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Post by Deleted on Dec 20, 2013 0:39:22 GMT -6
Costume: Templar Knight Weapon: Sword Flower: Yellow Mimosa Deaths: 0
| “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.”
This was not the Church of St. Martin, nor was it the Church of St. Bernard, but it was a church. Rather, it was the remains of a small chapel, but it was probably the only site on the property that wasn’t entirely tainted with an aura of complete evil or infested with detestable spirits. Given, it was filled with a lingering sense of grief and a tinge of despair, but as a chapel, it was inherently holy, was it not? It was holy, and a place of refuge, regardless of the condition it was in. That was what Marcello had told himself at least. The only thing he had a qualm with was that of the scorch marks left on the pews and on some other pieces and places in the establishment. He closed his eyes as tight as he could and pressed his palms together to the point where he had almost created an airtight seal over the pommel of his sword. He needn’t think of such things, but it was becoming more difficult with each passing day.
“Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.”
How long had it been since he had been in a place like this? No, a better question was how long had Seborga even been here at the manor? It had to have been a few days. A week at the very least, but he just couldn’t recall the exact number of days. They had blurred together, and had left him confused. Much like the distant memories of the past, he could only recall fleeting bits and pieces and important points. Like all of those memories, the current ones were becoming nothing more but a swirl of multichromatic madness in the back of his mind and he sorely wished he could paint a more vivid and clear picture with them to make sense of everything.
“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.”
At least the Principality had come to realize that whatever was going on here was nothing to be trifled with. He should have realized that sooner when Lovino had shot at him or when he was face to face with a small werewolf—or even when he had seen a ghost in the gardens! No, he should have realized it before all of that. He had felt the ominous aura about the house before ever entering, so why did he go in? His eldest brother, apart from the whole gun ordeal, was acting off more than usual and gave a rather unclear answer when asked about Feliciano. Somewhere, Marco was told. He was somewhere. He just had to look a bit more. Besides, it was a large estate. The young man was likely taking a siesta somewhere or perhaps he was just with his good friend…Germany, was it? Ludwig? Regardless, Feli was probably fine with that man. At least such an optimistic notion gave the youngest Vargas some relief.
“Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo.”
Maybe he should worry more about himself and less about his half-brothers. After all, was he not the ‘weakest’ of the trio? Well, to some extent at least, perhaps…he didn’t exactly have the strengths that ‘proper’ nations did nor did he have the connections—the alliances. In truth, he had few, and most of his connections were just with the other micronations. He silently wondered if they too had fallen victim to this place. Part of him hoped they hadn’t, but another part of him longed for their presences—if anything so he wouldn’t feel quite as alone here.
What a selfish, horrible thought.
He just needed a moment to regain his sanity—a short reprieve from the malevolence that inhabited of the rest of the manor. The Seborgan reassured himself that everything would be fine. At least he could find some solace in prayer (especially in one of the first he was taught by the monks that came to his land), and at least that made him feel mildly better about his situation.
“Amen.”
After removing his forehead from resting against the hilt and handle of his weapon, Marcello crossed himself and wiped the back of his hand over his dampened eyes. He had barely noticed that he had wept, but at least he felt no guilt in doing so. He was just frustrated with himself and this entire situation. Nevertheless, as he stood, he gave a soft smile to the alter—or the remnants thereof—and returned the blade to its home on his side. Perhaps he could take a moment more and relax on a pew or in a shielded corner; though the latter seemed much more likely considering the wooden benches looked as if they’d fall apart at the mere touch of his glove. Turning on his heel, Marco began to depart from the alter to seek a place in the chapel where he could rest—if only for a second or two. |
OoC: --- made by FLOU of OTE. Severely edited by Iso/Ducky
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Stands a Chance
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“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.”
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Post by Holy Roman Empire on Jan 12, 2014 20:53:38 GMT -6
He had been looking for the graveyard, but a part of him was relieved when, on its borders, he saw a church. Augustus wasn’t sure why he was going to the graveyard, anyway- perhaps he thought he wouldn’t find His grave, that He wouldn’t be dead, or perhaps he was looking for Italy’s grave, for rumors among the oldest ghosts said they were the key to life. However, upon seeing the endless abyss in front of him, a monotone graveyard with thousands of graves with a single flower, he blanched. He couldn’t do it. It would make everything real again, and he just couldn’t- he couldn’t believe that-
And this is why he needed the church. There was a part of him that was scoffing at the church, finding it ironic in the darkest manner imaginable. Here, in the middle of the sprawling wasteland and battleground in the form of a Manor, here, where everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong, here, where his world seemed to be collapsing, there was a burnt shell of a church, and its light was being swallowed by great shadowed maws. At the same time, it was a light, and even as it drowned he could swear he could hear the cascades of a prayer from within. Someone would answer, Augustus thought, though the thought seemed weak. Someone would. Someone was always listening when you prayer, whether it was who you wanted to hear the prayer or not, and someone would always answer, even if it wasn’t always in the manner you might think.
Augustus paused at the door, listening closer, praying along in his head but oddly afraid to speak the words out loud, and even more afraid to go into the church. He was impure, wasn’t he? Why was he even here? Why wasn’t he properly dead? What had he done? He had done a lot of bad things, if he thought to hard about it, but they all had, and even so they were all good people at heart- right? They had to be, right? So why was he still a ghost?
He had been asking that one for a while, but he had no good answer.
The other reason he didn’t want to go in was because he was afraid he’d make some sort of noise, something that would break the sound. That was not Italy’s voice, but it was painfully similar. It was not so musical, it was not so elegant as his love’s voice. But it had the exact same accent, every letter pronounced almost identically. It was not the somewhat annoying Romano’s voice, either. Perhaps it was one of the old city-states of Italy? Why would they be here? Wasn’t there that one, the one who continued to trail across the ages despite the fact that all logic said that he was no nation? What was his name? Augustus could hardly remember, though it wasn’t entirely his fault. He had been in charge of so many small city-states over time, that they all blurred together.
He should remember this, though. The voice was so similar to Italy’s, it had to be someone that was a closer brother to him than most of the similar city-states that Augustus brought to mind and then discarded again. It took some time to think of it, but the boy’s name was Seborga- right? He had no idea what his human name was anymore, but he didn’t think he’d have to use it much. They hadn’t spoken but so much, as far as he could remember.
It was odd, the things he had forgotten with time. He had been so focussed on a single person for so long that other details could be surprisingly fleeting.
At any rate, the boy was done praying, and Augustus, having finished his own, silent prayer underneath, went in. For some inexplicable reason, he glanced back towards the graveyard, feeling almost as though something was tugging him there- but that was ridiculous, impossible, right? That couldn’t be happening, right? He was just scaring himself, or giving false hope to himself, or something, but he didn’t want to go in there yet. He couldn’t, not yet. So he would talk to this brother of Italy’s instead, and perhaps hopefully gain some comfort in the process. Maybe he’d remember the boy’s name before he had to actually use it.
With a breath, he crossed the threshold. The charred interior of the church was awful, a dark reminder that even the church wasn’t quite safe, but as Augustus looked and saw no other spirits for the first time in- how long had it been anyway- in all the time he had been in the Manor, regardless, he realized that perhaps it was safer than most places.
It took him a moment to gather his courage. It hit him that he had no idea of what he should be saying to the Italian- Seborgan? (Was he still his own city-state? Maybe?) He still wanted to say something though, because that voice was somewhat calming. A piece of Italy was alive in him.
That didn’t mean he didn’t feel somewhat silly when all he wound up saying was a slightly stiff ”Hello,” but it was better than nothing, if just to hear Seborga’s voice with Italy’s diction again. The conversation would perhaps give time for the Someone who had heard his prayer to answer.
Please, give me a way to save Him…
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Post by Deleted on May 31, 2014 23:41:43 GMT -6
Costume: Templar Knight Weapon: Sword Flower: Yellow Mimosa Deaths: 0
| Marcello coughed as he kicked up a bit of dust and glanced back around the place. “Dio…” muttering, he tried to shift one of the older pews out of the way, but as he lifted it up, the rotten wood nearly crumbled in his grasp. With a dulled thwonk, the pew broke in the middle and collapsed to the ground, causing Marco to swiftly release the piece he had held onto and pull away, twisting so that it wouldn’t fall on his feet. “M-mi dispiace,” his gaze shifted toward the ceiling for a moment as he cringed at the sound echoing through the desolate building. Slowly, carefully, he moved past it towards a corner that seemed to have some sort of…what was that cobwebs? dust? The Seborgan squinted ahead to try and make out whatever it was.
Edging closer, he could have sworn he heard something at the door or near the opposite side of the room. Marcello’s heart nearly skipped a beat and he held his breath as his head swiveled around to observe whatever had created the noise.
Nothing.
Relieved, he exhaled slowly and closed his eyes as he ran his fingers through light brown hair. “Great, as if this place wasn’t hellish enough, now I’m starting to imagine things,” he frowned softly to himself, opened his eyes, and continued on until he was crouching near the pile of…whatever this was. It smelled peculiar—not bad, but nothing you would want to spray to take in its scent—and it looked like ash with bits of hard white flecks here and there. It also seemed to have marble shards in it which almost immediately set of an alarm inside Marco’s mind and he nearly had it in him to let the remains lest in peace; until he saw something long and cylindrical next to them.
Biting his bottom lip, he gingerly reached over to pluck the object up and gently dust the ashes from it. His green eyes darted from the ash to the rather old and worn item—a flashlight of sorts—as he flicked its switch. Much to his surprise, a light flickered on and an amused albeit short chuckle escaped Marcello’s lips. It would prove valuable—if it would last. But even so he felt…odd taking from the dead. Even if this wasn’t even the deceased’s property, it still felt wrong plucking it up so unceremoniously from their ashes. Therefore, after mumbling a short thanks and a prayer, the Seborgan dug through his clothing and produced one of the only things on him he could spare in exchange for this ‘gift’. It wasn’t much by the world’s standards, but the shiny 1 Luigino coin would have to suffice in this exchange (not like the other party could argue very well against it anyway).
The deal closed, Marcello rose to his feet and clenched his jaw as he tried to push the switch back in the opposite direction. “C-come ooooon…” he grumbled as the switch remained stuck.
“Hello.”
In a split second, the white beam of the flashlight was directed into the face of the trespasser, and though Marcello was holding it more or less like a sword, no harm, save for perhaps the blinking of pained eyes, would come from it.
“Who’s-a—“ Marco stared at the younger looking nation and blinked as his face twisted into a look of confusion. It had been centuries, but there was no mistaking the Holy Roman Empire for another. Slowly Marco lowered the flashlight. “Augustus…?” No, he hadn’t forgotten his name. The principality was rather good at remember that sort of thing, especially since this empire had acknowledged him and his independence those many years ago. Still, a sour knot twisted in Marcello’s stomach. Even if he was acknowledged and was more or less heavily protected as a principality under the empire’s hand, the blond had, over time, forgotten him and focused more of his attention on Marcello’s older brother, Veneziano. Still, the boy had helped in some ways at the very beginning and Marco couldn’t rightly hold a grudge against him; it didn’t seem right. Especially since Augustus himself had not purposefully harmed him. If he had, Marco's feelings toward him would be quite different.
Pushing past the bittersweet thoughts, Marcello continued staring at him. He was not disturbed from seeing a ghost—he had already encountered one before—rather he was confused as to why this specific ghost had come to the premises. “He’s been gone for centuries, and suddenly he’s here in front of me--an ocean apart from his grave nonetheless? Has he been haunting Feli and did he follow him to get this far?”
Despite the questions building in the back of the Seborgan micronation’s mind, his lips parted to ask one far more simple and somewhat obscure: “How….?”
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OoC: Flashlight was won from the St. Patrick’s Mini-event. made by FLOU of OTE. Severely edited by Iso/Ducky
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