The Blog is under delay, new posts are available in
http://yelowingpaper.wordpress.com – Maximus Journal
How fare thee beloved readers, unfortunately this news is to announce that I will be delaying some posts to the blogs due to the blissful distraction of role-playing adventure game called Skyrim.
new postings will be updated with no further notice
It was dark and dreamy. All he could see was just murk. Castor walked on a faceless darkness. His feet were cold and pale, but wounded. Weird that he could not feel his wound but then he remembered that he already died and that was the first time he could breathe easier towards his miserable life that had come to an end. He thought he was in heaven. But heaven, as people said, was the place of brightness and comfort. Very different to what he saw just now. He knew he had died and he was on the way to heaven-maybe. It was possible that the way to heaven was dark and cold, or maybe there was no heaven at all, the dark place was the place for him afterlife. That was if he believed in after life. Castor was taught in a Christian school when he was very little, so little he held onto the faith though he did not realize it, it was always there with him.
He walked an empty path, dark and cold, but free from thoughts. He saw a bright clearing ahead. He ran and ran. It was surprisingly a long run, though he was sure he was in heaven, he felt weary running. He panted and gradually halted. He felt the pang of uneasiness, the feeling he once had when he was still alive, it came back to him. Castor grew restless. He continued to sprint reaching the light ahead which drew nearer. Maybe by then when he reached the light he would finally be free from everything. But as he kept on running, his heart beat faster, his breath ran short.
He ran and kept running, enjoying his little freedom using his feet. Then finally he reached the light and he smiled though his heart seemed to have its own mind. He stumbled and fell and suddenly he could smell the grasses that bloomed in spring. The bright light was yet so calming but at the same time, poisonous. Castor sensed a struck of poison went down his throat after breathing the smell of spring grass. It suffocated his throat he barely could breathe. The pain of not breathing seemed familiar and it reminded him of something that he hoped it was not true, it reminded him of being alive. He started losing consciousness as the pain on his neck was unbearable.
Castor finally opened his eyes in shock. He breathed deeply and impatiently as if he had not breathed for ages. There he saw some familiar faces that wearily looked at him. He could not speak for his mouth was as stiff as a locked door. He tried moving his hands but yet every time he tried moving his hands, a great pain attacked. So he remained silent but his eyes wandered. He started realizing he was breathing just like when he was alive. He could feel soft matrass on his back, he could smell a burning pot of fish soup, he could see a fairly lighted room and what top it the most, he could feel burning on his neck, and one to add, he could hear they whispered and he understood what they talked about. The life in heaven, as what he was told when he was a kid, was a very different to where he was. Heaven was a painless world where everyone would dress up in white and greeted each other in felicity. But then, he saw some faces that he rather not see for the rest of his life and by then he knew that, for the most unfortunate event in his life, he was brought to live.
“Is he alive now?” asked a male voice.
An old man stood before Castor. His eyes watched over him carefully as if he was a piece of a luxurious valuable fragile vase from China. “Yes, be careful, he might still feel pain on his neck.”
Castor’s eyes fluttered as if they would have said something if they had mouth. His eyes were rimmed and tears streamed down on his face. A series of surgery sewing was seen around his neck.
“Quickly, dress the wound!”
A woman came along bringing bandage. She hesitated wrapping the wound. Castor knew who the woman was. He would not forget such beautiful face which resembled someone important in his past life. But then seeing her was like opening an old wound he had buried. He groaned in agony as she gently touched and lifted his head. She felt it but she continued anyway dressing the wound as her tears of pity streamed down her smooth cheeks.
Edward walked up to Vernus who dodged his glance from a pitiful were that had just been resuscitated from an unfortunate demise.
Vernus stood by the window which overlooked a calm night. A solemn time for the moon to shine at its fullest. Full moon was seen the brightest and its light was melancholy and yet comforting in a way.
Castor was chained and he was dragged along the way into the clearing. The crowd was swarming, reproaching and cursing him as if he was a piece of a maggoty inbred who deserved no better life, though what he did was intolerable-such as committing regicide, but Castor had his own reason. Whatever the reason was, no one cared. He had chosen his destiny.
As he got dragged along roughly by a sturdy guard, people dispersed with disgust. From afar, he discerned a dingy stage which a very broad, tall and hooded executioner stood upon. His dark hood was facing him and following where he got dragged to, Castor was pretty sure he was keeping an eye on him, maybe he could not wait to cut his head off. Other than that, he looked like a grim reaper and that sense made him shudder. There was a dark unease feeling around the executioner, which no one could see but Castor. He had no idea where the dark vibe came from, but he was pretty sure he still owned his gut feeling which talked to him a lot, though in the most despairing time, he had almost lost faith in it.
The executioner had taken many lives with his strong hands and axe, that solved the puzzle. Castor did not want to haul unnecessary thought to run his mind where his life was now at greatest stake. He had no time to think of anything else but his own miserable life. His chains clanked on his hands and his feet as he walked, noticing him further that it was not an easy task for him to elude. He was hobbling as he got dragged. His bare feet were swollen and wounded, telling that he had walked enormously long path until he finally tumbled himself into an unfortunate event.
“Don’t worry boy, loosing head is prevalent,” joked the guard who dragged him to the stage. Castor remained silent, but his look was fairly apprehensive. “Now, what can ye do, ey, losing your wondrous power, eh wolf. Now, what stands before you and death is only that axe.”
Caster could see a black sharp and heavy axe was held upside down against the wooden floor by the executioner, right on his side. His fingers were drumming on the handle. He starkly had been waiting for the time of execution.
They arrived at the clearing. Castor had to force himself to climb the short slippery stairs. His feet were weaker the closer he approached the executioner. He slipped and fell of the stair but the guard pulled the manacles on his hands forcefully to make him get back on his knees. He was hurting and weary, his wrists were rimmed and blistered. The great pain of being pulled like a wild horse and being humiliated in public could drive any man crazy, but he was grateful he was a were whose strength left was able to hold such pain.
He finally stood before the executioner. He barely could see a face inside the dark hooded face, but an image of a cranium emerged behind the mysterious hood. Castor gave a faint smirk, it clearly explained the mystery of dark vibe around him. He was no mortal. It was certain that his death was arranged. It was certain that it was his time to die. At least, no more suffering after this, he thought to himself.
As they forced him to kneel down upon the log, Castor finally released his restraints of what he called freedom for losing his life could mean freedom as well. He could have never thought that the ending of his life, though so horrendous as it might sound like, would be finally a doorway to freedom from all the pain he restrained inside. It was not his choice to become a werewolf, but he had managed this far to serve his purpose; to revenge. At least, he had killed Prince Vasilis, the one who conspired against his father and later on gave him the most incurable curse. Though he could not rewind the time to be a young normal lad, but he had given his life to hunt down Prince Vasilis and it was worth it. His death would be his payment, and it was invaluable for no mortal men could kill him. It was as if God had sent him an angel of death to depart his life from further unfathomable suffering.
Castor laid his head on the surface of the open log. He closed his eyes.
“What is your last wish,” squeaked the guard. “It is our courtesy for a scum like you.”
Castor opened his eyes, he looked at the guards but then saying nothing, he closed his eyes again. “Just kill me.”
The crowd grew impatient, they shouted and jeered as the grim reaper took his axe and held it aloft. Without hold, he swung his axe. Blood splattered as a loud thud was heard. Castor’s head rolled over the wooden floor.
Welcome, the writer is revealing herself in an odd way and an odd video, where voice comes later than the lips. Another cool way to tell stories.
“There is one thing that can make you feel better, I am aware of this legendary thing-“
“Elixir Diamas..” replied Castor.
“Yes… That is… Elixir Diamas. Would you want to be back as you were, Castor? A second chance?”
Castor’s face remains inscrutable though he stares at Vernus.
“And with this elixir you can also bring her back to life,”
Castor dodges his glance away, contemplating. But then, he leans forward, “Where is this thing?”
-Last wolf of Harland
A character sketch based on a screenplay titled The Oracle
By Listya Widyasari
“I have risked everything just to curse this Delacroix family, even my own father’s life. I want them all to suffer and kill each other. Then I want them to eat each other. I want no cure for their curse!!“
“My lord, one survives, he will seek you.”
“Then let him seek me, for by then, I will have an immortal power. I will kill the one I choose. I will kill Castor Delacroix!”
-another mad prince
Prince Vasilis Estramus
A Character based on a screnplay The Oracle: The Request
by: Listya Widyasari
Laura squints and peers over a tiny aperture at the door which stands ajar.
Edward and Castor sit opposite each other. Their eyes are intense, glowering at each other. A sheathed sword is on Edward’s hip. His hands are at the table clutching and he is steady, confident, and handsome. Castor looks rather glum, drab, and mean, but in his quietude we can see his attractive appearance which is not often shown when he runs a mock. He is ready to attack anytime. His arms are crossing at his chest. His head tilts a little bit down to his neck but his eyes are looking straight at Edward, scrutinizing him and peeling his valiant will. Castor, however, does not carry weapon on his hip, only a necklace with a queerest symbol flops down on his chest. The necklace flickers a glint of golden light.
There is a long pause and tension during the silent. They are only exchanging killing look.
Laura glances at Alan who is taking a peek to the tense quietude next to her. Alan shares a look with her, noticing her apprehension. Then Alan taps gently his sheathed sword on his hip, giving meaning to Laura that he is ready for action if anything bad happens to Edward. Thus Laura nods. They go peer a little bit more.
“I ask no harm, wolf.” Edward’s voice breaks the silent. “Only a little help which I will pay worthy in return.”
Viktor flings against the wall. His broad and plump body cannot protect him anymore from the fist. He flops down on floor, heaving a heavy sigh, his forehead is sopping with sweat. His right eye is swollen, his vision is obscure.
With his limited vision, from his left eye, he could see blurry amble steps. Once the feet draw nearer, Viktor could see a pair of black boots with extraordinary gold lines embroidered on the side boots.
The boot wallops his face. Viktor spits blood. Before he realizes, a hand reaches his neck and tightens, thus lifts him off his feet. He croaks for mercy.
We can see Henry, a long white haired man, in his mid 30s, white eyes as a sign of blindness, but his savage demeanor doesn’t urge sympathy.
“Where is he?” says Henry.
Viktor only croaks. His hands extricate Henry’s hand, trying to loose it, but he fails. His face is red, he is starkly suffocated. Tears are flowing from his rimmed eyes.
Viktor flops down on floor, motionless. His mouth is wide opened, and his eyes are struck in horror. We can see deep fingers mark on his neck.
“Only the dead can tell secret,” mutters Henry. He looks over his shoulder, to a cowardly orc who is frightened of him. “Bring him into the crater.”
“What awaits us in the Isle of Rockheart?” asked Alan.
Edward glanced at him then back to the island which drew near. “I frankly don’t know. The eye guides us there. There must be an answer, the elixir is near.”
Alan seemed to not get impressed of the happy news. “You are the captain of the ship, Edward,” said Alan which drew Edward’s attention.
Edward looked at Alan but said none. Alan’s look was inscrutable, very hard to understand what he meant. But Edward thought he knew what Alan meant.
“In case you forgot.” Then Alan walked down the main deck into the cabin.
Edward was frozen at the poop deck, contemplating to what he said. But then he looked over the ocean, not really taking anything he was seeing. Alan was right, he was a captain of a ship, the leader of his crew. Recently Edward had been thinking of his attitude, for as if he couldn’t survive without Vernus, though half of the fact might be right, but such dependent attitude burdened him from moving on. He felt lost, unaware of what he was capable of.
Inside of his heart he hollered out loud that he was a coward and it disheartened him even more.
This feeling he traced back, in order to release, that he was weary of looking for Henry. He had ventured some of the places, he knew he still needed to venture more, but those searches were in order to find Henry, his own beloved blood brother. Unavailing searches had led the case gone cold, and so did Edward’s heart. Hope was suddenly scanty and scarce. He suddenly allowed all those successive attacks of negative thought to flow in his vein, making him feel unworthy at all. His voice which was gentle and confident now turned wobbly.