#final end

[mtvscreengrabs]

A Place Called Home - PJ Harvey (2000)

[fieriframes]

[MAN: You've got this nice hunk of meat that is sandwiched between some great bread. All right. So, the ground pork from the pork butt? Yep. And the final end of Eternity, and the beginning of Infinity. Sho' is. Sho' is!]

[septembersung]

The world, and man, attest that they contain within themselves neither their first principle nor their final end, but rather that they participate in Being itself, which alone is without origin or end. Thus, in different ways, man can come to know that there exists a reality which is the first cause and final end of all things, a reality 'that everyone calls 'God' [St. Thomas Aquinas].

Catechism of the Catholic Church, no.34.

[berrodarmstrong]

A Final Memory of Levin.

Pain. It flooded through every muscle in his body -- save for those of his left leg, which seemed to be going numb. Standing had become a chore, and the man wasn’t so sure he could remain on his feet for long. Nevertheless, Final End stood proudly in the midst of the three women and one man who had tried to take him down. Highlanders, all -- dressed in leathers and bearing rough  fist weapons. Weapons that had hurt. Bruises marked his brown skin, and one with a pair of patas had actually slashed him along the flank -- a shallow cut, but one that smarted nonetheless.

Each heaving breath and exhale may as well have blown steam from his heated body. Sweat poured off of him, fresh and warm. Unfortunately he had been fighting for a while and the stink of sweat, dirt and blood hung about him. The dusty, heavy air of the ruins within which he stood didn’t help matters at all. The Hellsguard squinted up at the high stone ceiling and received a light peppering of dust in his eyes for his trouble. With a grunt, he lifted his hands to try and sooth them...only to see near two dozen more fighters stampeding toward him down the large hall.

End knew he was in no position to fight all of them. Hells, he didn’t think he could fight more than twenty men and women on his own in top condition. Still, he raised his fists and slid into the usual stance...even though his leg could barely support it. The lot of them were twenty yalms away and closing fast. There was no time to formulate any sort of strategy that would work against them, no way he could run with the damn shaky leg -- not that he’d let those bastards and bitches see his back.

Fifteen yalms. He could see the weapons clearly...he had perhaps about fifteen ticks before they were on him. It was going to be a painful death, and he knew it. It didn’t matter...he was already in pain and determined to take as many of them down as he could. Ten yalms...five…

The first line of them suddenly fell flat on their faces, followed by the second, and the third. The whole group of them ended up on the floor two yalms away from End in the space of three ticks. At first the Hellsguard thought someone had tripped and triggered a chain reaction -- the very thought brought a barking, booming laugh from his throat. All that and they tripped? Hah!

It was then that he felt it -- a pressure upon his shoulders, then onto his crown. Instinctively he sought to stand strong and resist it, but without warning his knees gave out and hit the ground hard. His guts heaved -- but he could not throw up. The Hellsguard found himself salivating excessively...outright drooling on himself. Where once ran warm sweat on his skin, cold beads of it quivered upon gooseflesh as the pressure upon him intensified fourfold. A foot was driven into his back, and sent him onto all fours -- no. There was no foot there. It had been the pressure again.

End had just accepted his death without fear, but this new sensation terrified him. He hated it -- doubly so when he felt wet warmth run down the insides of his thighs. Fear and humiliation. Fantastic.

“Ah. I didn’t expect you to piss yourself,” A low voice rumbled from behind him. The slight lilt of amusement at the end set a seething, humiliated rage alight within the Hellsguard’s gut. “Clench your damn bowels, then. I’m going to have to carry you back, maybe, and I can’t do that if you soil yourself too.”

End had not the strength to retort -- hells, he barely had enough to breathe. Heavy footsteps sounded at his flank. He had not the capacity to turn his head and see the owner of the voice, but he could raise his head just enough to see the struggling band of fighters before him. One of them, a highlander woman seemed to be doing her utmost to stand, and had managed to get to her knees -- an effort the voice next to him took notice of.

“Oh? This would make you the strongest of the lot, then. The leader, I wonder?”

There was no answer from her -- just a defiant stare as she slowly but surely stood. It didn’t look like she could move, but she looked proud enough of her ability to stand to give a smug look toward the man outside of End’s view. End himself could not help the envy that bittered him. “B...bitch…”

In a moment, all that was left of her crooked grin were her teeth, scattered like pearls among her peers as the rest of her body was reduced to naught but ash. Purple arcs danced in the space and filled the ruined halls with strobing, flashing light. The peal of thunder that exploded from the spot shook End to the very bone, and elicited a wave of whimpers among the downed...one of which was his own.

As suddenly as the pressure had come upon him it was gone -- End scrambled to his feet, piss-stained gaskins be damned. His left leg was still barely able to hold him, but it would do. It would have to do. The first thing he did when he got up was take a look at the owner of the voice.

He was a Hellsguard, very much like End, except quite a bit older, and red skinned instead of brown. His muscles were taut and corded, and possessed of a bulk that would have looked obscene on any other race but a Roegadyn. A black tantra wrapped his form, and his hair seemed woven of a deep purple. His eyes were not focused on End, but rather the scrum of Highlander fighters who had also been released of the crushing pressure. Unlike End, they considered the obliteration of their comrade, and made to turn and flee.

“Cowards!”

End had roared behind them without thinking. It drew a look of intrigue from the other Hellsguard, who turned back to eye the fleeing throng. “It’s disappointing,” He murmured -- and then, he was gone.

The rearmost fleeing Highlander burst as ash with a crack of thunder, while the woman in front pelted upward toward the ceiling with arms flailing. A blinding purple bolt struck the middle of the scrum -- End was unsure of how many of them it had killed, but he could see that four of them went careening into the air as well. Five distinct and ground-rocking blasts of thunder saw them all shredded to dust that rained down on the rest. Dust from the ceiling joined it -- and the group scattered. Some even returned in End’s direction.

The young Hellsguard had no intention of letting any of them escape. He drew his fist back, ready to punch the pair of men who came his way...and was met with a faceful of ash for his trouble. His hair stood on end from the lightning that had swept through them to do it, and the thunder almost burst his eardrums. By the time he had raised his other hand to wipe it all off, there was nothing left of them -- only the old Hellsguard stood in the spot where the lightning had struck. Ash surrounded him, and still floated down to the earth from those who had been cast upward. Brilliant purple eyes turned End’s way.

“What is your name?” Asked the elder.

End was glad that he’d already pissed himself earlier -- it saved him the trouble of having to go through it right then. “Final End,” He offered boldly, “Are you going to kill me too?”

The elder Hellsguard snorted and shook his head. “That would be a waste of time. My name is Deathly Levin. Come with me. You belong to my master now.”

End’s protests were interrupted before they began -- the thought that this man had a master, someone more powerful than him...it was flummoxing beyond measure. “...and if I don’t?”

The expression on Deathly Levin’s face remained unchanged -- but there was something in the intensity of his eyes that seized End by the spine. This was not a man to cross, or refuse. And so, End nodded, “...I see. Can I at least have a bath and change my pants before I meet your master? I don’t want to stink of piss when I do.”

Levin smiled, then turned to walk away. “We’ll stop somewhere then. Welcome to change, Final End. You’ll not be sorry.”

(( @dynamitecowboy ))

[berrodarmstrong]

Left for Dead.

Cool air swept through the lip of rock at the south of the Ala Mhigan quarter. The small, dusty plateau afforded a spectacular view of Ala Mhigo's southern mountain wall, as well as the Sea of Clouds beyond. Rocky plateaus rose above the drifting clouds, and provided a fresh crispness that met wonderfully with the smell of salt from the Lochs at the north.

Berrod stood there and took it all in, dressed proudly in the attire he had been gifted by his master. Red and pink cloth drapings strapped onto his frame with black leather and golden trimmings. His tackling shoulder was left bare -- for the tackles taught to him were wont to destroy the clothing there anyway. A headband adorned his head; it had become a favourite of his, and allowed him to wear his hair as a long, blood red tail.

Looking out upon the Gyr Abanian vistas always tore his heart in two. Thanalan was the home he knew, the home he remembered -- and where he had put in years of work to hone himself, grow with his friends...and even run a Free Company for a time. He had bonded and settled there, in the Goblet. His life had been there. Yet...his blood was in this land. He could not deny it; it called to him so strongly that it caused a pain in his chest and a firmness in his knees. While the Highlander had always been a supporter of Ala Mhigan reclamation, he had never quite related with the absolute fervor of some of his kinsmen. Standing where he was, with the vast cloud sea before him and the mighty city walls to his back...he understood perfectly. The war had cultivated the fervor in him, and victory had sown fresh the seeds of yearning. His family was a firm anchor to the southwest -- the strongest tie to Thanalan that he would not soon forsake. Yet, if there was any way he could serve his home nation from afar, he would find it. Thus did he spend many bells thinking on what resources and connections he could tap to aid the restoration of the city and its people.

It was in such a reverie that Master Ronsen Armstrong found him. The older monk had come in full Tantra attire, bearing sacred Rising Suns upon his hips. His own hair was wild and red -- but it was more akin to a firey crimson than Berrod's dark and ruddy locks. Scars littered his massive frame; the man was positively statuesque even in middle age. Given his size, he did not move quietly -- at least, not then. Not even the slight rattle of the weapons had torn Berrod from his thoughts, so words had to suffice. "Have you become so complacent in victory that you would stand with your back to the city so?"

Berrod blinked, and turned to face the other man with a bow. "Master," He greeted, "Lots on my mind. Sorry." It was as true an apology as he could make. Ronsen nodded and provided his usual admonition. "Do not let the joy of victory steal from you your vigilance. Remember that it was in our moment of triumph that our nation was taken from us. It falls to you not to repeat the folly of your fathers."

The younger monk bowed again. "Yes, master. I'll keep the words close." When he rose it was with an expectant eagerness and a betraying tension throughout his body. "But now that you're here, we can finally practice it, yeah? I've done all my reading, an' all my meditations an' exercises. I even wrote a bit about it! I've attained as much as I can on my own, but of course, it works well when we do it together, yeah?" He'd rattled his words out at rapid-fire pace, not in any frame of mind to mitigate or disguise his excitement.

Ronsen smiled slightly, "You're like a damn child, you know that? I suppose it makes it all the easier for you to learn. I'll begin with showing you some of my more recent writings on it. Combined with what you already know, I think you'll gain some new insight that will make today's exercise easier." From the flowing colours around his waist he procured a black scroll -- it was small, strange and tightly bound. "Here. Tell me what you think." With careful consideration, he lobbed it in Berrod's direction.

Catching a scroll was nothing to the younger monk. It wasn't the first time. Casually as ever he swiped his hand to grab it, but was met with a punching, explosive pain in his gut that whitened his vision. He found his arm oddly pressed across his chest in the direction he had swiped it. Even when his vision cleared, all he could see before him was darkness. No -- not darkness...shadow. Something was in his way. Someone was in his way.

The pain in his stomach flared again, and though he wished to cry out, Berrod found that he could not. A torrent of blood rushed up his throat and stained his chin and neck as he vomited it onto himself. His knees buckled -- his legs could no longer support him. Yet he seemed to stay standing by that agony in his gut. Slowly, he looked down.

A large, brown hand held onto the hilt of a blade that was pressed firmly to his abdomen. Both hilt and hand were slopped with glistening, warm crimson. Blood. His blood. Berrod's mind was slow to catch on, but his head tilted up, commanded by his body's will to respond alone. Cold, light grey eyes met his own, dilated in the dim of morning and flooded with murderous intent. A Hellsguard had stabbed him -- one he didn't recognise. The Roegadyn's large body obscured view of his master, and Berrod could not manage even a breath to ask why.

The Hellsguard grinned down at him...then spat in his face. "You're done."

Berrod hardly registered the saliva hitting him in the eye -- but he did feel the push that finally released him. He was unable to stand -- his legs refused to hold him. The push, however, was enough to send him tumbling over the edge. For a mercy, there was a jutting of rock below the lip that caught him, buried blade and all. A streak of blood had marked his path, and began forming a series of red lines in the rock's grooves where he stopped.

The Highlander had no idea what was going on, or why any of it was happening -- but he knew he had to survive. It was only that knowledge that stopped him from breaking on impact, that kept him alive even with that metal through his stomach. It did not give him the clarity of mind to figure out exactly what was happening, but he knew that to live, he needed to escape. His legs were useless. His arms becoming rapidly so...and his adversary was determined.

Next to the large figure of the Roegadyn on the cliff above appeared a massive red frog. It seemed to smoulder in the creeping light of day. Berrod didn't know what it was, but he wanted no part of it. Feebly, his arm dug into his bag for the only thing he knew that could save him. Or -- so he hoped. There was no guarantee that it would leave him with his life. The texture of the object was distinct, and he curled his fist around it.

A sudden wave of dizziness hit him -- as did the very real realisation that he was very likely going to die. In an odd way, such thoughts only helped, because the people he needed came to mind. Caleb. Sarij. Caden. The images of them flooded his vision as he channeled what little he could into that precious trinket in his hand.

Above him, the large red frog reared back and opened its mouth wide. With an odd croak it spat molten earth down onto Berrod's perch. The glob of glowing orange hit the spot so hard that the rock broke away and went tumbling down, trailing black smoke as it cooled -- finally to disappear below the clouds. The frog had done its job, and so vanished with a blast of white smoke. A somewhat short silhouette of a Highlander man began to emerge from it.

"That was too easy," The Hellsguard complained, "I wanted a fight from him, you know."

"You'll have plenty of fights to come. There are just some pieces we can't afford to have on the board anymore," The obscured Highlander supplied.

"Bah. Assassination is boring. Give me a battle!"

Gunnar Bloodblade emerged from the drifting smoke of his summoning. "Soon," He promised,  "And it will be a glorious one."

[fieriframes]

[The final end of Eternity, and the beginning of Infinity.]

[reformedontheweb]

"The final end of God's counsel is neither the salvation of the elect, nor the damnation of the reprobate, but the setting forth of His own glory."

Theodore Beza