Lore, Soon to Be Art, and Blood Rite(Ing)

[Percival]

Whence the blood hits the floor,

And thy eyes become lifeless,

The ritual will be complete.

 

 

 

 

Prologue

Tota Fracta

 

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Let us take a moment to think about how messed up humanity is; Admit it. All of us have our own tragic stories that we all have. Whether it involves an uncertain magician that has stumbled onto unknown powers or the deaths of someone that has loved us when the world wouldn't accept us, we all have pitiful tales that can bring tears to the most unwavering of society. Of course, not all tragedies are forced onto someone of an innocent heart; indeed, some have a laugh at the downfalls of others, as they know the old git in the center of all the hate would create his or her own slide down towards failure.

 

'Why am I telling you this?' I can hear you mutter to yourself. 'What's the point of reminding us of the failures in humanity are?' you utter. 'How does this person know what I am saying and thinking?' you're thinking to yourself right now. Well, the reason for this reminder is to, ah, simply inform you of this before we start our story. Let's see if you can figure out why.

 

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Chapter One

Pointless Words Of A Sharp Pinhead

 

Such a desperate man, aren't I? Such a fool as well. These would be the general, sometimes depressing thoughts that circulate the thoughts of our good friend here, Percival Wulfric Butonn, as he would walk around the densely packed street that surrounds his large, albeit shabby, apartment-like building he owns. He would be correct to think that he is a desperate adult; after all, he does dabble in dangerous affairs and considers deadly options most consider the acts of a suicidal madman. He would be incorrect, however, to assume that, by doing so, he is a foolish creature, although he's not that far from it; Percival is quite the one you expect to be a failure in life. No confidence, no encouragement, an outcast of society, and spending too much time alone seems quite the combination for either a mental lunatic or an underachiever. His actions that he rashly takes encourage this idea; most wonder what a man of a frail complexion would do with eight pounds of meat everyday. He certainly wasn't eating it, for he was becoming far skinnier these days. His unusual obsession with sewing was also making many raise their eyebrows in question or curiosity, if they were not spreading rumors about the poor man with it.

 

Obviously, most people label Percival as unusual at the kindest, and a lunatic beggar at the worst. They have good reason to of course; his motives are questionable. Let us hope that none of them will never have to find out.

 

<------------------------------------------>

 

 

 

 

Let's see how this short-lived thread will work out.

 

 

No pun intended.

Edited April 27, 2014 by Pecival

[geni0529]

im guessing hes making a meat monster anyway good story so far

[Battal]

im guessing hes making a meat monster anyway good story so far

 

Meat...monster...

 

PFAHAHAHAHAHHAA

 

You clearly have no idea how sick Pecival is.

 

Anyways, very good writing!  I look forward to the next part.

[geni0529]

hmmmm I may have to reconsider my prediction.

[Percival]

You clearly have no idea how sick Pecival is.

 

 

Read the tags for a general idea, if you wish.

[Parrotoss]

Dude, a meat monster sounds delicious...well, I'm sure it would actually be quite popular in the right culture.

 

Oaht, and very nice detailed writing. *clap* *clap*

[Percival]

Oaht, and very nice detailed writing. *clap* *clap*

 

I feel special. And murderous.

 

 

Odd combination, really.

[Percival]

Chapter Two

Failures, Tendons, and a Fleshy Thing

 

<------------------------------------------>

 

Many that have lived near the pavilion know that the unusually darkly colored apartment-like building on the corner of Walace Street and Dwight Avenue was the home of our dear friend. The somber look of the poorly maintained property was enough sign that the tramp owned it, if it wasn't enough that the metallic smell of freshly bought meat being cut wafted out of the few open windows, and perhaps a couple shattered. The smell didn't bother those that lived in the neighboring buildings; after all, they have lived with this lunatic for so long they have learned not to question what goes on in both his household or his mind, but they do wonder why the man wouldn't clean up after the drained blood. Then again, that man didn't seem to care much about his own self-preservation.

 

<------------------------------------------>

 

The familiar tang that was associated with blood wafted too familiarly around the town square. Pacing himself, Percival walked once more to the familiar corner of Walace and Main Street, oblivious to the horrible scent his ragged tweed coat soaked in crimson were creating. It was a long walk to the edge of town, but it gave him lots of time to think and reflect. The first thing his mind wander to, however, is one of a somber quality; Death. He was always one of many in this world that fear the uncertainty of Death. Many, however, would learn to accept this fate that they cannot control. He is one of few that have been too blind and self-centered to embrace the peaceful slumber Death's whisper brings. The uncertainty, the feeling of knowing that he will never be known, the swallowing carnage that Death brings along his wake frightens the poor man too much to accept this line of thinking. He had a plan, of course, to extend his life, if he can.

 

Trekking along the street, Percival reached the edge of the town; he would've walked further on into the surrounding town if he didn't smell the waft of a caramelized sauce off to his right. The butcher, where he normally buys all of his materials off of, wasn't there. Instead, a different, much burlier man, donning a black shirt and a white apron, was outside of the usual shop, roasting several slabs of pork and veal on an open fire instead of a barbecue pit. Seeing the man, the burly man tending to the slices of rich meat stared at Percival with a mixture of disgust and pity, then looked towards the street to tend to passing civilians interested by the attractive smell. Seems like those that lived outside the center of town weren't accustomed to the soaked coat Percival usually wore.

 

"W-well that's not nice, is it?" Percival stammered, addressing the temporary butcher, slightly miffed by the unwelcome he is used to from the former butcher.

 

The man stopped flipping the slabs, looking directly at Percival this time, the same miffed look Percival was wearing on his own face. This man wasn't used to being talked back to in his own shop in the neighboring town. The muscles that this man bears might be why.

 

"W-well, you're not exactly in any state to say that," the butcher says, mocking Percival's stutter.

 

Showing his contempt for the butcher, Percival simply looked coldly at the butcher. "I don't suppose I could do with some raw meat, could I?"

 

The butcher laughed in a deep boom, apparently unimpressed by the man before him. He simply waves the lunatic off, and hands a slab of roasted pork to a paying customer to his right on a simple plate. Now frustrated by this replacement, Percival whipped around so fast that droplets of red from his soaked coat splashed onto the butcher's pristine meats, and trekked back to his home.

 

<------------------------------------------>

 

The edge of the town was illuminated by the light of the lampposts combined with the shine of the moon. The temporary butcher wore a simple trench coat and jeans, walking towards the apartment on the end of the block. At the time of twilight, near everyone was asleep, and those that were awake were too focused on work to notice what was going on in the outside world. The darkness was the perfect time for a mugger or other thief to attack, but the butcher was quite certain that his strength would scare the fools away. The outline of  the familiar walkway to the apartment was in the distance, and the butcher walked towards it, oblivious to the fact that, indeed, someone was watching him with a malicious intent.

 

The patter of footsteps from behind him made him whip around, but there was no one there, apart from pigeons and partridges eating seeds that civilians have dropped absentmindedly. Normally, someone else would pass the patter of as a figment of their imagination. This man, however, was smarter then that, or maybe the darkness reminded him of the dangers that can't be seen; either way, the butcher was on his guard, walking towards the lamp posts this time instead of his apartment. The light was flickering slightly, but it was enough for him to see forward seven feet.

 

The sound of liquid hitting the ground burst suddenly to his left. The body of a passerby fell down into the visible light, the face frozen in fear, the eyes scarred and slathered in red. The man had a raw look about him; he had no skin on him. A second later, the familiar metallic tang wafted outwards, and Percival emerged from the darkness, a look of calm serenity on his face.

 

"Why, hello there, dear friend." Percival spat out, saying the last word like a curse, the stammer he had earlier in the day now completely gone.

 

The butcher stared at Percival with a look of horror. But only for a moment. The next, he reached forward, lunging at where Percival was, with a faint idea to strangle the lunatic, but the man was too quick for him, maneuvering around him.

 

"Now now, that's no way to treat an acquaintance." Percival said, staring at the man. Following this sentence, several metallic clicks were heard, and before the butcher could look behind him, a pain emerged around his left knee, and he crumpled, his left leg no longer supporting him.

 

"The thing about tendons," Percival says, holding a butterfly knife, "is that you can't really function without them." The man felt a slash on his other leg, and he fell onto the ground, too frozen with fear to think or function correctly. "Night night," the madman said, and a slash across the butcher's face appears, and before the dying man could register the pain, Percival slashed his chest and stabbed both of his arms and neck, a pain too immense for him to handle, and the world fell into darkness, for he was too weak and injured to live much longer.

 

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The civilians on the edge of town streamed out of the buildings, walking along Main Street. They first rushed towards the butcher's store; they were hungry for the delicious meats that were made the day before, but were crestfallen upon seeing the note of the butcher resigning from this post for unlisted reasons. They wondered dearly about who would take up the job; they prayed it wasn't a mean person.

 

 

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How's this segment?

Edited April 25, 2014 by Pecival

[Morgan17]

im guessing hes making a meat monster anyway good story so far

*facepalm*

[Battal]

Pointless violence?

 

Check.

 

Agonizing death?

 

Check.

 

Sadistic humor?

 

Check.

Yup, Pecival wrote this.

[Spinorex]

I give this segment approval. Very good.

[Percival]

Pointless violence?

 

Perfect.

 

Agonizing death?

 

Kill everyone.

 

Sadistic humor?

 

I need more souls for Eternity Inc.

Go tend to it, Pecival.

[geni0529]

hes making oh what is it called that Wilson resurrection thing oh yes a meat effige

[Spinorex]

hes making oh what is it called that Wilson resurrection thing oh yes a meat effige

The only difference is that he's using man meat! And he doesn't have a beard!

 

 

Nah, i'm just expecting his flesh machine to come up soon. Not an effigy. Just murder.

[Percival]

Nah, i'm just expecting his flesh machine to come up soon. Not an effigy. Just murder.

 

Technically, it's a living creature, if you count 'living' by having the ability to process genetic information to wallow up the souls of the damned.

[Strangerdanger101]

Pointless Words Of A Sharp Pinhead

 

 

My first thoughts when i read this part:

Pecival confirmed to be Patrick.

[Spinorex]

Technically, it's a living creature, if you count 'living' by having the ability to process genetic information to wallow up the souls of the damned.

That would mean computers are living things. *eyes laptop cautiously*

[Percival]

That would mean computers are living things. *eyes laptop cautiously*

 

Hasn't the Matrix told you anything, fool?

[Hugos10]

Hasn't the Matrix told you anything, fool?

 

Uhhhh... Use bullet-time in every movie you make because it looks cool even though it's been done hundreds of times before by people using this idea?

[Spinorex]

Uhhhh... Use bullet-time in every movie you make because it looks cool even though it's been done hundreds of times before by people using this idea?

Exactly. Percival, put bullet time in the next segment.

[Strangerdanger101]

I don't get the big deal, i talk to my laptop all the time, and it is always nice.

Look at what my laptop has done, look at my title.

Edited April 26, 2014 by Strangerdanger101

[Percival]

Chapter Two And A Half

Cheap CGI And Animations

 

Percival sits in front of a computer, trying to figure out how to implement a work of CGI into words. Not realizing that the were joking, he starved himself, oblivious to the world, except to include some sort of cheap affect into his lore. He dies from starvation, and the homunculus he was making shriveled up and died. Even in Eternity Inc., he continued working, until he created a code so powerful that it cannot be posted without the post disappearing.

Edited April 26, 2014 by Pecival

[Hugos10]

Hooray! I killed someone

[Rabbitfist]

The only difference is that he's using man meat! And he doesn't have a beard!

 

 

Nah, i'm just expecting his flesh machine to come up soon. Not an effigy. Just murder.

He is just creating the piggies from Amnesia.

[Percival]

Chapter Three

Hungry for Sinews of Flesh

 

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Droplets of blood fall down onto the brown skin of dried blood, pooling into puddles.The body of the skinned butcher, among others, hangs by several hooks on the top of the dark room, each digging completely through the limbs and digits of the individual. The smell of mold and meat brimming with maggots wafts in the small room beneath the apartment's foundation. Several feet underground, this room is one of the many secrets that have been put in place as the apartment was being created, unknown to the builders of the property. The bleak room is silent in the darkness, save for the scratches of a quill pen on papyrus. An unnatural blue flame of a candle stub can be seen, along with a small fire in the corner boiling a glass vessel, the flames giving Percival enough light to continue writing, the wax emitting a pumpkin scent over the mildew and blood of the morbid basement. Writing with a shaky hand, combined with the messy writing Percival usually has, the writing was barely legible. What was written on these papers are unknown, as the unusual manuscript was written in an equally unusual language. Nevertheless, Percival keeps writing frantically, stealing quick glances at the slowly dying fire in the corner. Next to the journal is an ancient book, bounded in what appears to be the skin of a recently born child. The words Liber Vaccae are sliced into the cover, which comes with the lovely effect of the skin continually bleeding. The book was open to an unknown chapter, the entirety of the book written in Latin. It seemed that Percival was copying the book down onto a different journal, though it is quite obvious there are differences, for the written document was much longer then the Latin version.

 

A metallic ping from the corner, however, distracts Percival from his writing. He stares at the source of the sound with a mixture of extreme dislike and fear, and walks towards it, holding the candle stub. The light shined into the corner, and it revealed a quite gruesome sight; a skinless creature, curled up like a demented fetus, swirls around in a glass vessel, set aside in a recess in the wall where the bulk of the machinery and pipes is stored, the small intensity of the light causing it to recoil. Despite this, it slashes at the glass, the same ping resounding forward. Without hesitation, Percival reaches into the darkness, grabbing onto the clammy metal, and pulled the lever. Mechanisms and machinery moved, and up at the top, like some sort of demented production line, the bodies moved along. As sudden as the movement was, it stopped, several of the bodies positioned over what would be a comically large funnel if it wasn't covered in claw marks or of the like. Percival pulled onto a neighboring lever, and the hooks holding onto the bodies violently pull apart, the flesh falling into the funnel in tender, soft piles of meat. The pipes behind the creature echoes with a resounding clang, and bits of meat were forced via the pipes into the creature's vessel, shaped into thin sinews of flesh due to the small opening. At once, it reaches for the flesh, sucking the bodily fluids out of it first, then devouring the meat in one instance.

 

Percival, trekking back to the stone slab where his work was, wondered why on Earth he has created that homunculus. Well, that's a lie. He knew what intentions he had in mind when he was reading over the uses of a homunculus, but he wondered, from time to time, if he would have created this abomination if he knew of the problems and troubles of it. He knew, of course, how he made it. One doesn't easily forget such morbid methods; using the abomination of an aborted fetus as a starting slate, he dropped the dead child into a vessel filled with a mixture of fluids, which include sulfur, the blood of a ewe, and iron sulphate. He didn't know why the creature didn't form a thin layer of human skin, but he thought the error would be corrected as he proceeded with the year long wait.

 

He pushes these thoughts to the back of his mind. He sits back down next to the stone block, and continues writing on the papyrus, though he does take one glance upward where the meat and bodies would hang. He was running low on these supplies. He would have to obtain more soon.