This looks dope, can't justify IC why Ten would join but I will be keeping an eye on this though. Should be some good reads.
This looks dope, can't justify IC why Ten would join but I will be keeping an eye on this though. Should be some good reads.
"If I whet my glittering sword, and my hand take hold on judgement; I will render vengeance to mine enemies, and will reward them that hate me."- Deuteronomy 32:41
Manhattan, New York City, New York
Cathedral of St. Patrick
The sound of a vaulted door slamming back into place echoed throughout the gothic interior of the massive church, bouncing off the many pillars uniformly supporting the roof. The nave seemed endless to the scarlet eyed fiend which entered. Clad in a beige duster, rain still rolling off his shoulders and collar, his sable mid length hair dripping wet. Katsuro stood in the entrance momentarily, his large fingers curled into fists. It was difficult for him to feel comfortable anywhere, even if was in shelter of the holy spirit. The unfamiliar smell of frankincense filled the dank air, burning incense on a table to his right was the likely origin. His heavy boots thundered in the silence as he walked forward slowly between the pews, his eyes scanning each walnut bench before moving towards the next. They were vacant, in fact, he seemed to be the only soul within the cathedral's confines yet his line of work was beyond dangerous. To drop his guard was potentially fatal, at least until the next lunar cycle. He stopped in the spectrum of dull colors brought upon by the moonlight shining through the Catherine window. A muffled voiced erupted from out of nowhere "The confessional, my son." Tenjin's eyes darted to the left and seen the traditional set of doors which one would seat himself confidentially. He despised enclosed spaces, if he could remember how fear felt, he would be terrified of confinement. Squeezing his massive frame between the wooden rows, unbuttoning his jacket slowly before tossing it unto the pew. Wearing now a dark grey sweater he stood in front of the confessional, hesitantly. He placed his hand around the handle of the deep brown door and stepped in pivoting in a militaristic manner on his heel. He sat down on the thin foam pad placing his back against the wall with a soft groan before speaking "I made the deposit in the account you provided. Now, as I have had my fill of the engimatic and clandestine....provide me with the disc, so I may go about my night." The suffocating darkness of the box like room accentuated his sanguine optics. Like a nosferatu in its coffin waiting for sundown. The screen that separated the two men was thin, yet effective. Katsuro had no idea what the priest looked like or if he was a priest at all. A false door fell below the screen and a gloved hand slid a disc in a transparent case across it before drawing the hand slowly back into the darkness. "The data is fully encrypted, as you requested." The man's voice was now disguised with a device, robotic and monotone. Katsuro quickly snatched the disc from the false door and shut it promptly and sat up to leave without a farewell. The voice spoke again "Perhaps you would like to make a confession before you begin your endeavor. A clean conscious is beneficial even if you are not a man of god." Tenjin seemed to be crushed between the walnut walls as he stood, his left hand pressed against the door as if to push it open. His strong dismal voice sounded, filled with a unspeakable anguish he attempted to repress. "Man of god..." he ceased to speak, his jaw clenched and his pearl white tear bared. A moment of silence passed and before the voice could mutter a syllable he recalled the entrance door slamming shut. The bolts snapping from the impact, splintering portions of the door.
Later. Tenjin's Loft
Somewhere in New York City
23: 30 EST
Katsuro sat himself down upon the oriental rug in his War Room, leaning against an authentic Pieter Claesz painting. The dreary darkened room brightened slightly with a singular light from a laptop on the floor. As the computer loaded Tenjin had opened a bottle of Glenmorangie Quarter Century and downed several mouth fulls of its soft fruit like palate nearly half emptying the contents before placing it next to his hip. Placing a Davidoff cigarette in his mouth he opens the tray to insert the disc. As he lifted the case to his eyes, he fancied the idea of having over a terabyte of Vatican secrets, Bohemian Grove footage, Masonic manuscripts and much more in the palm of his hand. He was unsure but expected to see the Knightfall name commonplace. A grim smile appeared on his gaunt face while he lit the cigarette with the opposite hand and tossed the Zippo onto the ground once it completed its task. Taking a smooth drag he slightly chuckled when he placed the disc into the tray and waited for the files to appear. But as the moments would soon unfold, it would seem more and more that his nemeses have been quite vigilant in the matter of the human hayabusa. A single compressed file appeared and unlike he had been informed, it was ready for public viewing. He clicked on it curiously, running it through software to unzip it. Suddenly, his screen went dark and a series of code ran quickly. A virus he thought. Yet it stopped and a picture of Katsuro walking in the alley ways appeared, apparently taken several days ago based on his attire. Then a second and a third. Soon dozens of pictures ran through a slideshow of himself in various locations. He took long drag of his cigarette and began to polish off the rest of the expensive Glenmorangie. He was surprised that they had intercepted him so quickly and had used their momentous wealth to poison his intelligence well. Yet, his surprise transformed into shock when the slideshow began showing photographs from inside his loft. He noted the different days they had taken place by displacement of bottles, chairs and writings on the enormous whiteboard. Standing to his feet in a fit of rage he peered down at the computer with absolute hellbent fury. The screen went dark again momentarily then the words we've been watching you appeared in bold white letters. And as if this insult could not worsen a link appeared on the screen. Katsuro shakes his head with disgust and clicks the link out of spiteful curiosity inside a torrent of anger. A prolonged pause came about, apparently an intentional taunting. Then for the finale a live black and white stream of Tenjin's War Room appeared, active for over three weeks.
He glanced at the laptop and judged by the position of the footage where the camera had been placed. He rushed over to the northern wall scanned the lone picture of his mother and he realized that her eye was a small binocular lens. No demon in hell could fathom the tortures running through Katsuro's mind this very moment. The Virtuoso of Violence stared long into the camera before speaking, perhaps someone was watching on the other side. He had been humiliated and dishonored, a feeling he had not felt before but now took over his psyche. He spoke with unwarranted psychotic mirth " The Devil is coming...put on your Sunday's best." Perhaps this was all a clever ploy by the chess master like minds in Kamelot, to utilize his anger against him. To defeat himself. Albeit it was a dangerous game to pull on a leopard's tail. Then his ashen white knuckles obliterate the lens and his hand barrels through the wall until he was shoulder deep in concrete and plaster. Blood trickled from the his hand, he shattered a stud and forced wooden barbs and sheet rock deep between bone. As he pulled his fist from the wall, the shards of glass that had once covered his mother's picture carved gashes across his upper arm. He buckles to his knees, stricken and bleeding. A man consumed by vengeance and haunted by his past. The swirl of emotions tormented him, though he was too iron willed to break. Tenjin's blazing eyes combed the eastern wall and finally settled on the identical sets of modern armor displayed. He would begin to prepare for war. As should the Knightfalls.
Mordred has risen.
"Passion and shame torment him, and rage is mingled with his grief." Virgil
@andres_knightfall Heh. Just wait hombre, a trains a comin'. ;P
@quintus_knightfall To be wary of a man who plots you death is one thing, to be able to stop him is an entirely different matter. (Appreciate it bro, Need a few more under my belt to be comfortable though.)
@amaranth_strix Some allies are more dangerous than enemies, comrade.(Thanks!)
@ownagepants Thanks guy. Much obliged.
@arkbound I am glad you liked. Hope to see a few from you as well.
@darkchild Right on brother. You'll get the brunt of it once you post in our battle hombre. XP Take your time though for real, God knows I do XD
"The devil pulls the strings which makes us dance; we find delight in the most loathsome things; Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings, And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance."- Charles Baudelaire
New York City, New York
".....Earmarking and consolidating several New York based subsidiaries which now constitute the Knightfall's vanguardian vision. Fueling the publicly appointed moniker of the Modern Day Kennedy. From Live@5, I'm Amanda Hugginkiss. Good day, and have a pleasant tomorrow.*" The broadcast was being played in a continuous loop displayed on a small outdated television. It illuminated a corner of a dreary room. The room was belonged to a minimalist. It possessed only a Victorian chair in the center, a mattress on the floor, the television and a moving box filled with bottles of single malt scotch. The solemn assassin pressed his back against the high backed chair, the hide of an Anatolian leopard hung over his broad ashen scar covered shoulders. In one hand he strangled the neck of an empty bottle, in the other, he lifted a Montecristo no. 4 to his lips. The vivid ember of the cigar was dim compared to the pair of red eyes glaring at the television, a primal glare, like carmine death. His body was gloriously sculpted, almost inhuman brawn yet also dexterous and velocious. Like the beast that cloaked him, he was a natural predator who relished the thrill of the hunt. He was now stalking his next targets, patiently in the dark. He stood to his feet, allowing the bottle to crash into glittering shards and extinguished the cigar on the arm of the antique chair. Tossing the hide onto the floor, he was now only clad in black leather side lace pants and heavy tactical buckled boots.
Standing in the room's center, he admired the abyss around him before pulling a string to his right, linked to a light bulb socket. A incandescent glow filled the room immediately, showcasing the murderous obsession upon the walls. Dozens of reconnaissance pictures and newspaper clippings were spread about. A series of photographs created a family tree, each photo was of a member of the Knightfall family, constructed to the best of his knowledge. Large paragraphs were written in permanent marker, excerpts of Marxist, Naxalite and Nihilist literature. Also written were single words and simple phrases, like death, Vatican, degeneration and Icarus Paradox. He laid down upon his bed, taking in his masterpiece with psychotic recognition. What does a monster dream of? Reaching behind him he held the blade of a Misericorde then flung it headlong through the glass of the television, piercing through the circuits and lodging into a stud behind the wall. Smoke bellowed from the now sparking device. Looking up, he stared at the phrase largest of all, scribed in blood upon the ceiling, stating Kill Them All.
The next morning.....
Katsuro drank down several pints of faucet water then hovered his head over the porcelain sink. Running wet hands through his sable locks, as if trying to wash out the nightmares. To no avail. Remembrance was simply another form of suffering to some and the most frightening dreams come from truth. He then pulled a white henley longsleeve over his head and wrapped his hair into a unkempt wild top knot. He motioned over to the closet door, with a low groan he turned and opened it, letting out a eerie creak; its contents much more than a simple wardrobe. The room which he slept in was isolated from the rest of the loft. Literal rows of handguns, assault rifles and a extensive collection of swords adorned the left wall. On his right, crates of ammunition stacked to the ceiling labeled Cyberware in dark paint. Identical battlesuits, masks, gloves and boots were on display. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars worth of paintings, furniture, statues, jewelry and clothing were carelessly placed throughout his loft, gathering dust, keepsakes of his kills. Upon a enormous whiteboard which encompassed the southern wall, he kept records of Kamelot's logistics as well as tracking the patterns of his prey, if they had any. He placed himself in a rayskin desk chair; cigar burns layered the armrests. His head eased into his hand, sturdied by placing his elbow upon his right knee while with his left hand, lighted a Romeo y Julieta pulled from a dust covered humidor on the floor. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and for but a moment, the smoke seemed to form a series of silent yet screaming skulls. He began to study the contents of the whiteboard, to memorize, to prepare. This was not a contract or conspiracy, there was no monetary profit to be gained. It was a personal vendetta. He would wait however, his assault would come in due course. To jump into the fray to quickly would jeopardize his plans. Like the leopard he thought, like the leopard. Then a grim scowl appeared on his gaunt face and his deep claret optics blazed. The meaning behind it, at first glance would appear to be a radical political agenda. Though it was a minuscule fraction compared to the reality of it all. A picture of his mother appeared in his mind, her memory was the explosive fuel for his vengeance. Justice would be served with coffins.
"To take revenge halfheartedly is to court disaster: Either condemn or crown your hatred."- Pierre Corneille
* Original text taken from the Kamelot thread
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