Realistic or Modern Possession Pals

[sspky]

Lowen Rawles was a dignified man. He enjoyed classical and contemporary composers, books about ancient history, open water swimming, and photographing wild birds. At 24, he’d finished his Bachelors of Philosophy. And now, at 27, he was less than a year away from completing his undergraduate at the St. Augustines School of Theology. He had a reputation at the esteemed New Hampshire seminary for his studiousness and utter lack of any noticeable sense of humour.

It was a little after 11PM, and Rawles was sequestered away in a far corner of the dusty campus library. Most of the lights on this floor were out, leaving his alcove lit by a small, warm table lamp that cast long shadows across the pile of heavy texts and overstuffed binders that cluttered his work desk.

The screen on his laptop had gone black some 20 minutes earlier, ignored in favour of writing by hand in a large Moleskine notebook sprawled out beside an open journal. The journal had belonged to the late Professor Malcome Victorovich and was currently on loan from his advising professor, Father Jespersen.

For three months in the summer, he and Father Jespersen had travelled to a dig sight in the north-central Al-Dahna desert, where archaeologists had uncovered a trove of religious iconography buried deep in an ancient catacomb. He’d been back for a little over two weeks, and he was still reeling from the experience.

Photographs and etching of his findings littered the desk, each marked and carefully cataloged. While most of the antiquities had clear Judeo-Christian origins, certain other stone tablets found caked in two millennia limestone dust, hinted at a different, more pagan system of beliefs that seemed entirely out of place amongst the old scrolls and tapestries of the tomb.

A photograph of one particular carved totem enthralled him deeply. It was triangular, slate-gray, and would have fit nicely in the palm of his hand. He’d had, in fact, done exactly that back in the tomb. He remembered the way the wonderful smooth stone had felt against his skin -- cold and dry and resonating with a history forgotten long before the Romans were young. It had been older than the other relics and had fascinated Rawles deeply.

Of course, at present, he only had his photographs. The object itself was still in Sadia Arabia, but it was the property of the seminary and would be transported to America in a crate of artifacts sometime in the coming week.

His anticipation was palpable.

 

[EpicDisapointment]

The creature stirred for the first time in what seemed to be the ceaseless oblivion. His hunger was evident.

This was new, all he could recall for the past aeons was the deep chilling cold that kept him in it's icy clutches.

Being without physical form for so long has frayed his sanity past redemption. His mind was a thousand places yet no place all at once. It could not piece together where it was, or place a name to itself. It loosely pondered if it even was a creature. All this creature could feel and recall was the cold.

Cold.

Cold...

Cold...…..




Then it happened again, what agitated his mind once more. He could feel warmth. It was like someone took hot iron nails and raked them down his back, yet his scattered mind pieced together that this was indeed a good thing. He could feel the warmth of mortal hands like the shadows of lava caressing his being. The sensation brought clarity to his mind for just a split moment, as if freed from a veil. He wanted blood.

He wanted to be the harbinger of suffering. He wanted hear the final song of the mortal souls as he brought their doom before them by hundreds. He wanted vengeance.

However, just like that it was gone. His sectioned mind could feel life flame of mortals nearby, only one just within reach. A small part of his fractured mind latched onto this opportunity, grabbing onto this mortal's mind. A small piece of his existence now sat within the flame of the mortal, leaving the creature wanting more; wanting to bring himself back into a physical form.

For now, he knew he was spread too thin to break free from his confinement. He would need time to bring his severed mind together before he can take this mortal's body as his own and rise to power once more. Although, something in him told him it wouldn't be long before he would be free from the curse of this confinement.

When that happens there will be hell to pay.

 

[sspky]

The glossy photograph in front of him reflected the warm light of the desk lamp. Lowen ran a soft thumb across the surface, tracing the shape of the artifact he had photographed. It had been such a simple, beautiful thing, and although he hardly remembered it, its likeness had been burned into his dreams every night since first unearthing it.

He sat entranced, his fingers pressed lightly against the image, his breathing slow and his memories vibrant. He could smell the dust of eons, the air of the tomb stuffy and dry with death. The wind howled faintly through the narrow niches that lined the crypts limestone walls. It was cold here, but while he held the strange, beautiful stone up to his flashlight, he’d felt an unreal heat pool deep in his guts, and then spread outwards like tendrils along his veins.

Lowen swallowed absently, his vision pin-point focused on the talisman in his hand. He could feel the roughness in his memory as if it were really there, the photograph replaced in his mind's eye with the real thing.

As the trance deepened, and his mind wandered, Loewn became less aware of the library around him. It was placed, instead, by the memories the tomb had carved into his mind.

 

[EpicDisapointment]

The creature's mind was making quick recovery, pieces falling together as sand does through a hour glass. Memories were vague; shadows slipping deeper into the void, to remain unknown to him. Aamon, he recalled in greed was his name.

This information wasn't nearly enough, he wanted answers; he wanted a name to place this burning hatred to. Most importantly, he wanted to have flesh that he can dig his claws into. So he reached out to the fragmented piece of his soul within the mortal.

He could feel through the mortal's mind the longing for answers to something. With great effort, he was able to see through the mortal's eyes to see what would capture such attention. A shiny parchment was grasped in his hand. A clear picture of the very prison he was confined within. He wasn't positive of how he knew that, but something within his mind knew that this stone was vital to his release. Snow-white texts lay about with neat texts lay all around the picture.

Aamon looked over the stone, the text written over it he could no longer read. Unable to do anything physically with the mortal's body he pondered for a moment from the confines of the mind, searching for anything within this man's mind that could help him while he had this chance. Then he found it again, the longing for answers within the stone that they both have in common.

Ever so carefully, he took this longing within and twisted it. Longing turned into obsession for this man as Aamon felt the forced shift in this man's mind. He wanted-no needed this mortal to get his hands on this talisman by any means to help free himself from within. Damage done to the mortal's mentality, Aamon was exhausted. He brought his focus back to the stone, leaving the mortal to his own moral meltdown and spiraling newfound obsession with the very stone he was trapped within.

 

[sspky]

Lowan jerked back suddenly, his mid-back smacking hard against the wooden back of the chair. He pressed his palms heavily against his closed eyes, trying to clear the sudden sense of vertigo that had overtaken him. His heart was racing, and a cold sweat dripped down his brow.

He sat like that for a few minutes, disorientated and deeply unsettled. Finally, he lowered his palms to his desk and blinked away the dark spots across his vision. His head cleared, but the sense of cold remained.

He’d drifted off, he reasoned and tapped the touchpad on his laptop. The screen lit up, and the time read 1:14 AM. Yes, he reasoned, he’d drifted off and had a strange dream. Frankly, he was surprised security hadn’t noticed him, and quietly prayed he wouldn’t set off any alarms as he packed away his belongings into his satchel.

His hand hesitated over the photograph. For a second, he thought he could smell the limestone dust and ageless sand of the desert. Squeezing his eyes shut a moment, Lowan exhaled slowly, and carefully slipped the photograph into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. He wasn’t certain why, but it held right to keep it close.

“Aamon,” he said to himself, almost unconsciously, as he shouldered his bag and headed towards the library's now-locked exit.

 

[EpicDisapointment]

Aamon found himself impatiently waiting as he regathered his bearings. Feeling out for the piece of his soul that rested within the mortal he was somewhat surprised that the mortal's mind was still somewhat intact. This frustrated him greatly, he had always seen mortal's minds as such a frail thing. Now, the one time he counted upon the fragility of a mortal's mind the most is the time he finds a mortal who was actually somewhat stable.

Aamon could feel his thoughts running through the mind in a fluid fever. Some were difficult to comprehend with unfamiliar changes in dialogue and concepts from this new era, but it was easy to figure out where the thoughts stemmed from.

The talisman.

There was excitement around the thoughts of the stone, not the desperation that Aamon was searching for. However, this may be a good thing. This excitement could mean that there might be a chance to come in contact with the stone again. He would have to be patient with this.

Suddenly he was pulled back to the talisman by a great wave of pain-no agony. It felt like the entirety of his mind was being stretched too thin and shattered.

All he could feel was the cold.

Cold.

Cold.

Cold...

 

[sspky]

Thankfully, the library wasn’t wholly deserted. He spotted a janitor near the checkout, explained that he’d lost track of time, and the man had graciously agreed to unlock the doors and let him out.

The night outside was crisp and clear. If it weren’t for the stifling city lights, the entire canopy of stars would have looked marvellous overhead. As it was, all Lowen could make out was the pale gibbous moon and a few flickering satellites.

He made it halfway down the deep stone stairs outside the library, when the agony stuck. He crumpled, his knees smashing on the granite steps. Lowen's vision, for the second time that night, became a pinpoint in a haze of stifling shadows. His body shook, as he lost touch entirely with his physical form.

He was in a warehouse, beneath rows of phosphorescent lights that ran along a high, grated ceiling. There were men in blue uniforms, pulling packages off of a long conveyor belt. He could smell the sweat and oil and machinery, and hear the dim chatter of voices he did not understand.

A crate was selected and pulled down onto the cement floor. The uniformed men pried off the lid and cut through the packaged plastic shielding with little care. The artifacts inside were checked over. A man made a joke. The others laughed. That same man dropped a plastic package back into the shipping crate, where it clattered noiselessly against a stone tablet.

It was funny, an abstract part of Lowen laughed, that the stone had sat undisturbed for eons, only to be carelessly dented by a trio of overworked customs officers in some airport loading bay.