Post by Rated R on May 22, 2008 18:08:13 GMT -5
The small room is dark inside, there are no windows and the door is closed, a small slender line of light attempts to enter the room from underneath the wooden door, but is denied any further access, restricted to it’s tiny piece of floor, it’s short life wasted. A light flickers in one corner of the room, on and off, on and off.
The light continues to flicker, remaining in the same place every time, slightly illuminating the small room. The walls, floor and ceiling is made of planks of wood, each neatly aligned, as if an obsessive man built the room. This room is a claustrophobe’s nightmare. The entire room is barren, no furniture, no fixtures, nothing. No traces of a life outside of this lonely box.
Four walls, nothing else.
The room is nearly silent, no sound managing to penetrate the walls from the outside world, and no sound can escape its barren hollowness. The room is not empty however, in the corner, by the still flickering light sits a man. The flickering light is a lighter, held in the man’s left hand. The man controls the flame. Lit one minute, dead the next.
Everything is controlled by something.
The only time the man can be seen is when the flame is alive, when it dances to its violent and unheard tune. A mix of reds and blues scatter throughout the air around the man’s hand. His presence is the only one that can be seen in the room. The light reveals him to be wearing a hood, but the flame is not powerful enough to spread to the rest of his body.
He holds the lighter with such determination that is could very well be the only thing he owns, but it is apparent that there is an unseen object in his right hand, gripped tightly. The man’s breathing is calm, almost un-natural. His eyes are closed, as if asleep, but speed of his left hand as it plays with the lighter makes it clear that this man is awake. He opens his eyes, and as he speaks it is apparent that he is the King of Demons, Trace Demon.
I promised you all a new determined Trace Demon. That is who you will see in my next match. High Horror will be the first to fall, the first of many casualties during my rise to greatness.
He speaks with little emotion, as if something within him has died, leaving him cold and hollow inside. His face is expressionless, no glimmer of anything human.
No hope, no fear.
It has been a long path to get here; people think they can stand in my way. Reckless thought he could stop me, but I proved him wrong. I proved that he is nothing compared to the one and only Trace Demon.
Trace Demon’s voice changes pitch and he lets out a few seconds of laughter. The laughter, like its owner, shows no emotion. His eyes are cold and empty, their focus remains intently on the flame in front. One second lit, the next extinguished.
On and off. On and off.
I promised you a more driven Trace Demon, and that is why I am here. This room is in the middle of nowhere. Only I know its location. I have sat here for five days now. FIVE DAYS!
The black bags under his eyes are seeable for the first time as the lighter gets closer to his face, illuminating his features for the first time. His eyes are still cold and emotionless. They look heavy, as if unwilling to stay open. His face is worn and tired.
I have learnt patience, and I am now more focused than ever before. This room shouldn’t be here, the walls speak to me. Terrible things have happened here, horrible things. The walls whisper of death and deceit, of hope and tragedy. Now they are silent and sorrowful.
Trace stands for the first time, his legs nearly give way due to exhaustion. He walks to the far wall, lighter open, the flame illuminating the path. His movements are slow, each step hitting the hollow floor loudly, sending sounds throughout the room, the echoes only serving to extenuate the seriousness of the room, the emptiness seems to haunt Trace Demon, as every few steps he stops, his eyes dart across the room seemingly looking for something, before walking on.
Getting to the end of the room Trace puts his right arm out and leans against the wall. It is clear that there is something gripped tightly in his right hand, but the flame from the lighter is not strong enough to show it. Trace’s fist pushes against the strong wooden wall, and his head falls to his chest. His breathing becomes heavier, and he lets out another laugh, this time seeming crazed and confused.
I have given my life for this business, and I will not let somebody like Horror get in my way. I showed him exactly what I can do last week before he was saved by that punk Reckless. Reckless, you made the worst mistake of your life when you interfered in my business, and I recommend that you keep out of my business this week, because help is the only way that Horror can possibly get a win.
Trace looks up, removes his fist from the wall and unclenches his right hand, revealing the item to be a long knife. The knife is a crimson color, almost as if it was made out of blood, and the handle appears to be made out of a thick black metal.
And we don’t like cheats, do we?
Trace raises the lighter to the wall, the flame illuminating the wood, revealing thin cuts across one panel. Twenty three cuts to be precise.
One cut in the wood, each one symbolizing a victory. Each one symbolizing an opponent who has fallen at my hands. They are just a statistic to me. Just another fool who has not had what it takes to defeat me, the King of Demons.
Trace raises the knife to the wood, his hand suddenly steady. His breathing becomes slow and quiet again, his body no longer seems worn and tired.
And by the end of our match Horror, cut twenty four goes on the wall.
Trace breaks out into maniacal laughter, unable to control himself. The laughter fills the small room. He lowers the knife, stares at the wall and the twenty three cuts. He closes the lighter and everything goes dark.
The only sign of life is quiet demented laughter.
The light continues to flicker, remaining in the same place every time, slightly illuminating the small room. The walls, floor and ceiling is made of planks of wood, each neatly aligned, as if an obsessive man built the room. This room is a claustrophobe’s nightmare. The entire room is barren, no furniture, no fixtures, nothing. No traces of a life outside of this lonely box.
Four walls, nothing else.
The room is nearly silent, no sound managing to penetrate the walls from the outside world, and no sound can escape its barren hollowness. The room is not empty however, in the corner, by the still flickering light sits a man. The flickering light is a lighter, held in the man’s left hand. The man controls the flame. Lit one minute, dead the next.
Everything is controlled by something.
The only time the man can be seen is when the flame is alive, when it dances to its violent and unheard tune. A mix of reds and blues scatter throughout the air around the man’s hand. His presence is the only one that can be seen in the room. The light reveals him to be wearing a hood, but the flame is not powerful enough to spread to the rest of his body.
He holds the lighter with such determination that is could very well be the only thing he owns, but it is apparent that there is an unseen object in his right hand, gripped tightly. The man’s breathing is calm, almost un-natural. His eyes are closed, as if asleep, but speed of his left hand as it plays with the lighter makes it clear that this man is awake. He opens his eyes, and as he speaks it is apparent that he is the King of Demons, Trace Demon.
I promised you all a new determined Trace Demon. That is who you will see in my next match. High Horror will be the first to fall, the first of many casualties during my rise to greatness.
He speaks with little emotion, as if something within him has died, leaving him cold and hollow inside. His face is expressionless, no glimmer of anything human.
No hope, no fear.
It has been a long path to get here; people think they can stand in my way. Reckless thought he could stop me, but I proved him wrong. I proved that he is nothing compared to the one and only Trace Demon.
Trace Demon’s voice changes pitch and he lets out a few seconds of laughter. The laughter, like its owner, shows no emotion. His eyes are cold and empty, their focus remains intently on the flame in front. One second lit, the next extinguished.
On and off. On and off.
I promised you a more driven Trace Demon, and that is why I am here. This room is in the middle of nowhere. Only I know its location. I have sat here for five days now. FIVE DAYS!
The black bags under his eyes are seeable for the first time as the lighter gets closer to his face, illuminating his features for the first time. His eyes are still cold and emotionless. They look heavy, as if unwilling to stay open. His face is worn and tired.
I have learnt patience, and I am now more focused than ever before. This room shouldn’t be here, the walls speak to me. Terrible things have happened here, horrible things. The walls whisper of death and deceit, of hope and tragedy. Now they are silent and sorrowful.
Trace stands for the first time, his legs nearly give way due to exhaustion. He walks to the far wall, lighter open, the flame illuminating the path. His movements are slow, each step hitting the hollow floor loudly, sending sounds throughout the room, the echoes only serving to extenuate the seriousness of the room, the emptiness seems to haunt Trace Demon, as every few steps he stops, his eyes dart across the room seemingly looking for something, before walking on.
Getting to the end of the room Trace puts his right arm out and leans against the wall. It is clear that there is something gripped tightly in his right hand, but the flame from the lighter is not strong enough to show it. Trace’s fist pushes against the strong wooden wall, and his head falls to his chest. His breathing becomes heavier, and he lets out another laugh, this time seeming crazed and confused.
I have given my life for this business, and I will not let somebody like Horror get in my way. I showed him exactly what I can do last week before he was saved by that punk Reckless. Reckless, you made the worst mistake of your life when you interfered in my business, and I recommend that you keep out of my business this week, because help is the only way that Horror can possibly get a win.
Trace looks up, removes his fist from the wall and unclenches his right hand, revealing the item to be a long knife. The knife is a crimson color, almost as if it was made out of blood, and the handle appears to be made out of a thick black metal.
And we don’t like cheats, do we?
Trace raises the lighter to the wall, the flame illuminating the wood, revealing thin cuts across one panel. Twenty three cuts to be precise.
One cut in the wood, each one symbolizing a victory. Each one symbolizing an opponent who has fallen at my hands. They are just a statistic to me. Just another fool who has not had what it takes to defeat me, the King of Demons.
Trace raises the knife to the wood, his hand suddenly steady. His breathing becomes slow and quiet again, his body no longer seems worn and tired.
And by the end of our match Horror, cut twenty four goes on the wall.
Trace breaks out into maniacal laughter, unable to control himself. The laughter fills the small room. He lowers the knife, stares at the wall and the twenty three cuts. He closes the lighter and everything goes dark.
The only sign of life is quiet demented laughter.
) without over doing it. In this case you're not wondering around doing several actions for the sake of extending the description, you're just describing Trace Demon and what not. That's the way to go as far as I see it.
