[Jesnoria] Justice for the Hopeless Ones

[Nayt]

Jesnoria . . . it was a good place to eat, a good place to drink, and a good place to lay one's head at night, but for the hopeless, it slowly became the worst town the world ever knew. It stood at the edge of the world, overlooking the remnants of the battlefield that ended the world as they all knew it. It was an endless stretch-- a vast depth of craters and ruin that peered into the horizon and beyond. Here, there never seemed to be an end to it, and that's exactly why people came. Jesnoria was a small place, but it attracted pilgrims of all shapes and sizes.

And it especially attracted them: the people that lost everything during the End of Days-- or, perhaps, those that lost it all before the End. The End itself truly became a matter of convenience, then, a problem on which to blame their past woes, find purpose in a pilgrimage, and spit hatefully upon the battlefield.

The town ended with the battlefield itself, ending right where a cliffside began, and dropped off, straight down into a gray and torn basin that stretched on forever, the battlefield that ended the world. It was far too high to jump from, and thus had a convenient rope ladder nearby.

How many had come to Jesnoria to marvel at the stories of heroism and the terran scars of a battle so epic that it changed the world forever? And then . . . how many came to Jesnoria to see the source of their woes, sit upon the edge of the great cliff, and spit hateful remarks and curses down into the pit of a ruin that made up the field of battle? There was no way to tell . . . but there was one more, on this day-- one more to visit Jesnoria, another Hopeless One, one to hate, one to mourn, or one to find a disappointing indifference in the scars of the world?

That . . . that was up to her to decide.

[Mandaz]

Narrowed eyes gazed over the scorched and barren land. It was the same picture as always. The post-war nostalgia was thick in the air. A suffocating aura of grief over the lost, without the accompaniment of relief from survival. Surviving a war is child’s play when compared to surviving the end. When horrors rolled up the fabric of life and left nothing but the wretched behind. To rebuild this world and shape it into a utopia for the meek. That little sliver of hope, also reminiscent of life after battle, was also something familiar. But once again, no hope could be claimed for her. She paid her respects to the broken earth, perched off of the cliff, but far out enough to look over the world’s wound. It allowed her to reflect alone, a condition she had become more than comfortable with in the past. Mann’s long lasting existence kept her constantly searching for fulfillment and permanence in a world that couldn’t even keep itself going. It left her feeling hollow, fed up with no energy to be frustrated. A ghost in an immortal body, trudging from torturous cesspit to phenomenal wastes of time. She had no

more wishes or wants, desires or goals. Mann could only long for a purpose in this world or the next, something to put her body to good use, rather than whoring it out to countless lovers and partner, all of whom were equally as impermanent.

The sun rose and set with the day; she must have stared out at the land for hours, sharp eyes taking in every still and stagnant shape of jagged earth. Once they had been solid and sturdy, unmoving in their ways, only to be ripped from their positions and aided in the great horrible cataclysm, not stagnant again, a monument to countless lives lost. She felt connected with that unmoving rock, and debated for quite some time over smashing it to bits, just to see it move once more.

[Nayt]

There was a breeze, a whooshing breeze, settling behind the demoness. A wind carried beyond this, brushing by the demoness and singing to her a hollow melody, carried upon the remnants of a raven's feather-- that single black feather that coursed through the wind and fluttered into the basin.

It heralded a settling of feet, of boots upon the moist earth, sinking into the grass and remaining stagnant for but the briefest of moments. A second passed, and a foot lifted, stepping forward by a short two feet, settled, and embarked upon the same methodical quest with the other foot. It was a slow approach, intentionally slow. Perhaps it was Mann? Perhaps her appearance denoted a type of caution? Was it strange to see a woman like her in solitary, watching the sun as it departed over the horizon? Or was it the person his or herself?

Slowly but surely, it arrived next to her, and without so much as a request of permission, put out its long legs, covered in torn up slacks as they were as it took a seat not a foot from the woman's side. Like her, he let his feet dangle over the edge of the cliff.

He was a young man by appearance, a man that couldn't have been any older than his mid-twenties. Were he standing still, he'd have stood at a full six feet in height, weighing out at a remarkably low 150-some pounds. Indeed, he hadn't an ounce of fat on his body; he was lean, almost anorexically slender, but all muscle with what weight he did have on him. He'd bushy dark brown, nearly black hair, and a bushy goatee upon his chin. He did not wear a shirt-- he never wore a shirt. It was a habit from a friend he'd picked up long, long ago. In fact, pants and boots were pushing it a little for him. These were his best clothes-- his only clothes. Beyond decency amongst mixed company, he hadn't a real need for them anymore.

Mann would recognize him. Of course she'd recognize him! Anyone that ever knew of this man recognized him--and Mann especially. She was a special case amongst special cases . . .

Sitting where he was, next to the demoness, and staring into the sunset, the Angel of Vengeance smiled.

[Mandaz]

In all these years, Mann wasn’t one to be susceptible to surprises or astounded by seeing strange sights. She knew the world was filled with marvels, and to count out strangeness just because normality was commonplace was foolish. This man was certainly not a normality, and in fact miraculous. So despite her calluses to surprises, she felt a rise take over her body, causing her forlorn, cast away eyes to brighten. She continued to stare forward, but a smile pushed up her cheeks. She was no longer focused on the far off dismay. But on the ever warm presence that took his seat next to her. An old friend. A very old friend. Like many, he had come and gone with time, but it seemed that their everlasting souls always managed to collide at the best and worst of times. “It’s always been infectious.” She sighed out, running her claws through her chopped hair. “That smile of yours.” The woman turned her head to great him, seeing that all too familiar body

brimming with near childlike enthusiasm. He was one of the few beings that could still confuse her, frustrate her, and make her smile without trying very hard. She supposed creatures like him were rare, and when she thought about it, he was the only one who she could honestly call ‘friend’ who was still alive and willing to bit beside her. On his better, more sane days, at least.

“Ven, seems you know the best places to be.”

[Nayt]

"You might be right. After all, I found out where you are," Ven, Vengeance incarnate, remarked as he let his gaze meet Mann's.

Ven was always a flirtatious fellow--but harmlessly so. Unlike some of his former compatriots, he didn't take advantage of women, or go places simply with the goal of sleeping with someone, man, woman, or even animal at times. Ven might say something flirty, call a woman beautiful, call a man handsome, or might even insinuate that he was more than wanting to find a room for two or more, but they were always idle threats. Believe it or not, Ven was not a terribly sexual creature. Nudity was a form of art to him, not a symbol of sexuality.

Notably, while Mann had sexual encounters with a few people she once considered friends, Ven was a friend of hers with whom she'd never shared a sexual experience--and probably never would, either. It really just wasn't his game. Familial relationships, to him, were far superior to romantic ones.

That said, he didn't quite mean what he said to the demoness as either a joke or a serious flirt--in fact, it wasn't a flirt at all. The Angel of Vengeance simply enjoyed her company, and he hadn't seen her since, well . . . a rather painful experience in Algeroth. He'd been on a rampage again. She tried to stop him, but in the end there was little she could do about it. He defeated her--painfully defeated her. This was their first meeting since that moment. Had they met a month sooner, it might not have even gone so well. The wounds inflicted by that battle . . . only time was able to heal them-- and it seemed it had by now, at least as best as it was going to.

Ven looked back out into the sunset. "You've been here awhile, huh?"

[Mandaz]

“So you did.” She sighed, relaxing her posture and staring off into the sunset. The earth burned red with the sun, making the two orbs seem like mirror images of one another. Perhaps, somewhere on the sun, another group of lives stared off to their world, too bright to directly put before their eyes. She’d ask Ven about it later, it wouldn’t surprise him in the least bit if he’d been to other worlds outside this one. His life and spirit seemed to be too much for even his own body to withhold. She knew all about that. That day, how the sky seemed to bend to him, gravitating in a whirlwind as Vengeance hovered above his prey. Ven was one of the few who could boast that they defeated the great demon, Mann, but she knew it wasn’t something he was proud of. They hadn’t met since that fateful battle. Mann lived, as she always did. Death wouldn’t want to touch her now. It was the closest she had been to him though; she could practically feel her life draining as he breathed

down her neck. Ven had taken her to Death that day, but she had once again slipped from his grasp. When she awoke, body broken and blood drained; there was no sight of Ven or the battlefield.She assumed he was still plaguing the land with his insanity.

“Yes. I figured it was the last place someone would find me. You’ve always proven me wrong though.” She said through a smile and small laugh, only slight bitterness leaked through. “It’s good to see you feeling yourself again.”

[Nayt]

"For good now, you know?" Ven asked rhetorically. Ven leaned forward. He set his elbows upon his knees, and though his calm and serene smile didn't leave his face, he hulked his shoulders and head forward just a bit. "All of us. Exitus, Raziel, Lollex, Dias, Feena, Edric . . . we're all good, now. All those ailments we had-- they're all gone," Ven elaborated, but only to add, "Exitus felt it was just too little to late. Maybe he was right." Ven trailed off as his eyes continued to stay level to the sun and the horizon it kissed so passionately. Each passing second, the long kiss became deeper. Soon, they would become one, the sun and the horizon, lovers 'til the sun's final ounces of energy passed, and its bastard brother the moon rose to send its dark and

lustful leers upon the very same horizon-- and to rape it into submission just in time for the sun to awaken the next day-- but the far off distance called the horizon never said anything about it.

One might call her a mute. One might call her a whore. Another, however, might say that she endured the moon's awful punishment ever so silently, so not to tear down the world the sun was comfortable with.

"About one thing, at least," Ven continued after his long pause, "I figured I'd be dancing around and jumping for joy, maybe even swinging around and dancing with people I don't even know, and acting like I'm a kid who just got a new puppy. But nah. All I can really think of half the time is what could've been."

[Mandaz]

“Your brothers and sisters” she mumbled. Mann wasn’t big on the history of this world. Even though some would say she was a key player. She knew little of the realms and even less about Ven’s estranged family. He didn’t speak of them much, In fact this was the first time she heard him call out so many of them so excitedly. Whatever happened changed him, but not much. Now instead of his genuine smile being obstructed by thoughts of what ‘could be’ he mourned over what ‘could have been.’ It seemed a fitting thing to do on this rock, looking out, over the plain. Two unbreakable spirits, left like the ruined earth. Regretting the past, unsure of the future, but damn awkward in the present. They always had so much in common. “You? Regrets?” She scoffed, patting him on the back a bit. “That’s not the Ven I know. No regrets. Though if you do come up with any ideas on how to live out these never-ending days, please share. What does someone do after

they’ve watched the world end?”

[Nayt]

"Yeah. Tons of regrets," Ven replied with a nod. His smile turned to a slight grin-- a kind of sad grin, really. "Like this one . . ."

He lifted his hand, then, pausing only to prepare his hands for what was guaranteed to be an onset of a story requiring his hands to get all the points across. Ven was like that. He talked with his hands a lot. He talked with everything of his being, really. He was an expressive kind of person, the kind that might even go so far as to move subtly on his feet in mid-story, as if dancing to the rhythm of some slow and invisible poetic rhyme.

"I had a dream the other night that I was a Cizokophile and you and I were living in this bizarre kind of large town. I always called you Mann-dono, you always called me Ven-san. There, I just had bad anger management issues, and we lived together pretty happily after awhile. We both had our bad pasts, but we got over it, fought through it, and kept moving on. It was kind of inspiring, really," the last bit was some of Ven's own thoughts spoken aloud, "In another time, in another world, that could've probably happened. We were total dorks, but I can't help but be a little jealous of the two of us in that dream."

A weird tale, to be sure. It might even boast some familiarity to Mann-- as if maybe she'd had the same dream before? Or maybe a similar one, perhaps. Maybe even something as small as a passing fancy, just a thought she entertained sometime, sometime back when there wasn't bad blood 'tween her and Ven.

Now, though, such a thing was impossible. Now, too much had happened. Ven and Mann were friends, good friends, but nothing more than that-- and they couldn't be anything more than that. The Ven and Mann of that dream, though. They were leagues more than just good friends. Maybe-- maybe that would've been nice. But alas, it couldn't happen. Not now. Not here, not in this time, not in this world.

"So, yeah. Yeah, you've pretty much got it. People like us-- we're all just the Hopeless Ones. Let off our leashes, given all the freedom the world's got to offer, and don't have a single idea where to go with it," Ven remarked after the musing of his dream, "And that's . . . that's why I'm here, actually . . ."

[Mandaz]

Mann stared at her friend, stone-faced for several long, agonizingly silent seconds. Ven’s next sensation would be Mann’s palm pushing the back of his head down into his knees. She was not amused. If there were water between them he would be drowning in it. She held him in submission for a while, unrelenting in his grip. Her strength was greater, by far. “You just admitted to having impure thoughts about me, you freak.” She cackled. “I didn’t realize how lonely you were; you had to come up with fantasies about long lost friends. Honestly, you think you know a person. Cizokian, huh? I hear they’re into some kinky stuff.” She grinned wildly and let him up, letting both of her hands hold her weight behind her back. It was her turn to dangle her feet and be all smiles. Ven had that sort of effect on people. When he wasn’t wildly slaughtering the innocent. Even then he had his charms, though. She rolled her neck around, cracking some stiffened joints that had fallen idle due to her long sit-fest. Ven had

taken on a surprisingly serious tone before she assaulted him. That too, was very uncharacteristic of the cheerful angel of vengeance.

“I see.” She responded with her own tone of seriousness. “So our meeting wasn’t chance. You’ve got some sort of message for me?”

[Nayt]

"A-ahh!" Ven cried out as his head suddenly lurched forward, "H-hey, w--"

He was going to try and reason with her about that, justify his case, and explain how it wasn't a sexual fantasy at all-- or maybe jokingly suggest that it was. In reality, it wasn't. It really wasn't. It was more like a romantic fantasy, at best. Two people from poor circumstances came together and made something nice out of their lives. They were inseparable, and even the ghosts from their pasts couldn't break their spirits if the other was around. Who wouldn't be envious of that? Had Mann shared the same dream, she might agree.

But alas, Ven could not produce this reason, as his head was pushed forward, practically between his knees. Sitting on the cliffside as he was, he had to reach his hands to hold onto the ground, just in case he started to go forward just a little too much. Despite this, though, he was able to laugh.

"Heh," he let out a half-laugh, half sigh, before sitting up straight again and looking back into the sunset, "Yeah. Something like that. I was reading a little. Crazy, I know. Well, it was down there. And I came across something interesting."

Ven reached his hand down to shuffle about in his pocket. There was a reason he wore pants today, a reason beyond the necessity to be decent in the presence of an old friend. Were she a friend he saw regularly-- no. No, he wouldn't be wearing any clothes at all were that the case. But people had a habit of reacting poorly to nudity. Nonetheless, pants, today, were a necessary means of carrying objects. He withdrew a small gray book from his pocket. It looked handmade, was fairly beat up, and the edges of the pages were all burned.

"I really don't know how deep this rabbit hole goes, Mann," Ven remarked as he looked to her, book held out to her in case she wished to take it, "But whoever wrote this journal talks about someone, a boy. A boy they were keeping. They never gave him a name . . ."

Ven paused for a long moment.

"All they called him was Son of Mann."

[Mandaz]

“This seriousness is unbecoming, Ven. What have you gotten yourself in to?” She slid her fingers over the worn cover, briefly grazing those of her fallen companion. In another time, where eternity didn’t keep them so estranged from one another, maybe they could have been closer friends. In fact there was a time where she considered him her best friend. Amazing how a little think like being beaten to near death could put strain on a relationship. The book reeked of the bad blood of the underworld. Funny, she couldn’t recall many demons still in Hell that kept journals or could even write. Then again, she didn’t remember much of her time in hell at all. All these years she considered it a blessing, but never really though about how much of her life she must have missed in the under realm. She thumbed through the stiffened pages, half heartedly listening to Ven’s story. Some boy in the underworld that held no importance to her. His entire

reason for telling the story unknown, and all he had informed her so far was how well he could play up dramatics.

Then her name was mentioned.

“What are you saying?” she asked with caution. “Who is this boy?”

[Nayt]

Maybe he was being a little serious-- excessively serious, even. Back before it all, back when he still carried a curse on his left shoulder, he was nothing but silly and goofy and excessive in all the most foolish of ways. Truth be told, Ven hadn't changed that much since then. He was still that man-- but he wasn't searching for his own personal peace anymore. He'd found that. He'd found his serenity, peace of mind, and trashed his need for anything else. He had no further use for clothing or material goods. He needed only a cloak if it were too cold, and he still carried his musical instrument with him. Not for himself, but for the opportunity to entertain people, to make them happy.

Maybe that was too serious, as well. Maybe he just had no gray area back then; maybe, just maybe, he could only express seriousness in the form of revenge-- but now, he could express anything and everything as much as he wanted, whenever and wherever he wanted, and risk not a soul.

Ven shook his head once and rolled his shoulders.

"I wish I knew."

And maybe, he could apply the same philosophy he carried as a bard to the rest of his life. It was a doctrine one might never believe to be the angel of vengeance's own, a doctrine of selfless living. And sometimes . . . sometimes the service and assistance of others didn't call for a silver platter, but just a push in the right direction. Sometimes, with some people, that was just for the best. It could give someone a sense of purpose and necessity--

"But . . . then again . . ." Ven thought aloud, "If what I got from that book means anything, I think you have the right to pursue this much more than I do."

--two things the demoness, Mann, lost with the end of the world.

[Mandaz]

Mann began to pay more attention to the pages before her. The letters were scratched with a quill pen by a surprisingly educated monster. Educated enough to not only make a book but to write his thoughts in it. A demon of this knowledge and wealth for materials must have had status in the underworld. Most likely a lord of his own troupe or caravan of demons. Most information was boring, lists of supplies he had available to his group, reports of celebrations and deaths alike, she flipped closer to the end and landed on the first page she saw that spoke of this child. The boy has yet to speak, but the young who share his age have begun to socialize with him. They find his appearance strange, and unnerving, but this only fuels their hatred for him. They have developed a game where they tie his wrists and blind his sick eyes, only then to watch him stumble mindlessly through a grove of briars and thorns. Each will draw a cut on his body as a form of betting, the winner is the one whose cut is crossed through with a slice from the weeds. His wounds heal slowly but completely and without scarring, another trait he gained from his bitch of a mother. It’s been three full decades and she has yet to return for him. I feel no remorse for this child. In his small body I can only see his despicable mother and the blood of my fallen kin on her hands and in her belly. This boy will live, and experience every shred of pain hell can inflict upon him. He will be a vessel of revenge and completely at my control. The son of Mann will be broken.

Her heart sunk to the pit of her stomach. Mann believed in a great many things, but she could hardly fathom all of this new information to be true. Somewhere in her memories sat the day she slaughtered nearly 90% of a notorious band of demons. Seeing her name on the paper was surreal. She knew it in her mind to be true, but the Mann in these pages seemed to be more like a fictional character than her own self.

The boy…she did not know what to make of it. She could not remember having a son. It couldn’t have been true. If it were, why would she not have brought him with her to the mortal realm? Why would she have let these torturous acts continue? She flipped through more pages, skimming over tales of beatings, mutilations, rapes, asphyxiations, corruption and agony all done in her name. Even if the boy was not her own, some of the things written in the diary made her puncture the paper in her clawed fist.

“Where did you get this?” she seethed, a fire igniting in her eyes that was once dead just moments ago.

[Nayt]

"Down there," Ven motioned down, down towards the earth, down towards the metaphor for what they all knew as Hell, "Left behind in the tunnels of Barcelia. It looked like a camp; wasn't abandoned, I don't think."

He remembered it clearly. The tunnels of Barcelia in all their glory, a creepy place to be even for the strong. There were gangs and mobs of both souls and demons that staked the tunnels surrounding the mountain of hellfire, and they were all crazy. Most of them were cannibals and lived off of every little thing they could. They hunted each other; groups and tribes all circulating through the tunnels of Barcelia, hunting and killing, as they themselves were stalked by the creatures that lived in Barcelia all along-- not intelligent, thinking demons, but predators that fed off of them.

Ven remembered it pretty well. It wasn't tough to find, either. Not many demons in Barcelia had supplies to, say, make a book. Chances were, all one had to look for were traces of finer materials.

"Not permanently, that is," Ven added.

He looked to her at last. He hadn't the slightest clue what Mann would do with this information, if she'd do anything at all, but that was her right. Somehow, someway, this all had to do with her. For once, it had to do with her directly. It wasn't someone else's problem that she was being dragged into. It wasn't someone leaving her soon after the mess was cleaned up. It wasn't a painful stagnation because hadn't anywhere to be or anyone to be with. Mann made her fair share of messes, but she was rarely held accountable. She was never dragged back into those messes; instead, she was dragged into the problems of someone else.

No, this wasn't someone else's problem. This was, for once, her problem. It wasn't anything that anyone other than she deserved the right to deal with.