Marcello panted with a small gasp as he slipped into the third floor room. Whatever that was…whoever that was back in the halls… He didn’t care to find out. Any being that growled and hissed normally wasn’t one that wanted to make friends—it would rather eat you, he had found out. At least he was a bit faster than whatever that had been; Marco just hoped it didn’t have a keen sense of smell or had the instincts to chase him and corner him like prey (which it surely would if it was given the chance). As bad as it was, he hoped for a distraction to run across the beast and throw it off his own trail. Maybe someone else would stumble by and seem more appealing to the creature and become its victim instead. No, that was a horrible thought....but as horrible as it was, he couldn't prevent the thought from slipping into his mind. How could he? Seborga realized that things were no longer a game--at least not from his point of view. Whatever was out there, it was real. The danger was real.
He exhaled slowly as his green eyes slipped shut and as his back pressed momentarily against the door. It felt as if his lungs were burning and his brain was swimming due to the adrenaline rush. “Dio…” he mumbled, keeping a firm grip on his sword as he allowed his breathing to steady. Only when his heart ceased to pound in his ears did he slowly move away from the door, but not before casting one pointed look towards the portal itself. In his mind’s eye, the Seborgan could see the door swinging open to reveal that thing he had fled from. “Ah, gods above, please don’t let that happen.”
As his mind and body calmed down, the man chanced to look around and found himself in what appeared to be the smoking room. It had a few chairs here and there, a bar…yes that would be a novel idea. Well, so long as he could ignore that portrait hanging on the wall. The gentleman’s eyes made him rather uneasy, and if he didn’t know better, Marco would swear that they were following him around the room. Actually, if memory served him correctly, he been here before and had seen this picture, but he could have sworn it had been shredded. Perhaps it was just an odd flash of déjà vu...or maybe the picture just miraculously repaired itself. Who knew in this place? Nevertheless, he locked eyes with the portrait as he came around to stand behind the bar and inspect what it had to offer. Immediately, he furrowed his brows as his hand pushed aside some empty bottles.
“Che cosa…” he whispered softly. As unexpected as it was, he was rather relieved to find a more pleasant surprise in the form of a small tub of “healing cream” on top of a folded blanket. Hesitating, Marco took the cream and opened the cap to sniff at it—minty. He hummed with a soft smile. At least that smelled good. He couldn’t say the same for the rest of the mansion. It was rather musky with hints of iron, dust, dirt, and just an overall old house smell. Every once in a while there was the odor of death, and though it lingered, Marcello was almost used to it. So long as he never came close to the actual source, that is. He would surely get sick from the intensity of the smell if he did near it. Nevertheless, he was glad for such an unexpected ‘gift’ and tucked the cream into the fold of his garments before taking the blanket and draping it over his shoulders. At least now he had something to curl and rest under besides his own cloak which had become stained and torn here and there during his stay at the mansion.
Next, he reached for one of the bottles of alcohol. Naturally, he first searched through the wines—not that there was a wide array in this place—but then shrugged and looked over a bit of the stronger drinks. Settling for a one-third full bottle of whiskey, he undid the cap and grabbed a short glass from nearby. Marco’s gaze drifted upwards as he poured the liquor, searching the room. It seemed fine for now and nothing was amiss so he sheathed his sword. Likewise, the door had remained shut and he could not hear any stalking predators posted outside. Allowing his eyes to turn back to the task at hand, he idly wondered how long this drink had been here and if it had gone bad. Closing his eyes and lifting the glass the his lips, he would take that chance and find out.
Noises. Soft sounds slowly penetrated the sleeping man’s subconscious, stirring small movements from him. An image of being home again in his kitchen overtook his mind and made itself almost real to him.
The sunlight flowing softly through through the window while the gentle breeze barely moved the curtains. The glasses rustling were from his guest, who had taken the words 'my home is your home' to heart and was currently getting himself something to drink. Opening his eyes, he saw he was sitting at the table, his guest and the window behind him. His eyes met a tan colored wall with vines covering it, traces of dirt everywhere. A frown overtook his face the longer he looked. The wall was cracking, dirt was everywhere. Shifting slowly, he looked around only to see the same thing. A house in disrepair, as if no one had lived in it for months or years. A chill went up his back, a hesitance to look and see what else was wrong or who was behind him; a burning need to know why his warm house was neglected as it was couldn't be denied. Looking over his shoulder at his guest, a look of horror past over his face. Where there should have been the Greek, the Egyptian or even the northern Italian, there was only a black shadow, a dark mass writhing upon itself in the shape of a human being.
A scream of horror bubbled in his chest at this figure, an unknown being that didn’t match any of his lore, this didn’t match anything he knew. A bird of sorrow, a jin, even some of the European folklore he know, but not this….This seemed to be something out of the beliefs of the Italians followed and should know how to deal with. But the Republic of Turkey didn’t. He didn’t know how to fight this mass, didn’t have any of the items used to protect oneself against it. He only had the evil eye pendent and bracelet and while they should help protect him, deep down, he knew they wouldn’t. A knot in his throat prevented the scream from manifesting itself, almost as if the figure didn’t want him to alert anyone else in the house to its presence. Deep down he knew the Greek was upstairs, sleeping in his own room that was decorated in blues and whites. Forcing himself to move, eyes were locked on this creature back before he tripped over something unknown that was sticking out of the wall.
Jerking awake from where he had been sleeping, a sharp pain bloomed in his skull from where smacked it on the underside of whatever he was hiding behind. A pained noise escaped his throat at the hit and he brought his hand up to rub his sore head while he looked around, trying to remember where he was. A cold, heavy weight in one hand distracted him. Looking down, he frowned. Where did he get a gun and what was he doing before this? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t like this memory lapse, and Sadiq had a bad feeling that this wasn’t this first time his memory had failed him on some piece of vital information that should have been impossible for him to forget. Sticking it in his belt next to his sword, he briefly wondered how much longer it would hold out. It was old, a relic by anyones standards and as good of shape as it was, and it was probably on its final legs. It was meant to be protected, shown off for the great weapon it was, not used against these creatures in fights of life or death. Sadiq could only hope that this gun would be a good weapon to use instead of his sword, saving that for a last.
Moving slowly, he shifted out of under the tabletop structure to come face to face with bottles. Many names were in his line of sight, all having to do with alcohol. It seems he had taken refuge under a bar. Moving around some more to look around, his eyes landed on the painting. He didn’t know where the painting came from, or what era it was from either, but there was something about it that set the hairs on the back of his neck on edge. Perhaps it was the dark tones of the painting over all that set his nerves on worry mode. Or perhaps it was the fact that there was just back, empty space where the eyes should be. They say the eyes were the windows to the soul, and if that was true, the paintings were like a one way mirror with the wrong direction. The longer he stared into those vacant orbs, the more he felt like it was staring into his soul, weighting his sins, measuring all that he had done here in the manor and was judging him, finding him guilty of murder with the metaphorical bloodstained hands. Ones that he unconsciously wiped on his pants, trying to get rid of that blood that wasn’t to be seen.
Forcing himself to look away, he rubbed the back of his neck. He was almost hesitant to have his back open to the painting, as ridiculous as that sounded. Looking over everything to check his surroundings, he saw what could only be described as what was supposed to be a comfortable room that fit more to men’s tastes. A general smoking room perhaps? Not one that would work in Turkey, no, but one that worked well for the early days of the America’s. If only he could have seen this place in its prime; the old wonder could still be seen, even if it was a bit faded with time. Though the magic seemed to have kept this place in good repair, keeping some of its majesty. Eyes moving once again, they fell on another person, one who Sadiq was not expecting. A grin over took his face and he smiled, full face able to be seen since he lost his mask to one of the other Italian’s. The crow’s feet just barely able to be seen if you were looking for them, but his chocolate brown eyes shown with an inner light, revealing how happy we was to see someone else in this place. It seemed it had been too long since he had seen a friendly face, he wasn’t even sure when he had last seen anyone.
“Seborgia right? Or did I wack my head too hard on the bar? Why you standing over there, come over here and give an old friend a hug”
It wasn’t bad… not really. At least it hadn’t been spoiled by exposure to anything else. The Seborgan sipped at his whiskey, thankful for a brief moment of relaxation. Pouring himself another glass, he couldn’t help but allow his eyes to drift back up to that painting on the other end of the room. The more he looked at it, the more he expected the portrait to speak or for the man to step out of the frame. Additionally, in the back of his mind’s eye, he could still see gashes in the painting as it was torn down from…something… There had been gunshots as well. “Dàgghe di nómmi…” he swore in Ligurian and groaned, shaking his head. Why couldn’t he get that to go away? It was driving him insane and everything in the room at the moment contradicted the blurred image swirling in his mind. Finally tearing his gaze from the man, he lifted the glass to his lips again and drank down the burning liquid in hopes of it either bringing some sort of clarity or erasing the fallacies his mind had concocted.
In mid-drink, Marcello froze and glared at the door. Every muscle in him seemed to tighten as he heard the bump and he slowly moved to place the half-full glass down on the counter as soundlessly as possibly. Stepping back, he reached for his sword as the noise continued, but he quickly discovered that the source was much closer than he had originally anticipated. He steadied himself and locked on to his target, which was seemingly coming out from under the bar. Glancing over his shoulder as quickly as he could, Marcello was rather disappointed to find nothing but a wall to his back and the windows to his left—windows that were beyond difficult to lift up. If whatever it was attacked, he would have little choice but to fight it until he could make his way around to the only door in the room and flee. Regardless, his narrowed green eyes remained locked onto the front of the bar and his hand moved to draw his blade as the figure rose, took in its surroundings, and gave a friendly greeting. Marcello hung his head and heaved a sigh of relief before letting his sword sink back into its sheath.
“Sci, Seborga--Sebo,” his face suddenly brightened to its normal countenance as his green-amber eyes shimmered with joy. Finally someone else that was glad to see him and didn’t want to simply have him for lunch! Marcello glanced around one final time before moving over toward the other. Despite their differences and conflicts from the past, the Seborgan was more than happy to see the Turk and took the offer for a hug without any second thoughts. After all, the creatures in the halls were the enemies here, not Sadiq. Turkey was more or less a friend, and in these circumstances, Marcello considered him an ally—even if such an agreement had not taken place yet. Then again, could it not just go unspoken and be understood in this particular situation? After all, anything out there that was trying to kill Marco and his fellow nations was the enemy, but any nation that was merely trying to survive in these conditions…were they not an ally?
“I-a never expected in-a a million years to see you in-a this place,” Marco let the embrace linger as his arms tightened around the Turk. The gentle squeeze he gave seemed to convey the Seborgan’s relief without him having to speak a single word. However, after a few moments, he pulled away and looked up to the taller man. “Aha…then-a again I would-a never wish-a this place upon you, amico—are you…you’re not hurt or-a anything are you?” His eyes surveyed the older nation to ensure he had not sustained any grave injuries and it also gave Marcello a chance to place his costume. A small grin lifted his features as he recognized it …however one crucial item was missing from the costume. Nevertheless, Marco thought it best not to point it out at this time. He knew how Sadiq was with regards to his mask, and so he bit his tongue from mentioning its disappearance lest he get yelled at or the like. Instead, the micro nation would just enjoy the revealed, smiling face and the friend that came with it.
“We-a..there’s liquor if-a you want some. It’s not-a so bad yet…,” Marcello offered, nodding his head back toward the bar area. “Might-a as well make-a use of it while-a we can, no?” his warm smile became a bit wider as he let out a soft chuckle. If anything—and if nothing interrupted him—he could take pleasure in pretending they were completely safe and that he was merely welcoming an old pal into the parlor for a drink and calming, idle chat.
This board is closed, no reserves will be accepted
Oct 4, 2016 17:14:19 GMT -6
Whispered Secret Crafted By Alisha A 2014 Adoxography Exclusive
This theme is best viewed on Google Chrome
"Whispered Secret" premade theme created by Alisha of Adoxography and Proboards Support for use on Proboards v5 Forums. Many thanks go to old StackOverflow posts, and the content creators at Codrop and Github . Please only modify this theme according to the creators conditions and specify them here upon doing so.