satisfaction either way. From fear or command, he was supreme.

      Rumor spread, and in the nights following returned some men who were missing; information filtered down to him, of desertion, of a new fear in the NCR – who he could care less about – of men who would not be coming back like pale-bellied cowards.

                    And then there was Vulpes. The boy with the greased hair, the boy with the pale skin and pink eyes and unearthly voice. A face like an angel on the earth but the tongue of a devil, so loyal, so proud.

                        And then there was Vulpes, who had not yet heard for he had been traveling, who entered the Fort warily and confused, who approached the tent and called stupidly into the dark for his Lord and Master, hoping that it was just a problem, so mindlessly devoted to the idea that Caesar would never fall, that the old man was immortal.

                                                ❝ — I remember you.” Were the first words to fall from his burned lips into the darkness. “I remember how you speak and how you move – I remember how I raised you to what you were. Yes, I could never forget you, the clever one, the one who had been my favorite.

                                                        ❝ — Caesar is no longer here. You missed your chance for goodbyes. The knee this place takes is directed at me now. So stand – I know you. I know you do not bend to anybody but Caesar, I know that you are as proud as you are sneaky.— ❞

      Joshua stopped talking; his words fell away into the night as a small growl, as a smooth tone roughened by smoke-burned lungs and charred vocal chords. He waited, one good eye peering into the barely-lit night, peering at the stiffened figure before him.