Well Shit

I've heard many say that being stabbed makes you cold, freezing even. I would disagree. A warm feeling trickles down your throat, and a pounding headache takes control of you, guiding you on a long journey through a poisonous syrup. There are a few I know of who can totally ignore pain, carry on as if it were nothing, adrenaline and anger pushing them forward. I am not one of those people. I felt every ounce of pain that wound gave me, and I've never been one to ignore what my body tells me to do. Your mind may know how to win a battle but your body knows how to survive it.

"Friday" You might be wondering. "Why don't you just shift into Camel, or your baseline. And while you're at it explain to us how that naming stuff works." Well you silly little sausage, Any injuries or something like that automatically carry over to my next body, and have the possibility of making it even worse. Bending flesh and restructuring bone can also result in the cut or bruise moving elsewhere. Like my eyes, or internal organs, or god forbid, the genitalia. I count myself as a tough old cunt but I'm not one to enjoy a cut off cock or ruptured slit. And I take my names very seriously. Agrid, Camel, and many others I count as my Creation names, names I made to suit my characters and their stories and lives, Friday being the name that encompasses them all, my first creation name, the name my friends refer to me as. My baseline is just called Friday for the simple reason that I like that name. It suits the baseline more than it suits any other. The first Name, now that is of another matter entirely.

I looked down to my side, trying to estimate the severity of my paper cut, and spied an insect of some sort trying to crawl in to the roughly five inch long cut. I frowned in disgust. Insects. I had obviously made Agret hate the vile squishy parasites also known as "insects", even more than i do normally... aside from when I was an insect

"Forget what we were doing old hag?" shouted the former wall. I chuckled. Old I may be, but I'm not old enough to forget how to bust the living shit out of people. "Absolutely not." And then I pulled out a crossbow out of my handbag, aimed, and put a hole through his head. It almost makes me laugh, the look that people get when they've been shot. It's a look that says, very clearly, "Hey! That's illegal!". I had to use my imagination with Wally, half his face being covered by that dashing sash, but it came out pretty good. Eyes wide and blue, shock etched onto ever disgusting mark of what some would call a face.

Murder is a dirty business, don't get me wrong, I've never been a fan of the ol' Kill or be Killed. I prefer the more dignified way, talking to one another and working out our differences, and if I have one pointer to give anyone in a situation where a mistake could mean the deaths of many, I would advise to bring a lot of alcohol, as not only does it make it a lot more fun, usually turns into both of us getting madly drunk and handing out whiskey and rum to every soldier, a good thing in my books, everyone is equal in the clutches of our Red Mistress, except the next bottle perhaps.

After killing my only friend for 5 centuries, it was time to try to fix my injury. I have faster healing than most people, and what would take weeks to heal for one person, could take up to a few hours for me, so I was going to have to sit this one out. The good news was, Agret was quite calm and liked sleeping, so this would become more bearable to deal with, but underneath every character I wrote was an undertone of shift, change, a need to go forward, though in different concentrations. I lay down my head for the first proper sleep in years, and was rudely interrupted by being brutally torn apart by a parasite inside of me.

Flying through the air, the last living chunk of my brains final thoughts were. "Well that was certainly an excellent revenge plan."

Fɾσɱ ƚԋҽ ρσιɳƚ σϝ ʋιҽɯ σϝ ɳσ-σɳҽ ιɳ ραɾƚιƈυʅαɾ, α ϝʅყ, ρҽɾԋαρʂ.

Hundreds of eyes blinked open, all looking at the spot where Friday had sat just seconds previously, checking for a signal that the old woman was still alive. A figure strutted out of the wall, the exact same as the figure with two holes in his forehead laying on the floor like a wet flannel, now sinking into the ground, as if to get rid of the evidence of any kind of defeat.

He sat opposite the site of Friday's implosion, pondering for over an hour, before saying a few words. "You were incredibly annoying, you know that right? Always rambling on about watermelon Sorbet and eye puns. Why eye puns, by the way? I get that I have a lot of them, but lord, you were not imaginative with those jokes. I am grateful to you though, I can finally leave now that you're dead and gone. The Craven Judge's gave me his permission that if you by chance offered to fight and lost, I could go and live in the Underneath, apparently for all your personalities you are incredibly easy to read." Wally sighed. "Why am I even talking to a splatter of blood and guts on the floor?" He pushed himself up from his cross legged position, groaned, and walked to an opening in the wall that had once been his home, 'The Road to Deadcross' written in slapdash fashion on a sheet of bone impaled in the ground.

"Talking to the air is the first sign of madness you know." Whispered a familiar voice. And Wally felt no more.

ßå¢k †ð mê

That must be at least 10 uno reverse cards by now. This is just turning into an incredibly crap soap opera. May as well rename this Hollyoaks and call it a day.

Turning into a ghost was supremely annoying. The pain of death, having all your memories and abilities transferred and binded to a new body, and having to get used to the feeling of my incorporeal body all succeeded in irritating me to no end. However, it was much faster for me than most people for three reasons, that still failed to make me feel much better. Death does tend to make one sulk a bit.
1. I was born in the Underneath in the first place, and had lived here for 500 years now, I had no more need to be dragged down here than a fish needs to be taught to swim.
2. I'm a Giant, a personification of power and stubbornness. Abh Dorum couldn't delay me with 10 virgins pulling at my britches and Excalibur itself.
3. I was already used to switching bodies at a moments notice, and whilst going from living to dead was a small step further, I could deal with it pretty well.

It took me about an hour to get accustomed and be able to move the new form, albeit in a wonky state. And that was when my greatest shock greeted me. A shit on my dignity, honour, and ego. I had failed to kill Wally. I could see him talking to what used to be me, all apologetic and shit, like that actually mattered when I was splattered into what looked like incredibly grim modern art. I was yelling obscenities at the man, telling him that he was no longer the bees knees, that I would get 1000 eyelashes and put one in every eye I saw come out of that leper looking face again.

Either Wally was attempting to piss on my memory even more, or he just couldn't see me, because the incohesive golf buggy ( I know, great burn) was ignoring me like I was his taxes. I trudged behind him, convinced that even if I couldn't shout grievous insults at the man, I could at least trail him and gather every bit of information I could on him to blackmail him when he actually died, a method I learnt from an ex-girlfriend, without the last bit, of course. As soon as we crossed the Deadcross sign, I felt something change. Nothing groundbreaking, just a feeling that I could actually do something, and that, for me, was huge. I had been getting depressed thinking about not being heard for eternity, and now I was back in business. Deadcross was infamous as the entrance place to the lower depths of Underneath, a place where Ghouls, Lich's, and Kappas would travel to meet with business partners or sometimes even die again. And so I did the obvious thing you would do to your killer. I leaned over, whispered in his ear, and knocked him out cold with a sign made of bone.