- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Location
- Lupaix Environs
Ragenard’s vision swam as he sped through the lunchtime traffic rush, lane weaving erratically and overtaking other vehicles with mere inches to spare with his maneuvers. His hands held the handlebars of his bike with a death grip of such ferocity that he was certain that at any moment he would bend the Apes out of shape and spin out of control from suddenly grasping air as he tore them off...
Which is exactly what I am trying to do and I can’t what the fuck is thi— he thought in a distantly confused panic.
“Forty long years—,” Ragenard said out loud to the rustling wind of his bike’s passage, interrupting his own thoughts.
—No, I killed you— he thought meekly. Something was wrong. He didn't do meek. He...he....
“—that’s how long you’ve been calling the shots, Ragenard. Shut the fuck up for fifteen minutes. And stop lying to yourself, we've argued without words plenty all this time," he taunted at himself. "As long as the Lia Iverál is ringing upon this thread of the weave, I’ll be calling the shots,” Ragenard added, once again speaking out loud as if speaking over his own thoughts.
Except while Ragenard’s thoughts were indeed conflicted, confused, and terrorized, it wasn’t Ragenard’s words replying. Not any more than it was Ragenard’s will driving his bike for all that it was his hands upon the handlebars.
This cannot be happening. I ate you, Ragenard rage-thought in protest.
“While that was unexpected, it kinda makes you the idiot for eating the immortal being, lad,” countered Manannán mac Lir, ascended mortal from a time before written history, erstwhile Iverian deity and King of the Fae, and former megalomaniac self-cursed Vampire Lord of Iveria, puppeteering Ragenard’s vocal cords.
“Worry not, I’ll make sure to keep you around as a memory you filthy fucking do... what? Stop. You shouldn’t be able to fight... why the fuck do I feel like laughing—” Manannán’s complaints morphed midway through into a powerfully deep-pitched roar of rage that was intrinsically Ragenard as the Perrault’s handlebars were yanked sideways, diverting the motorcycle off the main avenue and into the back parking lot of a service station.
Given the proximity on this side of Lupaix to the PQ and its revolving door of miscreants, the service station offered no interior services. It was the kind of place where you had to ask for the key to the bathroom and could only buy essentials like motor oil or spare spark plugs handed through a metal drawer loaded behind bulletproof glass.
An oddly muttering and staggering Ragenard shambled towards the men’s bathroom door and pulled the lock broken open with a casual over-twist of the door knob. He drunkenly swayed towards the small porcelain sink and splashed blessedly cold water on his face as a loud crack tore the world outside asunder.
That’s it. I’m going back to therapy. I’m losing it, Ragenard thought with a shaky sense of relief as he turned the water off and straightened back up. He had almost let himself believe he was possessed by a ghost from the past—
“Fine you bastard. Blow this chance forty years in the waiting for me,” Ragenard found himself babbling out as he glanced in the mirror. His reflection wasn’t moving in tune with his motions, he was sure. It also wasn’t him anymore, but rather the copper-haired bearded and pallid visage of the obnoxiously handsome fanged monster he’d killed to avenge the death of his wife four decades ago.
All those times I didn’t feel like I was acting like myself... Ragenard thought furiously, his eyes tightening in response. Manannán’s image copied that, even as the image’s mouth upturned into a frown. That brought the sensation of a smile to Ragenard’s face. “Wipe that smirk off your face,” the interloper interjected. “Sure it goes both ways and you have the benefit of experience with this bizarre meat sack of yours. I concede your supremacy for now—” the words died suddenly as Ragenard’s mouth closed mid-sentence.
The feeling of sunlit warmth left Ragenard as the connection to the primordial magical artifact that had powered the greatest joke Manannán had heard closed off. This time, Ragenard knew exactly how he knew that and didn’t shy from it. His amygdala wasn’t being pressed into forgetful fear anymore. “The greatest joke you had heard prior to my destroying your ass,” Ragenard said aloud with a shit-eating grin that was gloriously mirrored back at him by his own countenance in the mirror.
Sure, smile now asshole. But I am never going to be as asleep as I was before, I promise you that, retorted his passenger as an admittedly disconcertingly clear thought. It was worth it however, Ragenard felt. He could now tell that the feeling of little bitch and whining he heard at the threshold of his hearing wasn’t his.
Ragenard pulled out his phone and called a seldom-called number on his phone. The owner of the line was not someone Ragenard dared to presume any authority over, and having sudden access to the knowledge of why he’d always felt that way didn’t change the genuine respect in his voice as the line clicked open when it was answered.
“Hey Man,” he said as he walked out of the bathroom and threw himself over the saddle of his bike. “I know you don’t usually do lunchtime, but I could use a cup of coffee and a splash’a, please.” The engine on his Perrault roared to life as Ragenard turned back westwards away from the center of Lupaix and up the highway ramp headed towards the Phantom Quarter.
Which is exactly what I am trying to do and I can’t what the fuck is thi— he thought in a distantly confused panic.
“Forty long years—,” Ragenard said out loud to the rustling wind of his bike’s passage, interrupting his own thoughts.
—No, I killed you— he thought meekly. Something was wrong. He didn't do meek. He...he....
“—that’s how long you’ve been calling the shots, Ragenard. Shut the fuck up for fifteen minutes. And stop lying to yourself, we've argued without words plenty all this time," he taunted at himself. "As long as the Lia Iverál is ringing upon this thread of the weave, I’ll be calling the shots,” Ragenard added, once again speaking out loud as if speaking over his own thoughts.
Except while Ragenard’s thoughts were indeed conflicted, confused, and terrorized, it wasn’t Ragenard’s words replying. Not any more than it was Ragenard’s will driving his bike for all that it was his hands upon the handlebars.
This cannot be happening. I ate you, Ragenard rage-thought in protest.
“While that was unexpected, it kinda makes you the idiot for eating the immortal being, lad,” countered Manannán mac Lir, ascended mortal from a time before written history, erstwhile Iverian deity and King of the Fae, and former megalomaniac self-cursed Vampire Lord of Iveria, puppeteering Ragenard’s vocal cords.
“Worry not, I’ll make sure to keep you around as a memory you filthy fucking do... what? Stop. You shouldn’t be able to fight... why the fuck do I feel like laughing—” Manannán’s complaints morphed midway through into a powerfully deep-pitched roar of rage that was intrinsically Ragenard as the Perrault’s handlebars were yanked sideways, diverting the motorcycle off the main avenue and into the back parking lot of a service station.
Given the proximity on this side of Lupaix to the PQ and its revolving door of miscreants, the service station offered no interior services. It was the kind of place where you had to ask for the key to the bathroom and could only buy essentials like motor oil or spare spark plugs handed through a metal drawer loaded behind bulletproof glass.
An oddly muttering and staggering Ragenard shambled towards the men’s bathroom door and pulled the lock broken open with a casual over-twist of the door knob. He drunkenly swayed towards the small porcelain sink and splashed blessedly cold water on his face as a loud crack tore the world outside asunder.
That’s it. I’m going back to therapy. I’m losing it, Ragenard thought with a shaky sense of relief as he turned the water off and straightened back up. He had almost let himself believe he was possessed by a ghost from the past—
“Fine you bastard. Blow this chance forty years in the waiting for me,” Ragenard found himself babbling out as he glanced in the mirror. His reflection wasn’t moving in tune with his motions, he was sure. It also wasn’t him anymore, but rather the copper-haired bearded and pallid visage of the obnoxiously handsome fanged monster he’d killed to avenge the death of his wife four decades ago.
All those times I didn’t feel like I was acting like myself... Ragenard thought furiously, his eyes tightening in response. Manannán’s image copied that, even as the image’s mouth upturned into a frown. That brought the sensation of a smile to Ragenard’s face. “Wipe that smirk off your face,” the interloper interjected. “Sure it goes both ways and you have the benefit of experience with this bizarre meat sack of yours. I concede your supremacy for now—” the words died suddenly as Ragenard’s mouth closed mid-sentence.
The feeling of sunlit warmth left Ragenard as the connection to the primordial magical artifact that had powered the greatest joke Manannán had heard closed off. This time, Ragenard knew exactly how he knew that and didn’t shy from it. His amygdala wasn’t being pressed into forgetful fear anymore. “The greatest joke you had heard prior to my destroying your ass,” Ragenard said aloud with a shit-eating grin that was gloriously mirrored back at him by his own countenance in the mirror.
Sure, smile now asshole. But I am never going to be as asleep as I was before, I promise you that, retorted his passenger as an admittedly disconcertingly clear thought. It was worth it however, Ragenard felt. He could now tell that the feeling of little bitch and whining he heard at the threshold of his hearing wasn’t his.
Ragenard pulled out his phone and called a seldom-called number on his phone. The owner of the line was not someone Ragenard dared to presume any authority over, and having sudden access to the knowledge of why he’d always felt that way didn’t change the genuine respect in his voice as the line clicked open when it was answered.
“Hey Man,” he said as he walked out of the bathroom and threw himself over the saddle of his bike. “I know you don’t usually do lunchtime, but I could use a cup of coffee and a splash’a, please.” The engine on his Perrault roared to life as Ragenard turned back westwards away from the center of Lupaix and up the highway ramp headed towards the Phantom Quarter.