Post by Cid on Feb 4, 2010 5:12:06 GMT -5
Yar, ye listen 'ere. None be mentionin' Earthside 'til we see the glinty blue of its oceans and smell the perfumes of its women. No panderin', no preachin', and especially, no' o' that merry making and treasure-seekin'. Th' cap'n's been hard and blind as o' late, but he ain't deaf. He hears one man make mention o' tha' curs'd place and be sure ye find yerself buck naked in an airlock. The Wraith don't take to fambly reunions.
~Jonathan Baigley on Sam "The Wraith" Riley's homecoming
---
He was a man that could wear his heart on his sleeve most times, yet he couldn't place what it was, exactly, he was feeling at this moment. He was used to the frequent spouts of anger and mania, but little prepared him for his homecoming. He knew what it was he had to do--had always known, probably. Even during the unknown years, he'd felt a spark of purpose--a sense of fate. Right now it was beautiful, though he couldn't associate it with any emotion or process it. It was the complete inverse of what had occurred on Mars. He closed his bushy eyes and held on, working his mind back and forth, like tonguing a blister on the top of your mouth. It stung a little but felt good in some masochistic way. He didn't dare speak it aloud. He feared losing whatever it was. It was too fragile to even contemplate.
Samuel "The Wraith" Riley, born Albert Kirkland, rode the Interplanetary Transport Craft Ol' Jove's Bones like a jockey on a race horse, one leg propped up on his chair, elbow resting on his thigh. He was wearing his tri-corner hat, something he rarely broke out. It was a special occasion.
He was home.
But he wasn't. The Asteroid Belt, with its many dangers and uncertainties was his home--always would be. He loved the lawlessness and freedom, but this was his birthplace and one cannot easily forget his roots. The Earth Sphere, something you only read about in shabby magazines, was spread out before him. Just like Mars, he could glimpse it all. It was all pearly soft to his keen eyes, like what came from lovemaking.
But unlike Mars, he'd been to this place before. Way, way before he'd even known what a cunny was or what it was good for. He recalled his parents and their sincere plans for the future. The love they shared pushed them to seek a better, newer beginning elsewhere. This wretched place had supplanted them, forced them to find greener pastures. He felt robbed, as if the goddamn colony had pulled a piece, stolen their pretties, and shoved them out the nearest third-rate airlock. Their diaspora was their demise.
He'd been robbed, and he'd squeeze every last ounce of wealth from the Earth's fetid corpse 'til his coffers were bulging and every last man, woman, and child knew the name SAM RILEY, THE WRAITH OF THE BELT. He'd carved it into each and every one of their skulls.
The Wraith straightened his collar, a fresh taint of malevolence coursing through him.
"Take us in, Mutes--an' be sure to fly our colors, don't wan' anyone ta miss our arrival. Not a soul."
~Jonathan Baigley on Sam "The Wraith" Riley's homecoming
---
He was a man that could wear his heart on his sleeve most times, yet he couldn't place what it was, exactly, he was feeling at this moment. He was used to the frequent spouts of anger and mania, but little prepared him for his homecoming. He knew what it was he had to do--had always known, probably. Even during the unknown years, he'd felt a spark of purpose--a sense of fate. Right now it was beautiful, though he couldn't associate it with any emotion or process it. It was the complete inverse of what had occurred on Mars. He closed his bushy eyes and held on, working his mind back and forth, like tonguing a blister on the top of your mouth. It stung a little but felt good in some masochistic way. He didn't dare speak it aloud. He feared losing whatever it was. It was too fragile to even contemplate.
Samuel "The Wraith" Riley, born Albert Kirkland, rode the Interplanetary Transport Craft Ol' Jove's Bones like a jockey on a race horse, one leg propped up on his chair, elbow resting on his thigh. He was wearing his tri-corner hat, something he rarely broke out. It was a special occasion.
He was home.
But he wasn't. The Asteroid Belt, with its many dangers and uncertainties was his home--always would be. He loved the lawlessness and freedom, but this was his birthplace and one cannot easily forget his roots. The Earth Sphere, something you only read about in shabby magazines, was spread out before him. Just like Mars, he could glimpse it all. It was all pearly soft to his keen eyes, like what came from lovemaking.
But unlike Mars, he'd been to this place before. Way, way before he'd even known what a cunny was or what it was good for. He recalled his parents and their sincere plans for the future. The love they shared pushed them to seek a better, newer beginning elsewhere. This wretched place had supplanted them, forced them to find greener pastures. He felt robbed, as if the goddamn colony had pulled a piece, stolen their pretties, and shoved them out the nearest third-rate airlock. Their diaspora was their demise.
He'd been robbed, and he'd squeeze every last ounce of wealth from the Earth's fetid corpse 'til his coffers were bulging and every last man, woman, and child knew the name SAM RILEY, THE WRAITH OF THE BELT. He'd carved it into each and every one of their skulls.
The Wraith straightened his collar, a fresh taint of malevolence coursing through him.
"Take us in, Mutes--an' be sure to fly our colors, don't wan' anyone ta miss our arrival. Not a soul."