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| Something Wicked This Way Came; for glede~ [tw: gore, spookiness] | |
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| Topic Started: Jun 2 2014, 09:41 PM (533 Views) | |
| Phaedrus | Jun 2 2014, 09:41 PM Post #1 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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WINTER 7 AR The town of Ahmim was a dusty speck in the Xeric scrublands, as brown and filthy as everything else. It did have a tavern, though, the only thing that'd kept him here for a day of rest. The Kaadian Way was a hard path on its own, given no mercy by the Ashokan sun. It boiled the dust of the road and flung it into whirling sand, the only snatches of wind clawing dirt into his eyes. No mule would let him touch them, no horse, no thrice-damned donkey—if he wasn't on a cart, they'd have no whiff of him. And frankly, no cart wished to brave the Scrublands, stopping only at the river for trade before heading back to Eldahar. You must make rest of journey walk, the cart driver had told him in broken Common, before shooing him off. So, weary, snared by barbs, he'd crashed a night in Ahmim, and now sat sipping ale, dreading the coming journey through the No'bu Jungle. Perhaps I shall drop in on Shelfslayer, he found himself thinking, keeping the weak brew to his lips. Ruin his attempt to shun humanity. In truth, he did not like the feel of this town, now that he'd spent enough time awake in it. Besides nothing to do except piss and drink, everyone he passed had a grim look about them, hard-bitten, a flinty fear in their eyes. He'd wondered at it, for there were no guards about; Orion would not waste his time on such a piteous town. There was... something else, and as he swilled his ale, pondering, he got his answer. The door burst open. “Its taken another!” A hysterical voice broke the grim silence of the tavern, followed by the heaving sobs of a woman. She nearly fell to her feet, grabbed by two men who leapt to grab her arms. Tears streamed down her cheeks, face screwed into a mask of grief. The barkeep froze, knuckles white where he gripped the table. A terrible silence had sucked the breath from the room, interrupted only by the woman's heaving sobs. “My sister,” she spluttered. “It took Amara, it took—she's—” Dead. The word hung in the air, clear though unsaid, and Phaedrus swallowed the ale in his mouth with difficulty, lowering the mug to the table. It felt wrong to move, to breathe, to do little else but stare. A dark, grey-bearded man was the first to move, scraping from his chair with a noise thunderous in the tavern. His hard eyes flickered across the room, fixing each of the men in turn; Phaedrus noticed he skirted him, disregarding the foreigner entirely. “How many more,” he whispered. A breath, but it fell like a guillotine, making the younger men drop their eyes to the floor. “How many more must die, before we take arms against this beast?” “It cannot be killed,” a purple-turbaned man snarled from the corner of the room. He slammed a dagger into the wood of the table. “You know this. We have tried! It is—it is a devil, a thing,—” “It took the skin of Rashiv,” another patron shouted. His eyes looked wild, red-rimmed with fear. “I saw him—after he'd died—he came to me, but his eyes were pits, he was—he was not—” “Enough,” roared the first man. He swept the room with disdain, breath snorting hard from his nose. “Am I to believe these wild tales? It is fear, grief, that speaks in you! We cannot stand by in terror while something continues to slaughter the children of Ahmim!” Phaedrus found himself standing before he was quite sure of what he was doing, yellow eyes scanning the room. “Wait.” His voice rang, cutting through the tension, the woman's sobs. In a heartbeat, dozens of eyes were on him, boring into him with mixes of fear, fury, and grief—he found his mouth quite dry, and swallowed, keeping his chin up. “You, sir.” His gaze flickered to the raw-eyed man, fixed him with a cold, sulfurous look. “You said you saw this... thing? Was it cold?” The man looked at him in a moment of stupefied silence, mouth twitching. After a moment, he licked his lips, finally composing himself enough to speak. “Y-yes,” he croaked. “It was... so cold. A coldness—I have never felt, a coldness of the, of the soul—” The bearded man scoffed, and murmurs rippled through the room, but Phaedrus pushed them aside, grappling with the weight of that revelation. ....A skinchanger? One of the Dead? The necromancer fell silent for a moment, suddenly understanding the weight of the place, the fear in the people's eyes. A Changer was no small enemy, especially one that had managed to kill a number of victims. It would only grow stronger, its appetite larger. The town would not survive, then. All of these people will die. A coldness threaded through his gut, pressed his lips to a white line, eyes darkening. He made to speak, but the first man cut him off. “And what is it to you, foreigner?” His black eyes smoldered. “What care do you have?” “I think,” Phaedrus began, voice dropping to a cold, low tone, one finger curling where his arms crossed, looking like a coiled predator. “I may be of assistance to you in the identification of this Thing. If all you say is true, then I can at least be sure of its nature. It is a Thing from Death. It feeds on Life to continue its existence here, and takes the form of its last kill. To get close to the living.” He waited as the words fell, sinking in for a moment before murmurs and near-shouting erupted across the tavern, swallowing the scared, hiccuping sobs of the woman. “Peace, men,” the bartender shouted, slamming a tankard hard against the wood. The commotion died to an angry murmur, and the patrons pinned Phaedrus to the wall with their stares. “Boy,” the barkeep called out, thick brows furrowed. “How do you know this?” “How do we kill it?” a desperate man screamed from the crowd, prompting another wild gallop of questions. Phaedrus realized, with a creeping sense of obligation, that their looks had become imploring, and all but the hard-eyed skeptics had turned to stare at him with desperation. The necromancer motioned for them to stay silent, hands waving downward, till at last a hushed burble was the only noise. “I was once schooled in the ways to destroy such things,” he called out, a sudden heady sensation rushing to his fingertips. Phaedrus swallowed, making no show of it, hair bouncing as he turned to look back and forth across the tavern. A sudden weight perched on his shoulders, holding its maw close to his throat. There is no going back now, it seems. “I have faced such horrors for a long time. You cannot kill them,” he scoffed pointedly at the man, perhaps with too much venom, he reflected. Clearing his throat, the necromancer gathered himself, continuing with less acidity. “It wears its disguise like a skin. Damage it, and the true thing will emerge. Then you can banish its spirit back to whatever hell it defied.” A few faces looked crestfallen; others stared back obstinately. The bearded man let out a vicious scoff, brows drawn low over his burning eyes. “Offering words of foolishness, with no solution? Who can banish such a thing?” “I can.” Phaedrus' eyes had narrowed to sulfurous slits. His smile was ice. The room exploded into madness again. ** Six terrified pairs of eyes stared out at him. Not the most promising set of men, he realized, gut sinking further than it already had in the past few hours. The iron-and-blood offering had been completed, and he had placed all the appropriate wards, both on himself and the Circle. He held Death close in his mind, till all the blood and warmth had leeched from his skin, leaving it a corpse's white, his eyes the only thing burning still. The men all had scimitars and torches, and he paced before the line of them, hearing the scrubland crunch underfoot. Men was a generous term, perhaps. Many looked like boys, withered stubble the only thing keeping them from being outright children. However much he scoffed and swore, the necromancer noted the bearded man's absence, lips pressed into a bloodless line. This could go very, very wrong. Still, he saw no difference between being slowly picked off, one by one, over the course of a year, or six men slaughtered in the dirt. Six deaths all the same, whether in their beds as old men, or in a darkened street. I am doing them all a favor, he reminded himself. There is no other time than this. A town, trampled under brush and dust, out of the way of any sorcerer. He doubted they'd ever see another necromancer again—his very being here was a fluke. From the sight of it, they had not seen a foreigner in the lifetime of some of the men in the tavern. “Remember. You must force it towards the Circle we have prepared. It will be drawn to the iron and blood-smoke.” And the Life gathered here. Really, that was more appetizing to it, but they'd do better not to know. They already looked half on the verge of bolting or wetting themselves. “It may call out to you in a familiar voice, beg, plead—it may look human, but it is a beast. You cannot show it mercy.” He felt his words fell on deaf ears; he could talk them to death, but it would make no difference when the Changer came howling, and the flesh ripped from its bones. “Understand?” Phaedrus snapped sharply, his eyes flashing between them. A few swallowed and looked to their feet—others nodded. A brazen one tore his scimitar from his sheath and met his eye. This could go exceedingly wrong. Phaedrus turned with a flap of his cloak and surveyed the landscape. A blighted smatter of stars lit the dead shrubs, patches of thickets here and there, with a rattlesnake's occasional susurrus. With any luck, it will be slow and gorged, still settling into its new skin. They'd finished lining the circle with doused cloth and dry husks, scrub and brush. Now the air was tense for a lack of things to do, the agony of waiting. He felt he should say something—something assuring, perhaps, give them a smile, a false nothing generals were so fond of before a hopeless task. As he turned to address them, lips parting, a woman sobbed in the distance. The men all looked at each other, faces blanching. Devils. So soon? “Get ready,” Phaedrus hissed, whirling to face the source of the noise. To his annoyance, they did not move. “Now!” A pregnant woman came bursting out of the underbrush, clutching her swollen belly, rivulets of tears cut through the grime on her face. Rags and nomad's clothes marked her as a tribeswoman, dark as the night, her eyes wide almonds. Again, she sobbed, speaking incomprehensibly, in some wanderer's language—but the stench and fell aura of Death hit him in roiling waves, making him bare his teeth. “Now!” The necromancer near-shouted, something inhuman grazing his voice. “You fools! Attack it!” The boys gibbered, backtracking through the dirt—another shouted some expletive, suddenly pointing the scimitar at the back of his neck. “That's no creature,” the man snapped, eyes bulging with disbelief and fear. “You're mad!” “Kill it,” Phaedrus howled, the veneer ripped from his voice, leaving it dripping with unspeakable malice. The next moment, the world went to hell. The woman screamed, mouth stretching in howls of pain, till it was too wide to be anything remotely human—the black discs of her eyes had filled to pits, and she burst forth with blinding speed, hurtling towards them. The sky curtained, the millions of stars closing their bright eyes—the next moment, the dust kicked in a swirl where Phaedrus had teleported, but the man was not so lucky. The Changer had fallen upon him with wild bloodlust, gouging out his throat—a woman's inhuman wail shrieked across the scrubland, the sound of birth, the sound of Hell. Blood boiled out of the hole in his neck, and the woman stretched her neck to sink her teeth into the gurgling wound; the victim twitched, legs spasming as he bled out grotesquely into the soil. Three of the men fled, crashing into the underbrush; the remaining two were anchored to the ground, pallid as though their own necks had been slit. Phaedrus snarled a curse under his breath, then lifted his hands, seizing hold of Death—the necromancer's eyes rolled to the back of his skull, and a low hiss left his throat. Ten arms tore out of the ground, writhing, whipping shadow; one seized the fallen man's scimitar, and the others snapped around the Changer's limbs, pinning it atop the corpse. Its neck thrashed back and forth, hair a black halo. A bloody, gurgling howl left its long throat, a rotting warble. The other arm lashed down in an arc—black blood sprayed from the Changer's neck as its head came half off, swinging grotesquely on sinews. Still, its half-severed head screamed, and its body thrashed, spines and bones popping at unnatural angles, writhing under its flesh like maggots. Phaedrus panted heavily, holding the runes for binding in his mind; the black arms writhed, strained under the contortions of the Changer. Someone was noisily sick—one of the boys had bent over, nearly on his knees. The other still stood strong, eyes flicking from Phaedrus to the pinned beast. The necromancer shook, breath misting from his mouth, gritting his teeth so tightly together his jaw felt like to crack. Again and again, the shadowy arm lashed through the air, driving a blade deep into the Changer's shell. The others scrabbled, slowly dragging the beast backwards, towards the Circle. Someone roared. The man had charged forward, hacking the thing's head off; like a severed lizard's tail, the grotesque neck thrashed, spraying arcs of black ichor, and withdrew into the Changer's shoulders. There was a heaving struggle, and then a third arm burst from its spine, slicing the shadowed arms like paper; too late, the man staggered back, and long claws opened deep gashes across his face, making him crash to the ground. The Changer freed its other shoulder, and it wrenched away from Phaedrus' grip, dragging itself on its belly. Its third hand lashed out, seizing its severed head—to the necromancer's horror, the sinew of its fingers stretched, rippled, reattaching to a grotesque, elbowed neck. The howls started again. It's been in Life too long. It has fed on too many. The cold reality sunk in as another arm snapped, cracked like bones between a dog's teeth. It wouldn't be long before the Changer was free. He could run, teleport, flee this place and warn the villagers. But the most he could travel was a mile—the Changer would be upon him by then, after feasting on the rest of their bones, healed and more powerful than before. He was too weak to banish it to Death outright, and it would not come after him, for he didn't have a heart, did not walk Life in its entirety... Phaedrus' eyes slid to the retching boy in the dirt. But perhaps it can be distracted. The boy was closer to the Circle, and lighter, easier to drag; the man the Changer had savaged was likely to die soon from his wounds, bleeding and blinded. Two lives, or one? Another arm cracked, and the thing slithered on its belly, its teeth lengthening to a horse's, black eyes fixed on the kneeling figure. A coldness bled through his gut, and Phaedrus squeezed his eyes shut. Black hands lashed into the ground, freeing the hideous beast—they sprouted around the boy instead, biting deeply into his flesh with their icy grip. He screamed, in sudden, blind terror—but his spirit was weaker, much easier to subdue. “Mercy!” The boy screamed, tears running down his cheeks, clinging to the fresh stubble. “Mercy—mercy!” The Changer had shaken itself of blood, and was padding on its hands and feet, turning in a swollen circle. “God—God, please!” His hopeless cries rent the air, heavy with sobs. “God, God, please— Mother—” His cries died to blubbering gasps, heart near-stopped in his chest, eyes suddenly rolling back. “Somnis,” Phaedrus whispered, a sort of quiet mercy as the boy twitched and fell into a forced, paralytic waking sleep, his eyes glazed and sightless. He reopened his eyes, lips pressed tightly, jaw set—his hands shook, curled to claws, and the boy's stunned body jolted like a marionette, strung along by the remaining arms and others that rose to join them. The Changer had finally twisted enough, vertebrae roiling under its skin, and lowered its head, eyes sunken to inhuman pits. Its black lips stretched, cracked over bloodied teeth, slavering tongue dropping out of its dislocated jaw. It galloped after the target, loping on its four limbs, neck jerking like a snapped chicken's; Phaedrus dropped the boy into the Circle and the arms snaked back into the ground. He swallowed a lump in his throat, waiting for the grotesque thing to feast—it leapt into the ring and sank its teeth into the boy's neck, fangs clicking as they met in the center of his throat. Phaedrus raised his hands, pouring all his energy into the brush and trash ringing the iron-offering; a white spark burst at its base, and a roar of flames shot up, burning fiercely hot—it licked the flesh of the Changer, and it howled violently, skin crackling, bursting over its twisted bones. It thrashed as the fire consumed it, a column belching smoke to the blighted sky—the thing twisted, flailing, and suddenly burst through the Circle, staggering. No, devils, no! How did it break the wards? Phaedrus' eyes bulged as the thing melted and spasmed, lit like a torch, loosing a hellish screech that chilled his blood and sent a mad ringing through his ears—it pealed until bile was in his throat, and he shook all over, breaking out in a sweat. The necromancer clapped his hands over his ears, writhing in pain, the breath punched from his lungs, the world reduced only to that piercing note. He vomited, suddenly, black liquid splattering the ground; Phaedrus reeled, falling to his knees, and his screams joined the Changer's. White bone crested the melting ichor that ran from its joints, flesh burnt and burst. Still, the eldritch scream echoed through the scrubland, pinning him to the ground like a speared grub. A cold wind suddenly gusted across the plain, throwing dust into the air, fanning the flames ever-higher; Phaedrus felt his vision failing, head a single throbbing point of agony, shutting out all else. He watched dumbly as the thing's bones disintegrated, joining the dust on the wind—the flames, choked of sustenance, fled to the scrub around it, a halo of fire around a writhing, black phantom. It was smoke, and was not; it was liquid in all its forms, and ash, swirling towards the sky. It roiled, screamed, spoke in a blighted Tongue—and then it boiled into a serpentine form, shrinking from the crackling inferno. The spilled torches had joined to a roar, a blaze belching smoke, rolling a wave of incinerating heat towards him. Phaedrus choked and backed up on his palms, trying to scrabble to his feet, but his legs would not obey—the thing's chilling cry had locked them, the note of binding, a hideous thing that could not have been known by a thoughtless Changer. It struck him then. That is not a Changer. It is—was— a necromancer. Eyes bulging, Phaedrus tried to pry his teeth apart, focused on the rune for breaking, the counter-balance to its hideous cry. His lips felt numb, body ice, breaths coming in shallow huffs. The thing had formed itself into a man's shape now, horrible, twisted—its limbs stretched to grotesque thinness, a clay figure twisted and bent into an abomination. Release, release, release! His head was splitting open—surely, surely someone knifed a scimitar through his skull, made his screams die to a hoarse cry, made his lips twitch and peel from his teeth in crazed syllables. Release, release, release! It bloomed closer, a pit opening in its mouth, tendrils of foul darkness clinging like spit. A hand spread like ink, and it twisted away from the leaping flames, leaving behind slithers of oil. Release, release—release! Its grip cracked, a crazed line running down the fringes of his consciousness—Phaedrus thrust up his arm, wildly mouthing words of binding; the Cantara spilled from his lips, rising in crazed chants, his throat sloughed to its vile, dripping darkness, forcing out each word through flesh long-dead, not human, not anything. The thing quivered, shrunk for a moment—like a torch guttering, licking up wildly only to flicker again, parting its fleshless mouth in preparation for another ringing cry. Phaedrus' throat burned, eyes rolling to the back of his head, shaking violently—his arm felt leaden, impossible to keep up for much longer, but the thing was shrinking, forced into an invisible prison, shrieking and clawing at unseen chains. Vomit tanged his throat; another flash of heat boiled over him, the smoke choked his voice, the thing screeched and screeched—he felt his powers slipping, Death rattling shut, the binds of power slipping from his fingertips as the Changer fought. The wind shifted suddenly, throwing the flames in the thing's direction—with a howl and vicious effort, part of its spirit tore from the binds, and it burst forward like a smoke boiling down a tunnel; Phaedrus yelled, his throat cracking, bursting ripe with the final word of binding, feeling ash in his throat, an axe in his head—the thing screamed, and screamed, and he felt its boiling rush of darkness, colder than ice, a freezing river of smoke crashing down, down... And all went black. Edited by Phaedrus, Jun 2 2014, 11:13 PM.
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| Glede | Jun 3 2014, 10:13 PM Post #2 |
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And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.
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Glede did not know whether he believed in the gods. Once, perhaps a year ago, he saw a group of nomad priests sacrifice a captured peasant from Eldahar to Nailah. Whatever else may have been missing from his mind, he was fluent in Ashokan and Common, but the dialect and thick desert accent often made the nomads difficult to understand: All he knew was that they were saying the word “life”, over and over, “rebirth”, stretching tremulous fingers out toward the heavens as the blood ran thick. He imagined himself—he was never a monster when he imagined himself, always a man of flesh and blood, a young man with a pretty round face and small black eyes—pinned out on their stone altar, the knife in his chest instead, tried to imagine what pain felt like. He thought he could remember, in some place in his mind, some place that hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be human. He was sure it would be horrid, like heartbreak but physical, real. He could not imagine that Nailah would love anyone for causing so much pain and death, though the priests argued fervently that she did, and in some ways he found it difficult to pull a counterargument from within himself. What else was there in the world but cruelty? Who was he to judge? Glede did believe in one set of gods, though, as naturally as he believed sand shifted, or the sky was blue over the dunes when no storms shook the deep deserts: He believed in Fukayna, Teremun, and Ma’at. And he had often prayed fervently that when his wretched case finally fell apart, his soul could be delivered somewhere away from the jaws of Kahlid. He prayed that his soul was lighter than his great, heavy, gangly form, so Ma’at would perhaps smile at him and say, You may go: Go where, he couldn’t be sure, but go. Go, for gods’ sakes. Somewhere away from Kahlid, if what the priests said was true, and somewhere away from the body that caged his soul and mind like a dying canary. * * * In Ahmim, they said something terrible had happened: They talked of women and children being taken into the scrublands by a Thing. At first, Glede thought these rumors must be false, for he had existed awhile in the scrublands and had seen nothing of any danger to the townsfolk but the nomads and the animals (who stayed away from anything that looked as though it had been hewn from stone or brick or erected in canvas by a man). Like many dangerous things, the danger of the wolves and the vipers was less that they were monsters out to steal children and more that they were frightened, and frightened things would attack when cornered. Glede knew this in his “heart”, so to speak, because he was a dangerous thing, but only because he was frightened. But Glede knew other things, too, just as well as he believed in the gods of death. Sometimes he would feel a tug at his soul, to turn his feet in a certain direction; sometimes the air smelled like something strange, like what the priests would call filth and the damned. Smell was the wrong word. Glede couldn’t physically smell anything; he knew, however, that something had crept into and altered the borders of his soul, rubbed on him like a friendly cat and then fled, leaving the bitter tang of undeath behind. He’d accosted a traveler on the way out of Ahmim to get news. Even when he put on his kindest voice, assumed his meekest posture, the traveler refused to tell him much, eying him with a suspicion he was no stranger to. Glede gathered, however, that someone had given them a name for the monster, a purpose: The traveler had said it took skins like some shapeshifter, twisted and tore, and was cold, cold. Sounded dead. Sounded wretched. Glede hated dead things. For the most part because he saw himself in them, but also because they did terrible things to people. He found he had a multitude of options: Do you flee? Do you stay, try to make work for yourself in the scrublands? What do you do? He couldn’t go after such a monster himself, and he wasn’t necessarily unsafe himself, given that he had no skin to steal (or no skin that anyone would want to steal). He was frightened, still, of being torn apart like a ragdoll, despite the fact that he had nothing to give. But he was going on fearful hearsay, and still unwont to run with the death-call of his shivering core. He’d erected a ramshackle dwelling out in the scrubs, near a ravine. He tended to do this in many places he went: He had no need of it, but if he should need a safe place to heal anyone he found injured... He decided to stay in the scrublands awhile longer, wondering. * * * He’d come across it at sunset, just before the dirt grew cold, deathly cold. He’d seen the buzzards circling. He’d known what was to come before it came, though he wasn’t expecting this, not precisely. How many sacrifices was this worth? he found himself wondering, numbly, as he walked through the nightmarish parade of half-devoured flesh and maggoty bone. How many goats would you have to gut over the altar to atone for this in Nailah’s eyes? Desert wolves did not do this. Frightened things did not do this. In the dirt he could make out a circle, widened and smeared by the passage of some thing, surrounded by scattered herbs. If he had felt, he would have felt a chill trickle up his spine, raise all the hairs on his arms; nevertheless, he did not, and so could find no other way of accurately expressing his sudden violent discomfort than to put one set of claws on the pommel of the scimitar at his waist. The weapon gave him little comfort. He was sure there was nothing left to use it on, not now. Whatever had done this was far away, stewing in pleasure, no doubt, having glutted itself. He still did not expect the sound of his own voice, harsh and eerie in the clammy, silent air. “O, Ma’at,” he sang, hoarse and off-tune, “o, Ma’at, may you find these men worthy, may you weigh their poor souls lighter than your feather...” I must construct a funeral pyre, he thought absently, flexing his fingers on the scimitar’s hilt. He had no words to describe the awful feeling in his soul; it would have unraveled his guts, had he had them. Now, it merely made him feel empty, a shell, an automaton. I must... But then he caught sight of the red-haired man, lying unconscious at some distance. He moved to the whole man’s side, pressed the cold metal back of his hand to his chest, his cheek, felt something stir in the darkness. He had no heartbeat, no pulse—and yet something in him was alive. Glede felt puzzled; he checked for a heartbeat and a pulse again. His chain rattled in a voluntary shiver. But he is... alive. The pronouncement felt hollow, a shadow of the truth. Alive was not the word he meant. He felt regret that he could not immediately build a funeral pyre for the men, but it would take at least an hour, and the red-headed man might “die”--if that was possible—from the desert winter in the meantime. He felt a thrill of excitement at the thought of finally making some use of his hut. He had things there that he took with him, as a healer; he had dug a pit for a fire, rolled up a fur blanket. If this creature could die of the cold, he would not under Glede’s care. With one last wistful look back at the fallen men, and the promise of a return, Glede spirited the strange, plump little man away, flung over one of his broad shoulders, the metal beanstalk and the jolting corpse-man bumbling through the scrubland together in the darkness of a rising moon. * * * It had taken him a little under an hour to prepare the funeral pyre. He’d wrapped the unconscious man in a blanket and left him by the burning coals in the hut before that. Now, after sending a prayer to the gods of death and watching the fallen men burn, he returned to the hut and settled down near the unconscious man, watching for any movements or signs of waking. Perhaps, he thought, the man wouldn’t wake. Perhaps, he thought with a stroke of fear, this was what had killed the men. They spoke of a beast that stole skins—could it not have stolen this plump, friendly foreigner’s? But why would this strange man be with a group of Ashokan boys? He remembered the Circle again, and clenched his fist with a metallic scrape. He’d registered the man muttering in his sleep for awhile, but now it came to his attention, and with all the other thoughts that were swimming around in his head, it threatened to shove his nerves off into the deep ravine of panic and terror. He wanted the man to wake up, whatever he was, to stop his strange murmuring, his occasional shouting, the eldritch voice that came from his odd womanly face. A lock of red hair had fallen before his eyes, and the low flickering light cast ghoulish shadows on the contours of his chin and cheeks. Glede sat, feeling tall and awkward and yet more small and afraid than ever. “Please wake,” he grated quietly, finding some comfort in even the sound of his own hideous voice. “Please wake—please wake soon...” |
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| Phaedrus | Jun 4 2014, 09:33 PM Post #3 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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Master, he screamed. It was the same scream, pealing from his throat till it bled, till his lungs withered to ash and blew from his lips. Have mercy. Ice bit his wrists. Nausea boiled through his stomach, sapped his strength. His legs spasmed, kicking till they seized and blazed with agonizing fire. Sinews twisted. Every muscle strained against the horrible Word, the fell slither of Death that seared through his mind and left it a burnt wasteland, tore the shrieks from his lungs like white tongs and incinerated every vein. Mercy, mercy, mercy— He saw the knife again. A glint half-glimpsed, an inevitable pain, interminable, unstoppable. Skeletal fingers clutched its hilt, clicking together. There can be no mercy, you know this. The apparition spoke, a slithering hiss, a voice that seized his throat and twisted a dagger in each ear, jerking his head towards it. Raw power dripped from every putrid syllable, poisoned him with a second wave of sickness. Terror swallowed his stomach. I am going to die. A singular thought, pounding, thundering in his mind. Death, actual Death—with broken limbs, broken mind, his life to be unmade by brutal steel. The chains rattled, shook with his own grief, a lament for a hunted deer slaughtered on bloodstone, naked flesh recoiling from the searing cold of the Circle. Why, he'd shrieked wildly. Grief plunged through his ribs, wounding him only as betrayal could—a blade unseen by any man, yet felt by all, slicing before the tip even pierced his chest. His weak limbs shook, starved hands imploring, grasping for reprieve. Why? The apparition had no answer. It never did. It only loomed closer, till its presence split his skull at the seams and loosed a mortal terror in his heart, fluttering wildly, aching to burst and flee its cage. Why? The chains rattled. His voice betrayed tears, raw, weeping. Why? Why? The manacles bit through flesh, scraped bone, but the chill slept in his marrow, struck like a viper. Master—why, Master—answer me, answer why— He did not feel the pain at first. It slipped in neatly, and he heard his sternum crack before the fire lit, blazing through his flesh. Chains lashed and snapped. Warmth bled from his wrists, pouring over his emaciated skin, blotting the floor. He felt himself screaming, did not hear it anymore, head thrown back as blood poured from his chest and baptized the dying flesh, warm, warm, the last time he'd remembered it warm—his scream had been murdered, but continued in his ringing mind, a half-waking dream; he saw, rather than felt—the world's tethers snapped, tugged like the sinews being ripped from the hole that would never be full again, a hollow cavity pooling with stagnant blood. The skeletal hands tore away a heart, dark, pulsing. Red pattered hollowly against stone. Wake, the apparition's horrible voice grated, suddenly. His mind spun; the blighted earth drank his blood, the dark puddle spreading by his limp feet. Wake soon, its chilly hiss commanded, unfamiliar—metal shrieking across metal, a thousand sharpened blades against a plane of stars, icy pinpricks against his vision. Wake... ** A sob choked his throat, strangled his cry. Weak murmurs and panicked pleas had twitched off his lips in his stirring fit, a mantra sung to the black chill of the tent. Terror bloomed into the waking world, pinning his limbs and choking him of breath. His hands had flung up reflexively to his chest, clutching it, still feeling the blood spilling through his fingers. Dying again in his sleep, seeing his life torn carelessly from his breast, a vile, quivering thing that bled its last, opened a pit that would not close. He felt the emptiness now, sunk deep in his chest, and as its chill returned, old disappointment opened like a maw. Phaedrus' fingers twitched, shook, paper-white and fragile—cloth fisted in his hands instead of sinew, one reality swirling away to replace the next, emptying his head and leaving him trembling. Breath rasped from his throat, punched from his lungs, left him speechless and angry, alone, afraid. His eyes opened to darkness, the thrown, quivering shadows of firelight. Fur tickled his feverish flesh—his eyelids fluttered, throat cracked raw. Recollection, more than anything, kept him immobile. Memory of the Changer skewered him to the ground, the smoke-stench and screams of slaughter—the boy's cries ringing in his skull, moving with his own mouth, manacled and broken; but he was the one with the knife now, the one who tore out his heart and let the Dead glut on it, the woman, three men ripping open the first Gate, three men's souls grazing his tether to Death... The tent spun, whirled, a crashing tide following his stomach. Phaedrus screwed his eyes shut again, hands flying off his chest, pinned by his sides. A scream built in that cavern, echoed off its black walls until a thousand cacophonies shrieked back at him, begged for release, but a stone blocked his throat, climbing till it sealed off the barest whisper. His lips twisted, dragged, fists clenched, muscles coiled—till it all left him in a single rush, bled out to the trampled earth and furskin, drank by the cold moon and dead scrubland, empty, empty. I failed. Phaedrus' eyes opened, glazed yellow, limp like a red-haired marionette. He could not weep, had learned not to try—instead he laid as a corpse, his mind blank and frozen over. The butchered Binding had skinned his throat, left his voice howling and inhuman, a failure that would have drowned another caster in their own blood and burnt their lungs to ash. Had he been anything else, had he not been a thing of darkness and false flesh, he would not be waking now. Not alive, not dead, mired between, cold and paralyzed by his own colossal foolishness. Numb, Phaedrus dragged his eyes over the tent, dimly aware of another presence—a human soul, it felt, tainted with fell metal, an echo warped and twisted. What is... Frozen, he turned his head with paralytic slowness, fearing what might await. He'd been carried away, saved somehow... Had a Dead thing followed? But he felt no chill—it truly was something sentient, something alive. Phaedrus' stare fell on a enormous suit of armor, his guts to his throat, tensing immediately. It swallowed half the tent, a spiny tangle of black barbs thrust at the overhanging canvas, thorns made man. Is this my savior? His eyes danced, flickered over the armor, pinging off each wicked spine to the next. Trapped somewhere inside was a mortal soul, whether in flesh or tampered metal—he did not doubt it. Or my captor? “....Who,” the necromancer rasped, his voice inhuman, unrecognizable to his ears. He swallowed, felt it catch in his broken throat. “...Are you?” Edited by Phaedrus, Jun 5 2014, 12:45 AM.
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| Glede | Jun 15 2014, 10:06 PM Post #4 |
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And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.
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“I-I-I--” The man’s mumblings had awakened some old fear in him, of whispering things in the dark and the word “master” on the bloated tongues of a thousand hoarse and broken things. The impressions frightened him because they stirred something within him that he had previously thought lost, even nonexistent—he remembered the quavering, betrayed tone, the old Ashokan, the accent he couldn’t place. The voice was unfamiliar, but the inquiry put something to work in him, turned some gear. Have mercy! Who was “master”? Why did he feel “master” was something he knew—something he’d spoken before himself, in a different voice, in a different body? I haven’t been this thing forever, but-- but why now? He had long left behind the idea that he might stumble across some guide in the unforgiving wasteland that was the world he’d woken to; it would take some effort on his part to discover his past. This was not like the trials the nomad children went through, the ceremonial games to prove their adulthood. No one was watching except, perhaps, for the gods, if they existed, and this man, he was certain, had nothing to do with his strange half-living state. But master-- A distant rattling told him he’d begun to tremble. He mastered himself. P-P-Please wake soon... please wake soon! The sight of the man’s twitching fingers, his finally fluttering eyelids, stiffened Glede’s shoulders like a marionette. The clang-hiss of it filled the tent. But then—o! what was happening? Why did he clench his fists so, tear at the furs—why did he writhe and twist his lips and stir, like a man in a fever? A sudden memory struck him, from nowhere, like a slap to the face: The nomads had put cloth, drenched in cold water, across the brow of one of their youngest, writhing and choking and moaning with a face red as a turnip. But Glede had no water! Water, in the scrublands? He’d had no need for water himself—and how was he to anticipate that he’d need it? The man was pale, though, and Glede sensed something different in him, something odd. Could he be feverish? Was he like Glede, unable, for some unfathomable reason, to catch cold? But all things that breathed and had plump cheeks and red lips could come down with a proper fever. When he grew still and opened his eyes, Glede stiffened—sat. Still. His great hands clasped demurely in the depression of his folded legs, he stared at the red-haired, fragile-looking white man, captured by a certain alien impression, now his eyes were open; he seemed lean and fox-like, feral but with an honest, clear-cut intelligence behind his blank, spectral expression. And then—the voice. “I--” Glede’s had been in a stammer for a few moments now, he knew. But that ungodly sound, expelled as if retched violently from those pretty lips. Barely human. He had become sure that the difference he sensed was true. He tried to command his voice and wished, for perhaps the thousandth time since he’d come into wakefulness, that it was soft and human. “Who I am makes no difference, f-friend. There will be time for introductions later. I--” He raised a hand, palm out, as if in peace. It caused a rustle of chain and tattered black cloth. “I found you—many men have died. You muttered a great deal in your sleep. Your voice is hoarse.” Rather an understatement, he reflected, but who was he to question the abnormalities in other voices? Perhaps men’s voices possessed this quality after tragedy or panic struck. “The scrublands and the desert can be cold at night. You might have died. I made—I made a funeral pyre for the other men, so that they would find Ma’at and go where they might. You were the only survivor. “Oh, what happened? Are you hurt? I bound and cared for what I could, but the chill was the greatest danger to you there. I feared whatever killed your companions would return. Who are you, man, before I introduce myself?” He suddenly felt he was babbling, as was his wont under these circumstances. He clenched and unclenched a fist, dropping his raised hand back to his lap. Another tremble took him, rattling, but subsided before he could make an embarrassment of himself in front of his strange guest. Edited by Glede, Jun 15 2014, 10:07 PM.
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| Phaedrus | Jun 17 2014, 12:20 PM Post #5 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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The voice grated, strikingly harsh in the hushed chill of the tent. Phaedrus did not dare to move, eyes fixed on the bizarre creature before him—a thing he felt more and more to be a construct, now that he'd had a proper look; hearing the tinny echo of a soul, a voice trapped and bound to creaking metal. He reeked of bindings, of magic chiseled into that clanking flesh, moved by a tethered spirit. Such a thing... The horror of his waking bled out, caught in his throat as a dry swallow. Who commands it? Who does it follow? Could it be the relic of the necromancer? The thought struck him, ferreted him further under the sheets—thought of the howling cold roared in his ear, the rune that locked his legs, left him a seizing, powerless. But why would such a thing save me...? His fingers curled under the furskin, grasping for purchase to cease their sudden trembling. Phaedrus watched the construct as one might a feral animal, unwilling to break into movement or show little else but caution. The chains clinked as the creature—man?—moved, a strangely delicate motion for a suit of armor so large and wicked, disturbing in its humanness. Many men have died. Fire. Pouring smoke, eyes lit like coals. The Changer's neck cracked around, its jaw hanging open, boring him down with black pits. Mercy—have mercy! That fatal click; the punch of loss as another soul was snapped by the First Gate, reeling down Death's gullet. The tent had begun spinning again, his breathing coming stiffly, fingers clutching the fur. Vomit threatened to rise—but he steadied himself with fluttering eyelids, lips pressed white. He gathered his swirling mind, forced himself to wrench back to the dimness of the tent, the creaking figure and its whetstone throat. Phaedrus nodded, dumbly, its words catching in his mind. Burnt them? The necromancer stared with burning curiosity, a newfound amazement, should the thing be speaking truth—the fear that the Changer might glut itself further rolled like stones off his back, easing at least some of the burden. What manner of construct is this? Is it... benign? He did not sense the black claws of something digging into its spine, twisting limb and lip. Only a singular, lonely soul, caught in a barbed prison, stammering so. You were the only survivor. Phaedrus nodded slowly, once, letting the weight of the construct's words seep into his mind, silt it, sink his body deeply into the mat. But he felt tense, still, questions jumping in his mouth, running laps in his head. He waited till the construct had quite exhausted itself, not sure what to make of its tone—emotion and intent was difficult to gauge in the steely rasp of the armor, making even the kindest words harsh and unsettling. The necromancer noted the clenching and unclenching fist, the absurdity of the thing's nervousness—a sight that might have amused him in another time, seeing a deathly suit quiver so. At last, he prized his parchment-dry lips open, eyes darting around the darkness of the thing's face, the spikes lit red by flames. “I...” his own voice disgusted him, rolled out like oily smoke, all but dripping off his lips. He cleared his throat fruitlessly, winced—tried again, to no avail, for the flesh had curled and burnt off, leaving only the quivering blackness beneath. “I am... a traveler. A sorcerer.” He felt the cold mist in his breath, hand creeping to his throat as if it might silence such a ghastly croak, lips twisted in revulsion. “I stopped at Ahmim, in my travels—I was in a tavern—” his colossal foolishness crashed over him in a wave, dizzied that it might have been only a night ago; it seemed a world away, that blighted, dusty town with its hard-eyed villagers. Wincing, he struggled on. “—when a woman came in. Screaming. A monster had taken someone, she said, a shifter. From what I... gathered, it was a Dead thing, one that would only grow stronger unchecked. So we took a group of six men... to hunt it, so I might banish it.” His teeth felt cold, his tongue moreso, lips numb. A pause stretched after his words—Phaedrus felt the dirt caked under his fingernails, the dust upon his palms from falling. “Three... ran. Three died as we forced it into a—trap, the circle, you might have seen—and I...” He coughed, tasted ash and bloodsmoke, stomach lashing. Phaedrus steadied the hand on his throat, eyes growing hard. “We destroyed its skin—left its true form exposed. I attempted to bind it with magic, to send it back to... Death. But it was too strong—it attacked, and I had no choice...” he cut off in a spluttering, sudden cough, an unpleasant cold slime sliding down the ruin of his throat. Phaedrus choked a moment, gurgled, lurched forward—the tent spun violently as he sat straight up, coughing wetly into his fist. After a moment of ragged, phlegmy wheezing, he wiped dark strands from his lips, shuddering and swallowing whatever cold ichor had seeped into his mouth. Swiftly, the necromancer hid his stained hand, rubbing it upon his own clothes; head spinning, Phaedrus wheezed, eyes weaving back up to the stranger. “F-forgive me.” He clasped a clean hand to his lips, waiting for the spasm to pass, and took a deep breath. At last when he felt assured he would not sputter, he slowly removed his fingers, letting his hand flop into the furskin. “In fighting this thing—my craft backfired, and injured my throat.” Swallowing had become an effort, words cloying hoarsely. “I managed to weaken it, at least—it is roaming, I've no doubt, crippled and without form. But it is still dangerous.” He feared another paroxysm would seize him, and paused, one hand fisted to his lips; his throat ached deeply, chest jumping up and down. Seven hells, damn it all! There is no hope of fighting in such a state! Still, the sight of a scimitar did not escape him, the great bulk and inhuman strength of such constructs; Phaedrus' eyes roved over his... healer? and fixed somewhere in the pit of his face, slowly easing back down into the furskin. He had to rest awhile before continuing, breathing labored, still regarding the construct with a keen stare. He bound me, cared for me... It was then he noticed the fabric bunched around his forearm and calf, shielding wounds he did not remember getting, had not felt... had he fallen? Rolled, seized? Only a blur of fire and sand answered him, the scrublands smoking in the shape of a twisted horror. “Thank you,” Phaedrus rasped quietly, after a long stretch of silence. “You saved my life.” He scarcely thought he'd die from the cold, but that was hardly pertinent—he'd saved him from much, much worse. Thought of the Changer's clicking horse teeth made him take a deep breath, one hand flattening over his belly. “Now... might you tell me who you are? How did you come to find us? Are you... alone?” He jerked his chin, as if to indicate the starry world beyond the tent, the icy pinpricks covering a swath of dead land, peering coldly down the ravines and gorges that cracked it. |
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| Glede | Jun 22 2014, 10:37 PM Post #6 |
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And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.
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Glede was, on a whole, not unaccustomed to the prying and tremulous eyes of men--men and other things, things that breathed and walked and possessed eyes and flesh. Even things that were not men but were capable of taking the likeness of them--even these things looked on him as, at best, a novelty and a curiosity. So fixed eyes and curling fingers had acquainted themselves with him before. He could not bring himself to blame the small red-haired man for his fear, and especially not after he’d related his terrible tale. The Construct sat still through most of it, though he bent once to prod the fire with a poker he took from nearby. The eldritch story, told in its croaking, drawling way, transfixed him, and once he’d relinquished his poker he could only sit with his hands clasped at his armored chest. He forgot the way the other creature looked at him: Now his mind swirled with fear and speculation, a torrent that whisked him further down the tunnels of curiosity. It is... so much worse than I could have ever imagined. The great shadow shifted and nearly rose as the traveling sorcerer lurched and hacked. There was little the Construct could do in the way of helping him, of course, but he felt foolish and impotent sitting with his hands clasped in his lap, staring dumbly. But as the spasm subsided, he sank back, creaking and uttering a quiet noise of distress. “That is--that is a terrible thing,” he said at last, fingers fidgeting over one another with long metallic scrapes. “It is worse than I thought. I imagined some desert beast, such as they speak of in legend, or... or even... some minor foe, but--but not a Dead thing.” The phrase sent a ripple of deja vu through him, which gathered and sank as a pit in his metaphorical stomach. His entire being felt off and wrong and he could not put his finger on why, due in no part to the unfamiliar-yet-wholly-familiar presence of the stranger-sorcerer. But what business could he have ever possibly had with necromancy, or with this Dead-thing-banisher? A gentle, thoughtful rumble thrummed through his being, filled the air of the tent. Outside, the wind on the scrublands rose, humid but full of the winter’s chill. The other man, he was sure, could not be a necromancer himself, because necromancers summoned dead things. They did not banish them. Yet even about him--and the Construct had saved him with a purpose, and tended to him, and feared for him, and grown fond of him--was the whiff of the unnatural and the hollow. This, indeed, was precisely what set off alarm bells all along his already shivery frame, filled him with inexplicable misgivings. He had noticed the circle, and though he knew nothing of magic and magicians’ markings, he recognized it as a Dark thing, an Unholy thing, and was not sure he felt comfortable trusting anyone who had drawn such a thing. Even if it bound and banished, those same ingredients and symbols could be used, surely, for other purposes. And the man’s voice--did mere throat injury do that? But Glede, as ever, found himself unsure of his own analysis. He started and clenched a fist uncomfortably at the man’s thanks. “Oh. I--It was nothing. I was distraught to see such a massacre in the scrublands. It was nothing less than a blessing from Nailah that... there was at least one survivor.” The shifter in his head was a vague picture, a moving, revolting thing that tore men to bits; at the mention of the massacre, his stomach flipped and the image of limp, dead bodies rose once more to his mind like bloated corpses to the skin of a river. “How... How brave of you, to risk so much. Even if you did not kill it, stranger, you fought back, and so it was an honor to tend to you. “As for... who I am... of--of course.” Something in his manner changed. For a moment he’d leaned forward, throwing ghoulish shadows on the canvas, full of powerful and obvious emotion: His hands grasped at the empty air. Now he settled back, the set of his shoulders stiffening, and his entire countenance seemed to close. He recovered the poker where he’d laid it down and drew a few fingers across it, listening to the hoarse, dull noise. “You never told me your name, traveler-sorcerer-hero-from-afar. But that is fine with me; I do not exchange names like men exchange coins in bribery. My name is worth nothing. I call myself Glede.” He tapped his sharp fingertips on the length of the metal poker. “I am alone, as I have always been. I have no mortal connections. So--you need fear nothing. We are alone here. “I came to find you because I... I wander these places, for lack of better occupation. I am a healer, stranger. It is my gods-given duty to go to remote places and seek out the injured, such as yourself. I may appear fearsome, but it is only the vessel Nailah has chosen to place me in for the duration of this turn of the wheel of life: Please, do not think I am an enemy simply because I am strange. I am alone, and I merely intended to save your life because that is what I do.” A pause; he repeated: “I am, after all, a healer. As I said.” He set the poker down and leaned forward, massive frame squeaking and scraping. “Now, are you alone, stranger? Have you no one to come to your aid out here? What will you do? Surely... you do not plan to seek that... thing... on your own. It would be foolhardy.” |
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| Phaedrus | Jun 24 2014, 08:01 PM Post #7 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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A massacre. The way he spoke of it made him ill—the praise that fell hollow, regardless of its kind intent. The word hero burnt him like a poker, seared its wrongness into his conscience. You've no idea what happened. Screams clawed at the back of his mind, raised his hackles—the necromancer could only sink back, remaining uncomfortably quiet. His lips had pressed into a thin line, tugged to a discreet frown—he could not muster a response, or accept his own failure. The work was unfinished. The Dead would feed again, and all their efforts would be wasted. “I am no hero,” he murmured quietly, scarcely over a breath. “A fool, perhaps.” A tuft of fur twisted away in his fingernails, making him suddenly aware he'd been plucking wildly at the blanket. He stopped, hand going limp. The least he owed the construct was a name—it meant nothing in itself, dust on the wind, free of title or pomp or ethnicity. He'd plucked it from a philosophy book, and for now it was his own, but it had no permanence. Simply another mask. “...All names are nothing, in the end. I go by Phaedrus.” The necromancer tensed, suddenly, when Glede began speaking—the shadows lurched in the tent, form creaking forward; with the memory of the necromancer burned so freshly in his mind, he half-expected the poker to skewer him, but—nonsense, nonsense! The gauntlets clutched at air; the construct creaked, groaned, shoulders bunched in a human expression of grief. Phaedrus watched him with a cold, brisk stare, drinking in the clanking joints and weighing the truth of his rasped words. My name is worth nothing. I call myself Glede. The name meant nothing to him, a breath on air—but he could not shake a familiarity with the necromantic aura rolling off his seal, the bindings a viper tightened around a human soul. But who? Who would make such a thing? It bespoke vile skill, a thing made to cut and maim—masters did not give their healers the body of black knights. He felt little doubt the scimitar strapped to the construct's side had been used for battle, that the great, clanking frame and wicked spines spoke of a bloody intent. He speaks of gods, of faith—Nailah, Nailah; and Ma'at, the Judge? Archaic names trickled into his working mind, gods plucked from superstitious nomads and mosque-goers. No... there is no master in those seams, no Dead thing tugging upon his limbs. Curiosity had begun to wedge past suspicion, and the necromancer could only nod, sinking further back into the furskin. How odd, that he repeats his occupation so often—to convince me, or convince himself? Still, those words—how true they rang, and how he'd found himself at the ill end of it, many a time. They were alike in some ways, both born of necromancy. The only difference is that I can choose my face... He felt a strange sort of solidarity, then, the stirrings of pity. Phaedrus exhaled deeply, suddenly exhausted again. A wet cough shuddered and died in his chest, swallowed painfully. He could only shake his head lightly, eyes closing for a sweet, brief respite. “You are right,” he croaked dismally. “Such a thing would be foolhardy.” An ill-content pause stretched after his words, dragging a greasy anger behind it. At last, he took a deep breath, eyes reopening and fixing on the ceiling. “I am alone, yes; merely a passing traveler. But for you, I'd have none to aid me. You must forgive my stares and initial suspicion. You see, I had reason to believe the Dead thing... was once a necromancer; and, forgive my bluntness, Glede, but I understand it is not flesh that moves your suit.” A crescent smirk struggled to his face, waned. “I am... not afraid. I know precisely what you are, you needn't explain. I only feared that... Thing might have... some hand...” he tapered off, murmur faltering. Best to stop before I secure a grave. There is no kind way of pondering that someone might work under that Changer. Then, there was little he could do; if he was wrong and the creature meant to kill him, where would he go? “...Foolish... thought. There is nothing of that devil here.” His fingers gripped the fur, fidgeted, plucked at it absently. He'd still not answered a question, he realized belatedly, the conversation aswirl in his mind. “...I do not know what I shall do,” the necromancer murmured, finally. Admitting the indecision felt like a failure on its own, humiliation searing his cheeks. “I am in no state to confront it. But I also cannot let it walk free when it is so close to Death.” |
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| Glede | Jun 29 2014, 06:22 PM Post #8 |
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And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.
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One who saved someone or something else was a hero. The definition of “saved” lay at the center of the concept, and could vary—whether in the preservation of a library or another life. There lay the heroism of healers: In mending often fatal wounds, they rescued a Thing (in their case, a Life) that would have otherwise been lost. But heroic warriors and wizards threw themselves into harm’s way in the name of preservation as well, and often at more cost to their physical well-being. Cost and selflessness played a great deal into the nebulous concept of heroism. You could not be a hero thinking of yourself. In fact, one became a hero the moment they stopped thinking of themselves. Glede peered at the pale Southerner wrapped in furs, musing. He might have been humble. Glede, certainly, would never have called himself a hero, not even if he thought he was one; such would send the whole structure of heroism he’d built tumbling down, to lie shattered at the feet of wicked pride. Ma’at, he would wager, did not care much for self-proclaimed heroes, because if you were a self-proclaimed hero, then you acknowledged your self, and therefore stopped being selfless. A Good Man would deny his heroism to the ends of the earth, as the sorcerer just had. Yet—he delivered the denial dismally, and his name with even less enthusiasm. Glede had been around long enough to understand shock, guilt, though he could only fathom them from afar: He’d never gotten close enough to mankind to do (or not do) anything for which he might feel some great, paralyzing regret. He had hurt and frightened humans, but he’d always understood, in some way, that it wasn’t his fault, no matter how greatly the burden of fault seemed to weigh on his bowed head. So he’d felt shame, but never quite regret. Perhaps he’d not been shocked enough. Very little could shock you, when on looking in the mirror daily you saw that. All names are nothing, in the end. What did this man see when he looked in the mirror? The thought sprang unbidden to his mind. “Not so,” wheezed Glede’s rusty, ethereal baritone. It seemed to kindle with some benevolent, childish enthusiasm. “Sometimes... names are all we have. And yours is a good one—Phaedrus. It is a pleasure to meet you, Phaedrus. The name sounds Sotoan: Is this whence you hail?” He decided not to “reassure” the sorcerer that he was, indeed, a hero. For once, fortune had smiled upon his thought processes; it had occurred to him not to contradict a man who might as well have been dragged from the jaws of Hell on why exactly he was a hero for having jumped in. He shifted with some discomfort at Phaedrus’ next words, at the wryness that had begun to flush through his voice. Well, at least he concedes to one thing. He’d felt a pang of fear and guilt at the thought of the weary redhead charging back out into the same danger that had flung him thusly off the path; now, at least, he could be assured that he was aware of the danger. Not that he wouldn’t be—how silly a thought! Who was the more experienced sorcerer in the room? Nevertheless, the entire concept of necromancy set Glede a-shiver. Which was why the connection Phaedrus had drawn disturbed him—more terribly than anything else about the situation. He had long grown accustomed to fear, but this man had been thrown from conflict with a necromancer. He could hardly be driven off by a few spikes. Nay, it was likely the knowledge that nothing remotely human lay inside them-- A small, choked noise slipped from within Glede’s helm; a shudder ran through him with a sound like the vague echo of a rung bell. “I am pleased you understand. That there is no... misunderstanding between us.” The words seemed small and frail even in his terrible voice. “Nailah save my poor, stranded soul. I would rather die than have any association with such a foul daemon-creature. “W-Well.” He felt ashamed at his own expression of shame, suddenly, and shifted awkwardly again. His voice had more strength when he began again: “No, no, I think it would be most unwise to let it roam so. But you... are in no condition to go after it alone, certainly. I...” He paused, contemplative, clenching and unclenching his fingers. “If you... were to wait another night here, you might find—reinforcements elsewhere?” Once more he pictured the fallen men, strewn about the field: No reinforcements would help there. Mowed down like their predecessors, no doubt. “I... I am... sorry. This is terrible, and I know of no way to help you. Unless—unless I were to accompany you. I will admit, I... am stronger than most men, and a healer might benefit you greatly. But I could not, I could not. Such a creature would leave me in pieces, surely, no different than the men of flesh. What a foolish thought.” What a fool you are, Glede. That sort of heroism is not for you. |
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| Phaedrus | Jun 29 2014, 10:49 PM Post #9 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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Sometimes... names are all we have. How true, that biting irony. In a way, it was a thing to call his own--a name he'd plucked for a single purpose. Ever-changing, but for that span of time, truly his own devising and choice. And yet… calculated, a fabrication carrying the weight of an idea or culture, artificial purely because he had designed its own past, not lived it. Even now, he saw it working. The name sounds Sotoan: Is this whence you hail? "Yes." A mechanical nod drove his head, and the necromancer closed his eyes again, struggling to keep them open now that the immediate fear had passed. "A lovely place, albeit… too cold." The words murmured off his lips. It soothed him somewhat, to think on the shuddering boughs, the pristine fields of white he'd left behind. So different, so far-flung from the crackling heat and chaos. His head spun; thankfully the construct had known better than to drive the point, inquiring nothing of his deeds or purpose here. He did not think he could bear it, not when the knowledge of what he'd done swelled up within his chest, suffocated his breathing. The colossal foolishness of it all--his own hubris, presumption… At length, he opened his eyes, waited for the spell of dizziness to pass. "And you? A most unique name, Glede…" His small talk probed for other answers, a friendly return shrouding barbs. The necromancer awaited a response, wondered if perhaps he'd overstepped, thrown the construct into a gross awareness of his necromantic condition; the great suit of armor rattled--whether in fear or anger, he could not tell--and a bell's hollow echo filled the tent. Phaedrus held his breath, watching Glede for any hint of fell movement or aggression, but… the tension drained from his limbs, left him sighing softly. How frail, how tremulous those words! The effect was grotesque on his rasping tongue, but Phaedrus sensed no malice. And again, that mention of Nailah; so strange, that faith shone so brightly in such a blighted thing, drove his every clank and action. He could not fathom believing in a god--could not imagine giving himself over to an intangible cause, flipping over scripture and finding rules by which to live. Constantly cowed, hounded and guilted--no agency, none at all! Attributing all to some faceless smoke, living and dying by invented whims. Devils, no. He'd not had much experience with disciples; the construct's piousness gave him pause, made him unsure of a response. "Good." The breath blew from his lips. Phaedrus sagged back into the blanket, a look of relief crossing his features. "And you shan't, because I will sooner drive it to Death." An arrogant thing to murmur so weakly into a furskin, eyelids sagging. His lips twitched into a snarl. A vendetta had boiled in his spirit, made him resolute in his intention to kill. Certainly not today, but… His eyes reopened, flashed with new vigor as the construct speculated. Reinforcements? He fought to keep the scoff from escaping, fingers curling. No. There will be no reinforcements. Going back to Ahmim in failure was no option. The village meant widows and grieving mothers--he could not show his face, walk unharmed while three bodies burnt on the wind. Anger lashed; his lips twisted, something violent crossing his eyes. Then Glede offered himself--the necromancer all but shot up upright, intense stare swiveling to fix on the great construct. Phaedrus noted the scimitar, his mind already turning--but just as swiftly, he'd stammered himself out of it. No! The man's lips twitched, fingers fisting uncertainly upon the furskin. He licked his parched lips, cursed the hideous croak of his voice. "Your sword," Phaedrus cracked, struggling upright. "Do you fight…?" His eyes narrowed, brows drawn. "I can… enchant it, to make it ward Dead. It will take time--a day, perhaps more, but-- its flesh will not stand against your blade. I am… no swordfighter--" he coughed briefly, indicated the softness of his belly, "--but you…" His lips pressed to thinness, nearly vanished. "…I hate to ask such a thing of you. But necessity forces the hand. There will be no reinforcements. Three men are dead because they fought to protect their families." He let the weight of those words fall--swallowed, eyes flashing in the furious pause. "It has picked them off, one by one, and the more it kills, the greater its hunger. It will slaughter everyone if left unchecked. And now there is a chance to kill this vile thing. If you can fight--truly fight, then do not let their deaths be in vain." He leaned back on his elbows, struggling to keep his torso up. The necromancer stared into the construct's face, prayed some sense of heroism would banish fear; his breathing felt shallow, arms trembling lightly, some blood still smeared upon his face. "Please." The room spun, reeled--he fought to keep it under control, cursing his physical weakness. "Help… them." Struggling, the necromancer fell back into the furskin, face twisted in a wince. |
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| Glede | Jun 30 2014, 06:26 PM Post #10 |
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And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.
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At the first confirmation, Glede regarded Phaedrus with a tilt of his head; he set the poker aside and folded his great metal hands in his lap. With the sorcerer’s pale skin, his Sotoan name and origins came as no surprise, though the man’s fluency in the Ashokan tongue bespoke many years spent in the North. That, coupled with his apparent experience, marked him as a well-traveled creature. The Construct had a great admiration for the well-traveled: Ignorance was often the closest companion of reclusiveness. He hoped his own rambles had, or would eventually, give him this enviable quality. Too cold, though—Glede felt a pang of curiosity. He knew the desert to be cold at night, simply because he’d found men dead and heard that the cold winds struck the life from them. He couldn’t imagine what a Sotoan winter would be like, then, if such a well-traveled man had an aversion to them. “I may visit Soto,” he began, hesitant, with a dip of his head. “I have never been far from Ashoka. I have... also never seen snow. Cold—I cannot... feel cold, and so I doubt that such a difference in climate would bother me. “I?” He found answering questions about himself generally to be avoided—he wrung his hands, glanced this way and that, though little of his nervous energy could be seen by any but those with a practiced eye. What escaped the shadows beneath his hood sounded almost like a laugh. “I am from Ashoka. As I said, I have never ventured far from my homeland. And as for—as for my name--” Something him lurched. Vague recollection shocked his mind into some dull, waking retrocognition, setting his nerves aflame. In the darkness, there had always been a voice. Glede—fell them! Fell them all! Rivers of blood sought cracks in the parched soil, nesting and bubbling. Dull eyes filled with the white sky. He raised his scimitar and brought it down, raised it and brought it down. Strike their heads from their bodies-- And again, and again, in a cacophony of metal screeching and blood and the scent of terror. Quivering lips still parted with dying pleas. Glede... The blood that dripped from his scimitar was thick and hot. This memory had always been with him, among the others. The others were different—stretching out a man’s whole, fleshly hand to push the bangs back from a woman’s sweaty brow, for example; shouting at an old woman with sunken eyes and generous lips, who looked at him like a mother looks at her son; seeing the reflection of a tired-looking man, briefly, in a clouded window, before feeling an impact to the back of his head. In the others, he possessed the body and will of a man. But not in that dream of the past, the one he prayed was untrue. Unknowingly, he’d clenched his hand; he now relaxed it. “It is unusual, I suppose. It is not my name. I do not know, truth be told, what my name is; I took ‘Glede’ from a... book. A glede is an ember.” He stared into the fire, at the hot coals, and mused a moment more on the irony. And you shan’t, because I will sooner drive it to Death. He lifted his head—jarred at the question. “Fight?” The word felt dead in the air between them, but lingered, dripped on like hot tar. He could not rid his mind of that horror show. “I can. I believe I have the... reflexes. But I do not like to fight, Phaedrus.” The period rung clear. Nevertheless, the sorcerer’s offer and mention of the Dead gave him pause. Did his pacifism extend to wretched, blasted creatures, such as the one that massacred those men? Normal blades could not cut through this demon, so hellish was it. For awhile he sat, thinking, perched on the precipice between yes and no, wanting nothing more than to run away. Then: If you can fight--truly fight, then do not let their deaths be in vain. The Construct sagged in his seat, let out a noise as if the wind had been beaten from him. He watched the sorcerer sink back into the furs in pain; when he spoke again, concern lit his voice. “Careful—careful. Do not push yourself. I can see that you are no fighter—that you were none, and are certainly in no shape to fight now.” He fixed Phaedrus with his gaze, unreadable. “This... is fair. Do not apologize. I would rather be of some help in this... dire situation... than sit, useless, while more men die. Than make their deaths in vain. “I will do whatever you need of me. I swear that you will not have to return to Ahmim and tell them that your monster still roams the scrubland—together, we will snuff it out.” He reached for the hilt of his sword, and, grasping it, pulled it from the sheath and laid it out before his crossed legs. The glow of the coals caught the dulled, scarred, but once-wicked edge, the old stains on black metal. He examined it, silent. |
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| Phaedrus | Jul 2 2014, 08:38 PM Post #11 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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Visit Soto? The thought of the construct—clanking, creaking—lumbering its way to the border crashed through his mind. Snagged and scratched by the No'bu, drawing stares in Madrid's taverns... but he knew of snow, and was learned enough to tell a Southern name. He wondered at this thing—wondered at his life, what sort of... person they had been before such darkness took them. Dead? Murdered? Drawn from the Gates or fresh from life? The Makers are the foulest. The Makers and Binders, devils all. Ichor bubbled to his throat again, and Phaedrus had to nod through a small splutter, wincing as he choked it down. When he reopened his eyes, pain glazed them—but the necromancer listened wordlessly, taking a deep, steadying breath. Ashoka is his homeland... Since—birth, could it be called? Or creation? Phaedrus watched, watched, his yellow eyes dancing, wondering at the fell breath of magic he still sensed. Longed to pluck and pull at the squealing joints, to graze a hand over the runes, to see, to see— Is he a thing of Alloces' making? His eyes darted from limb to limb, to the abyss of the construct's face. Absurd—impossible; his master was not the only necromancer to walk the desert. But—the scrublands? No... perhaps there were other apprentices, perhaps there were others that had been like him, were like him... Still, that familiarity! If not in name and presence, than in the Art. He hungered, felt something kindle in him, something that lodged a rock in his throat and stole his attention from Glede's words. ...An ember? “You...” the word croaked, silenced by a cough, attempted again. “...Do you care for books?” He knitted his fingers over his chest, curious—wondered where he'd obtained such a thing, given the sparseness of the tent and materials. “You speak of Ma'at and Nailah... have you read the Scriptures, then?” Phaedrus waited, tensing, his breath hinging on the construct's next words—how he jumped, so, looked rattled by the very mention of fighting. Damnable weakness! He could not struggle upwards again, resigned to his spent limbs and tired prison; his lips pressed tightly, eyes burning, breath caged. The reflexes. Another time, he'd have been tempted to laugh shrilly, simply gazing at the enormous construct. Do not say no. You cannot. Together, we may have a chance, but myself, alone? Impossible... Glede's comment struck him, a careless backhand that twisted his lips, striking the barb ever-deeper. He thought to snip back, to defend himself, but the boy's bloodcurdling scream silenced him, sealing off any answer he may have had. Phaedrus' breathing shallowed, eyes fixed, dreading the outcome should the construct decline—a thousand guilts popped to his mind, a thousand sophistries, but... I will do whatever you need of me. He sagged back into the furskin, limbs drained, eyelids fluttering—a deep sigh peeled off his lips, curtailed by a short wince. Some of the lines smoothed from his face, the flit of his jaw stilled, furrows gone; the face of a pained young man lolled back, the word a breath off his lips. “Thank you.” He could scarcely speak, the dagger twisted—pain lashed him for his transgression. “Thank... you.” Louder, less feeble, its strength gained from relief. He would not stare those men in the eye. He would not return to Ahmim, not yet, not in failure. “I will... temper... your sword... as soon as I am... able.” The words rode on little lulls of pain, made the breath snort from his nostrils between. Phaedrus squeezed his eyes shut, reopened them to a hazy world—swallowed the next well of ichor that chilled his throat. After a pause, he extended his hand, fingers curled weakly—the grasp of a corpse, eyes burning as they fixed upon the scimitar's hilt. Even from here, he could see it was no normal blade. The light of the fire did not catch like it would upon steel; its length was dull, scarred... black. He'd expected regular metal—had not expected the warding to last much more than a few days before the blade started to corrode, but... could it be? He did not trust his blurred vision, or the darkness of the tent. A curious rasp left him. “Might I... see...?” |
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| Glede | Jul 4 2014, 12:25 PM Post #12 |
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And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.
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Glede knit his fingers in his lap and tilted his head back; his empty gaze scanned the canvas roof, where the fire’s light made ghoulish shadows squirm. “Some books,” he rasped. “What I have been able to find. Not... much, I fear. I would like more.” The nomads had been shaky on the legitimacy of man-made writing against faith and the stories told down through the ages, the elders to the young’uns that would become elders and relate their elders’ stories to new young’uns, as it had been and as it would be. Existence against the the spitting fury of the sun and the cracked earth took priority over book-learning, which could soften and distract. Therefore, the nomads had ever held that the gods frowned upon certain types of book-learning, and that this was the territories of devils that wished to steal children away and fatten them up for the desert predators. But Glede felt differently, though he could not fathom why. Perhaps merely because he had no need to maintain a healthy physique, or hunt, or fix his mind on anything but wandering and wondering, soaking up facts and theories. He felt, though, that learning had always been sacred to him, even before. The idea of a ‘sorcerer’, even, like the one who sat before him—one who knew much, who had delved and experienced as well as read, but done a great deal of reading too—spoke to him, tore at his soul and filled him with excitement. There was much to be learned from sorcerers, he realized of a sudden, sitting there: Perhaps something about his own origins. His head jerked back down at Phaedrus’ next inquiry, and he fixed him with a steely glance, watching him splutter. The clasp of his hands tightened and his frame leaned forward, a great amber-lit shadow behind the smouldering firepit. “I—I have read the Scriptures. Oh, yes.” Eagerness animated his words; then, hesitation. “Or, I... believe I have. They are here in my head and I can quote them, but I... awoke thus. With them here, ready to be called upon whenever I should need them, as if I had memorized them and could not forget.” He tapped his helm, then gestured vaguely, suddenly abashed. “See, I was not always... like this—with nothing beneath the armor, as you say? I was not always so. I am certain that I was a man before. I read the Scriptures then, and they are among the few things I can recall. “But—why do you ask, Phaedrus? Are you, too, a man of theology? W-Working... miracles, banishing things which are dead and should not walk but do—it is truly Nailah’s work, for she cannot approve of their walking.” He sighed, shrinking back. He had been bold--how wretchedly embarrassing. Why should a white-skinned, red-haired Sotoan follow the old gods? They were not even the gods of his land, ‘true’ gods or not; few of the light-eyed folk cared to study the Scriptures of their Northern neighbors, and fewer cared to believe what they read. Nevertheless, this man had spent time in Ashoka, this was doubtless, and he knew enough about the Scriptures to bring them up—the question, then, was harmless, surely? Once again he felt a sort of zealous excitement well up in him. What if he was a foreign convert? A sorcerous foreigner, and a practitioner of the old Ashokan religion. How much must he know about all things metaphysical and holy? Another pained spasm broke off the stream of his thoughts. Would that there was something I could do! He could fathom no alternative than healing-by-rest: the Dead-banisher’s wounds and weariness were beyond his healing capabilities, both magical and medical. He seemed young, lying there, as young as Glede felt, delicate face nestled in the furs, and for once Glede wondered idly how old he was. By his face, he could not have been older than thirty, but the Construct felt like a child beside him. Surely, however, this was because he felt like a child beside everyone: He practically was, ghosts of a past life aside. Phaedrus’ gratitude struck him to his metal heart and left him sitting there, waiting, staring, numb as if his entire body had fallen asleep and refused to move. No one had ever told him thank you before. “Of course—of course,” he blurted, jolting at the mage’s inquiry and outstretched hand. He picked up the weapon, hands gripping the blade carelessly, and offered Phaedrus the hilt. The low fire threw sparks, illuminating his outstretched arm from beneath, setting the graceful arc of the scimitar’s blade alight with bloody orange. “Take care, for it is most heavy. I would not have you struggle with it in your current state.” Truth be told, he’d no idea how heavy the scimitar was; he picked it up with ease, but that was not exactly telling. No one else had ever held it, to his knowledge. “It has... dulled in the past two years. I have used it not at all... would not, not for the world, use it to hurt anyone. I thought of ridding myself of it—it causes unpleasant images to come into my mind—but...” He shifted with a great shivering of metal. “Do you recognize the make of my blade, Phaedrus? Sometimes you look at me as though there is... something... familiar. Forgive me if I broach an uncomfortable subject.” |
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| Phaedrus | Jul 12 2014, 02:47 PM Post #13 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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He almost regretted asking, for no answer he could give would be satisfactory. Excitement sounded in the construct's voice—his great, clanking body became animated of a sudden, the first time confidence and assurance rang in that tinny throat. Scraps of memory, whirling around in the darkness; such it was with many Dead and Constructs. Masters had no uses for thralls with memory. Gruesome tools and runes existed to wipe the mind to a blank slate, purging the soul to the blankness of a newborn babe. And yet... little filters came through at points, maddening snatches of memory. He saw himself in this creature, this absurd rust-and-spike healer, because the words were the same. See, I was not always... like this—with nothing beneath the armor, as you say? I was not always so. Phaedrus nodded absently, fingers knitted over his chest. His tongue worked in his mouth, paper dry, turning over the sight of the construct in his mind. A priest, once? Cleric? Or simply a devoted follower of the gods? All sand, trickling through blackened fingertips. Glede's next words almost sent a dry laugh hacking through his throat, all but choking at the absurdity. A man of god, working miracles? The naivete of the construct was striking—he was a great, tall thing, but only in form. Did a child speak through that helmet? Some starry-eyed convert? Phaedrus licked his cracked lips, a huffing laugh escaping him—his fingers curled, dug into the furskin. “No... no.” A croak, tight with mirthless humor. “...Not quite. I know of Nailah, and Ma'at, have read about the gods in Soto, heard people forsake those in Morrim...” He shut his eyes, sighing deeply. “But I follow none. I am no miracle-worker. Just a sorcerer... I should have been a baker, in truth.” The last part he murmured, nodding against the blankets. Sleep felt tempting, but would not descend on him yet—his limbs ached and his body sunk with exhaustion, but his mind spun, ever-working. “I asked out of curiosity.” His eyes reopened, a lurid yellow fixed like a cat's. “There is no mistaking. Your soul is... that of a man's, yes.” He did not sense the crackling ozone of planar beings, the iron of demons, the magical hum of fae folk and djinn. It hovered, snatched somewhere between Life and Death. By all rights, it should have unmoored from Glede's mortal body and fled to the First Gate and beyond. But someone had chained it to a body, long-used from the looks of the dents and ancient scratches, rust and tattered cloth. He was not made by a fledgling necromancer. He waited, patiently, as the construct scrabbled forward with the scimitar. In truth, he felt no urgency to move or rise, clasping his weak fingers over the hilt. Laboriously, he brought his other arm over, nodding weakly to Glede's words—the necromancer lifted it, one palm spread daintily under the flat of the blade. The fire licked at its notches and scars, lit its dulled edge. His brows furrowed, then arched as if they longed to disappear into his hair—he blinked once, laying the blade upon the furskin and running his hand along the black metal. Cold. “Images?” his voice came sharper than he intended—the necromancer paused, pressing his fleshy palm to the scimitar. He felt something... horrible, searing, runes shivering under the metal like a creature under a black lake. A swallow caught—Phaedrus' eyes flicked up to the construct, suddenly hard. “I...” the words caught in his mouth, dried up in his throat. His pallid fingers fanned against the blade, probed, poked—but he was in no state to properly investigate them now, to light the runes threading beneath the surface. He wasn't sure if he wanted to, shivering at the sensation under his fingertips. “I am... familiar with such magics, yes. At points, when I look at you, I feel as if I—recognize the make of the sorcery upon you.” His mouth twisted, knuckles jumping at the hilt. “This is...” he shook his head, eyes narrowing, slithering back to Glede. “...This is necromantic metal, Glede. It, ah—it is not entirely earthly. It is forged to withstand the runes and enchantments used within the Art, because they corrode regular steel. But there is something... here.” He pressed his palm against it, as though the scimitar might waver and give way, revealing the shimmering, rippling current. “Some gruesome enchantment. I cannot... I cannot examine it as fully as I wish, in this state.” He ran his fingertips against the dulled edge, nail caught in a small scratch. Phaedrus' eyes narrowed, and he withdrew his hand, slipping it somewhere under the furskin; when it reemerged, he clutched a strange, small dagger. It rippled with an internal, unreflective light, metal swimming as he looked at it. Runes danced up the carved hilt, flickering ominously. “It is supposed to look like this,” Phaedrus remarked idly, turning over the dagger so the construct could see. “Most enchantments are kept... watered by blood or Life. Mine only requires the occasional rabbit. Stronger enchantments, such as the one on your blade, require...” his mouth parched, lips peeling back from his teeth. “...A single man, at least.” Scores more than that, really, but the construct sounded horrified enough. A pit opened up in his stomach—how did he come to be free of... this? The necromancer could not tell the exact nature of the enchantment, only its strength and appetite; there was little doubt left of the Glede's intended purpose and past deeds. He watched, hand frozen upon the blade, a calculating, burning look in his eyes. |
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| Glede | Jul 27 2014, 08:16 PM Post #14 |
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And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.
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He sagged, collapsed with a sound like a machine falling in. A breathy sigh filled the tent; he knit his hands in his lap. What did you expect? he had to ask himself, cursing his naivete. The pale southerner, a messenger of northern gods! Yet-- his interest kindled something in Glede’s heart, reinforced a link of kinship that had, in the metal construct’s mind, been building for quite some time. A man who tolerated and respected, and learned, and walked roads, unmoored and alone, that other men had the blessing to be born on, was almost as good as a man who believed. Whatever his upbringing, it was hardly his fault (though Glede had the suspicion that most men came around, in the end). “A baker?” He chose to comment on that. A note of amusement had entered his voice, for a moment most unchildlike; blunt curiosity replaced it promptly. “I have never met a sorcerous baker. Do you bake, Phaedrus? With... sorcery?” He leaned forward, ever closer, before he caught himself in his curiosity and sat back with some embarrassment. He was observant: He knew the want of sleep licked at the necromancer like a hungry dog. And (though he felt guilty for it) he wished beyond all wishing that it would be awhile yet before his new companion fell under that veil; so long he’d had only the company of the rolling wind over the cracked plains, and the silence of the night would eat him alive without a voice, even rasping, to hold it back. Though he had no reason to believe that the stars conspired to separate them, it seemed that just a moment of darkness, a flicker of the candle, could cull their voices and render him alone instantly and irrevocably. And yet-- what news! “Truly?” He forgot his shame, leaned forward with an awful sound-- hunger lay in the way he scrabbled forward with one hand, clawed at the dirt. His voice could not contain its glee. For a moment he stayed there, lit by the half-dead coals, then drew away, trembling; he could not have ever imagined himself laughing, but the sound came out, hoarse and mechanical, somehow both nasty and sweet as honey. “You-- know this? A man’s? For certain? I am not-- what the thing on the plain-- I am not...” His hand coiled, trembling, at Phaedrus’ explanation. Glede was long silent, trembling in the misty place between happiness and despair. He had noticed the darkness of the metal, and also the feeling of tangy, blood-smelling fear that pervaded the blade. He had hated and loved it at intervals: It felt good, sometimes, to have a weapon in his hand when the world seemed against him, or out on the plain, when Things he knew not of roamed all around him in the dark; it felt good when he was afraid, and needed a silent, stoic friend. But that friend spoke, in its way, of unspeakable things. A black hole of doubt and fear had long hung at his belt, and confirmation-- shaky confirmation, a confirmation that said nothing but yes and left the rest to his restless mind-- made his feelings on the matter only more dismal. He was silent, even, for a few moments after the sorcerer finished, as if he could not kick himself back into motion. He thought of praying, but realized he did not want to. To pray was to accept. He was not ready to accept anything, much less the use of that foul blade. And he sensed the meaning behind the sorcerer’s words-- the sour whisper of an understatement, a bow to his naivete, a pat on the back. At least one man, he thought the redhead should’ve added: At least. “But you understand,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level, “that I... I...” Of course he understood. Glede felt like a fool, watching the pattern lick up the smaller blade, watching the portly sorcerer’s face. He felt like a great, bumbling fool. “Much like-- a sacrifice to the gods, as the priests... do. For... blessings... of the gods. But to... a different magic. I see.” Why, he thought for once, do you possess such a blade? A hungry mouth had opened between them, a gulf. Glede peered at him, sheepish and incredulous, fearful and hopeful all at once. But distrustful, now. Suspicious. “Phaedrus,” he said softly, softly-- almost amusing, in that terrible voice. “It is not implausible that you know these things from having-- fought such-- terrible magic, for a purpose that is Good. See this not as an insult to you but as a testament to my ignorance, for it is vast. “I do not wish to tax you, and I am not certain that I wish to know what, exactly, was the purpose of the blade. But how do you recognize the make of it? And my... shell? How are you... how...” He let the question fall, unsure he could phrase it properly, suddenly frustrated at his gullibility and, paradoxically, frightened to offend. Is he... a necromancer himself? The construct’s fist clenched. “In those waking dreams, I am... cutting down many men. A voice compels me. What do you know of compelling voices, and of the Dead, and of dreams of bloodshed?” |
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| Phaedrus | Jul 30 2014, 01:40 PM Post #15 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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The Construct's voice filled the tent, rasping, grating, a baritone grit against whetstone. To hear such a thing come from its throat—the absurd naiveté, a question that could have only sprung from guileless ignorance. A snort left him—then his lips curled to a smile, not foxlike or cruel, but from genuine amusement. The image was a welcome break from those grim and bloodied hours. For a moment, he thought on crafting a pie with necromancy—what? Pulling the waters of Acheron for its crust, sealing a ghost inside?—and tittered, the usual chime of his laugh made hoarse and sickly. "Devils, no," he scoffed. "That would taste… awful. No, no, my tarts are not supernatural…" His eyes fluttered closed, and he sighed. The brief image slipped away, sapped like rain in baked earth. The reality settled in again, whipped his mind raw. Glede leaned forward with the sound of shrieking blades, and the necromancer tried not to wince— the creature loosed a hideous laugh, a sound like a broken gong, vile and gleeful at once. A man's soul, a man's… It was easy to finish that sentence. I am not Dead. I am not inhuman. At least the construct had that confirmation. The next moment stretched, and a weighty silence filled the tent as his words bled out--filled the choked, smoky space with their vile conclusion, made a knot sink in his guts. The blade felt cold, cold; he could not draw his fingers from it, tracing its face in equal parts disgust and compulsion. The leviathan stirred there, sinuous under his touch, a black, oily thing streaking and ferreting in his grasp, picking at the wound of curiosity. He had not… seen such enchantments since leaving the castle—had found unspeakable things in unknowable rooms, seen the likes of Glede smashed to husks and broken across stone. Dead things fallen as if in battle. Things dormant, pulsing with fell magics and waiting to spring alive at a wrong touch. An armory with that blighted, spinning door, walls bristling with weapons writ in blood and gorged on the flesh of men, hilts shivering in chains. Rust stung his mouth. His gut tied in knots, the suggestion of his knees quivering, groping along the floor like a blind man. He'd needed something to protect himself in those harrowing nights, from the vicious dune winds that brought cursed Things from the deep desert. But he'd been too weak for a sword, and so crawled upon his belly, towards the dagger gleaming with its sickly light… The necromancer tightened his hand on the hilt. It felt secure, like an old friend, and he quietly sheathed it. His eyes had glazed as he stared at Glede, and he started, wrenching himself from the reverie. Dangerous, to slip away—to lose himself to things best forgotten, memories he'd sealed far below, out of his cozy house in Soto, far to the south, far from… You are in Soto no longer. It is the desert, now. The wind howled outside their tent. Canvas fluttered—Phaedrus felt the distrust open like a wound, festering between them. Perhaps—he had said overmuch, should not have… His free hand lingered on the hilt, thumbing the strange grooves. And yet—could the question be helped? He heard it there, unspoken. Knew the suspicion eating to the surface, the fear that would soon follow— necromancer! Raiser of dead, defiler of gods, abomination… he could only imagine how the construct would view him with his talk of religion, splintering the world into Good and Evil. Phaedrus opened his mouth to speak, but a deep exhaustion welled in his breast--the full recollection would be monstrous, a Herculean task that required all his strength even in health; words he'd only told one soul, and even then, stuttering and broken. He fixed on the construct, eyes burning, watching the flames dance on his beaten armor. In those dreams, in those dreams… Those words made his skin crawl—shrank the tent to flickering shadows, the dying fire. He felt aware of the darkness, then, that crushing, interminable pall; easy to forget in the comfort of an armchair, near the murmurs of people, torches lit down a row of houses; easy to forget in the bustling marketplaces and bright gardens, the mad, frenetic energy of cities, the low gong of the temples… The desert swallowed them all. Left them at its mercy. Only a scrap of cloth and a pelt separated him from that Changer, the blighted Dead that stalked the deep dunes. Fur and canvas would not halt them, would not keep its teeth from sinking into his neck, its voice from tearing him asunder… What do you know of compelling voices, and of the Dead, and of dreams of bloodshed? Breath shuddered, scraped into his lungs. Phaedrus clutched the dagger for strength—his nails nearly screeched down the length of Glede's blade, lips twisted off his teeth. "I have lived it," he croaked; his eyes did not leave the metal man, as if with gaze alone he might wrest aside his breastplate and scry the runes within. "I have… heard such voices. Seen innumerable Dead. I have…" he faltered, words dying in his mouth. Phaedrus shook his head weakly—fur brushed his cheek, made him wonder, idly, what he disagreed with so preemptively, what he fought before it ever left. “I was... learned in such things,” the necromancer murmured. “Under a Master who... bent and broke me... at his will.” Each word was wrested from his lips like a cub from its mother, snarling, clawing. “He... tried to... kill... me. But I survived.” His eyes opened, gleamed red in the dying coals, feral and wide. Why—why? He had never stopped to ask himself; he hurled himself at Life, clawed at its heels, ate the scraps left from its table and never pondered if he should have let it end. If he'd faltered, he'd have been lost—to the wastes, to the closing blackness of Death's sea, its numbing touch. But he fought—fought! Devils, how he'd fought! In a way, he could understand that necromancer's voraciousness: the urge, the overwhelming need to sink its teeth into the living, to barter for another day, to wrench itself from Acheron's grip and gasp into the sunlight. Was that not what had made him? Was that and wrath and grief not what drove his hand now, gave flesh to the wastes of his soul, jumped in every tendon of his fist? He stared at his palm—scuffed with dirt and blood that was not his, grit beneath the nails. Phaedrus lowered it, silently, into the furskin, his lips a dead, thin line. “Still... he took my memory, my...” purpose? He fell silent a long while, wondering at the great metal thing, the slaughtered men, the connection that weaved just out of reach, slipping through his fingers like a fleeing snake. His head pounded horribly—felt hot, sticky, his lips too dry, his throat too cracked; the fever-sickness of the pulsing coals and howling winds, some twisted arbiter's sword in his hands. “Everything,” he decided. Hissed. All contained in that single world—the wastes, the horrors of memory, the years alone and wretched, the days alone and wretched still. Everything! "…How strange." He almost laughed, a mirthless thing—but he felt too weak, could only huff, give the suggestion of disbelief. "…To find… a person, like you. I have been… searching, a long while, for answers..." Swallowing, he fell silent, fingers brushing that once-wicked edge, dulled and chipped and beaten by time. “I cannot... tell you... why you are familiar, but... you are.” His head nodded into the skins—their warmth threatened to wrap around his forehead like snakes, drag him deep into their embrace. “Whether your... make... or the voice you speak of...” The tent spun nauseatingly: a second Glede watched from the shadows and shivered, rejoined its whole. The fire sounded too loud, a constant snap-crackle, popping by his ear. He felt angry of a sudden, afraid—afraid that those words were too few, too incriminating, that the construct would tower to its feet with a screech, and some new darkness would unfold before his eyes. His thoughts pinged about every which way, marbles skittering off a table, making him fidget and writhe in the stricture of blankets. He could not explain, could not explain; the words unraveled before they reached his lips, confused, sick. “I hope,” Phaedrus rasped, hand sliding off the sword, resting in a fevered tremble. He moistened his lips—tried again, in that awful, hideous voice, almost pleading, cowed. The boy screamed somewhere in his memory; he shut his eyes, fur clenched in his fist. “I hope... you look upon me, Glede... and see my deeds. Not my Craft.” |
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| Glede | Aug 11 2014, 11:21 AM Post #16 |
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And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.
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Phaedrus had laughed. Glede had not before heard his friend laugh genuinely, or let out a proper sound of amusement. For a moment, embarrassment licked at his heart. How could I have known? he wondered, pulling idly at a stray tatter of cloth. In that long moment the discomfort was most wretched indeed: If suits of armor could redden, Glede might well have. Instead, he sat still and fidgeted with his hands, back a ramrod. I could not have known. I know nothing of sorcery. I... But a certain genuineness had possessed his new friend. He could not protest that, nor the smile on his lips, nor the sick, tinkling little bell that his throat produced. “No?” The word was a scrape. The construct sagged, chainmail slithering. “I could not know. If magic could do anything to... improve baking.” The idea danced around his mind, suddenly ridiculous. He laughed, too--hesitant. But his hands relaxed and he tilted his head, and warmth seemed to return to the dwelling, to the way the fire licked at Phaedrus’ face. The wind wove shapes in the canvas walls, ruffled the dust. Unfathomable things played at ballet in the scrubland; they sang in the nightly gales. The awful sound inflicted torture upon the construct in that wordless stretch, the familiar made unfamiliar by his unexpected guest. The sorcerer no longer smiled. Secrets lay just beneath his weary flesh, boiling to surface in the glint of his eyes. You are, then. So they both knew the vastness of the desert; the thin, fluttering drape between life and death. Glede could see it in the sorcerer’s face. I have lived it. He no longer had any doubt. But he did not rise, nor cull the flame and disappear from the tent, as was his wont. He craved solitude--room to think his thoughts alone, now, and return to this knot of suspicions and horrors later--but sat and listened nonetheless. A... Master... The words stirred an old pain in him, trembling and shallow-breathed though they were. Once again he felt the crunch of bone and the supernatural, enchanted strength--showering the earth, one man at a time, controlled and unbreakable. A croak from quivering jowls. Master?--he had never called any man “master”, in his life Before; but he had known a master now, if not in name then in deed. Awful, rippling, stripped of humanity. A power stirring beneath shifting dunes. I know you. Old thing. He was less frightened of Kahlid’s gnashing jaws than of the word “master”. “A master,” he murmured, “broke you--and took your memory. But you have this knowledge because you served him, though you do not know how.” How strange? How strange! Glede might have mirrored his laugh, but the grimness in his heart would not allow it. In that dead bell of a laugh he heard a sickness of the soul and an abandonment by the gods, something he knew as well as his clanging, surrogate body and the memories that surfaced like bile in the deep night. How strange! The words echoed in his mind, bounced back and forth, repeated themselves mockingly. But so did the word person, and he suddenly felt as though the sorcerer had driven a nail into his core. He was a person. He would be a person--again. “You seem to me... almost familiar, at times. There is a feeling. Though whether it is the kinship of our souls... as priests of Kahlil say, ah, the scent of another hunter seeking the same prey--I do not know.” Similar pasts had carved vastly different temperaments; Glede was aware of this. But the carving had been done, all the same, and they bore the same marks. Something else struck him about Phaedrus’ eyes, troubling him at his soul, but he could not fathom what. He had seen them somewhere before. In a dream, perhaps. “It is good that you have told me this, though you were ashamed and wearied. Indeed. The shadows we chase are similar, perhaps even the same. We hunt a boar, Phaedrus, and one cannot hunt a boar alone.” He gestured--let out a laugh, formulated to be quiet, unassuming. It was only somewhat a hideous failure. “And--how could I think ill of you? After what you tell me I have done. You should not be chained to actions you cannot even remember... actions not of your own accord. Nailah blessed you with life anew. Not so that you could lament, but so that you could use the darkness of your past to vanquish the darknesses around you. It must be so...” As the sorcerer sank into the fur, he leaned, throat catching. “These are dark thoughts,” he rumbled, “for one who must rest. You have the assurance of my help now. This is not a conversation that must be finished tonight.” In truth, his desire to be alone had intensified. If this man shared his master--but he could not think it! How horrid. He knew he could ask, tomorrow; or he could discuss specifics, spill details of half-remembered captivity like sick. Were they both hunters? Glede did not know if he was a hunter. He did not know if he wished to find Master. Originally, he had longed to discover any of his past, any snippet of relevant information, but now--he recalled a brother, a mother, men in sickbeds. They had nothing to do with Master. They came long Before, when he was, perhaps, the man that he dreamed of, the tired-looking man reflected in the window-pane. He wanted to find Mother and Brother, not Master. He wanted to resume whatever position he had possessed as a healer, and to reclaim a body, flesh-and-blood, which they would recognize, and in turn welcome as son, as-- But he did not even know his name. He had asked Nailah, in the depths of the Scrubland, and She had given him a sprinkling of sand and the whirling of the winds. Why ask the mother of reincarnation about a previous life? Mysterious mistress, he had wept. She did not spoon-feed men deliverance from their confusion; she gave them the tools to overcome it themselves. And he did not want to know who Master was, but perhaps Master was the only one who knew who Mother and Brother were. “We will speak further of this, I think.” His voice was quiet. “But we have a terrible thing to cull. A... Dead thing. No matter our origins, we are Living men--this is our responsibility, before all else. I am... convinced.” Edited by Glede, Aug 11 2014, 01:17 PM.
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| Phaedrus | Aug 14 2014, 12:52 PM Post #17 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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A master broke you and took your memory. Like glass on stone, a whip flung across raw wounds, metal teeth biting into bone. An inexorable voice, driving him on and on to the precipice. He remembered it in bits and pieces: clawing and moaning and scraping at his own face, as if tearing the skin might stop the visions—kneeling to a circle still cold with Death, walking down a hall of innumerable runes and instruments, trying to flee from their spinning, spinning! Looking up into a starry void—was it in Death? Was it the sky across the desert? Were such things dissimilar?—and feeling his stomach pool to his feet. Necessity! When he bled and bled and trembled. Wretched necessity! A quill snapped in his hands and vomited ink. He felt the chains of binding around his throat, dragging him like a dog, forcing his hand. The blinding horrors of Gates, his own body twisted and distorted, walking in invisible plains, shrinking from the planar beings that appeared in the void and left it crackling with foul magics, split in half, walking a kaleidoscope of distortions, sucked up and sucked down into impossible realms and avoiding the clawing hands of the deceased. He did know how he served, in some ways—knew it from instinct, from the knowledge that bubbled up in intuition, but he felt it was not a complete picture, his memories splintered and rent apart. He knew that he felt used, filthy, shackled into servitude and robbed of agency. The pang of hatred—had he not been bedridden—would have been energizing, would have made his lip curl and spurred some action, but instead it coiled like a snake, resting heavy and uncomfortable on his weary body. One cannot hunt a boar alone. Is that, perhaps, where he'd gone wrong? Chasing that shadow on the horizon with only himself to charge forward, miserable, gasping, his spear little more than a splinter in that great unknown? And now chance had revealed another lost hunter; the tracks of that great thing might be muddied, infuriating, but together, their paltry knowledge might... He did not allow himself to think Glede would be the coup de grace, the sudden answer and solution to his questions—he might very well raise more, but he presented progress, study, a goal wrapped in tattered cloth and bristling with needles. The construct's laugh grated through his thoughts—pulled him back into the tent, made him blink up at the metal man. In the warmth and coziness of his parlor, he might have tittered at those words; tossed his hand and dismissed himself as no agent of a god, of all things. Felt a private smirk at the lofty thought of vanquishing darkness—what was darkness, really? Things that hurt other people? Would not people fall into that category? And yet, he was not thoroughly a murderer. He remembered the blood bubbling up from the gouged pits of the barbarian's eyes—stabbing the tiefling, casting fire at barkeeps, bearing down on the elemental with a vicious, manic smile, a Shade waiting to sip of her life. And most recently, the boy, screaming, screaming—it was not so black-and-white, not such a picture of a bad necromancer turned cleric, neatly and easily culling errant Dead. It was him, in all his wild dysfunctions, killing and maiming largely out of sense of abhorrence or lashing out in self-defense. But here, it made him uncomfortable. It put him under its scrutiny. He was not curled upon his couch, swilling wine and contemplating a nap. He was weak and trembling and near death, would have been lain out for the vultures and Changer to find if this man had not come along. He was a pathetic speck under that pinpricked void, thousands of eyes staring chipped and flinty at the wreckage of his life. Had he, in his years here, done anything of import? Yes, there was the odd kindness here, there; wrapping a blanket around Nevneni, picking up a sick and maimed kitten and dribbling milk into its pink mouth, tossing coins in beggars bowls and laying stirring Dead to rest. But for that...? Nights of debauchery outweighed it all; his hangovers far exceeded his good deeds. Lying, cheating, gambling, blacking out for blank gaps in memory and waking up in chaos. Nailah blessed you with life anew. What was it like, to feel such conviction? To feel so convinced of guiding deities above, assured of their kindness and mysterious plans? Convinced that life, rather than being a chaotic wreck, actually had purpose? His head spun, guts clenched—Phaedrus looked pained a moment, sliding his eyes off Glede to rest somewhere else, trying to swallow past a lump in his throat. It must be so. But how? How, devils? He could only nod in response to Glede, his head bobbing weakly upon the furskins—the conversation had racked him, stole the strength from his bones and left him with too many things to ponder, too many words to say. Phaedrus blinked, a will and effort to reopen his eyes again, growing distant, hazy. “Yes.” He croaked the word, put to comfort, at least, by the assurance of the construct's word. Help. It tucked around him like another blanket, made him settle into it. His next words drove a nail through him, made his brow furrow, mouth sapped and dry. We are Living men. Something in him sank; pooled quietly at the bottom of his feet, too weak to protest that point, too weak to properly feel offense or horror or painful self-awareness. His head flopped back and forth, back and forth—was it a nod? What was he agreeing to?—and he regarded Glede through half-slits, eyelids heavy. “Yes... on the morrow. We shall... speak. I'm... afraid I must sleep now, Glede... Tomorrow...” If he meant to finish the sentence, he did not know with what; he closed out the sight of that looming armor, eyes still popping with the phantoms of fire. His lips tapered to a mumble, stilled; his brow furrowed, countenance still troubled even as a void like sleep took him, black and joyless. * * * The heat woke him. Phaedrus opened his eyes a crack, trying not to groan. In some fit of sleep, he'd kicked away the furskins, and they'd bundled at his bare feet; he felt a discomfort under his eyes, as if he'd recently been scratching at them, scrabbling at his collarbone if a ripped button was any indication, thin cuts scabbed black against his pallid skin. Light popped and danced before him—seemed too bright, even filtered through the drape of cloth. There were a pile of extinguished coals and a fire-poker, left as if its attendant had merely slipped out for a piss, and would be back; confused, Phaedrus worked his dry tongue in his papery mouth, struggling to conceive of—where— The night bled back to him, then. Phaedrus startled upwards, nails digging into the furry, overly warm bedding, expecting to see the great metal construct like some kind of—some kind of apparition; but one brief look around the tent found it empty, its flap stirring in a rasping breeze. He struggled to swallow, his throat like a thousand needles, a long, continuous scab. Wincing, Phaedrus lowered himself back, feeling dizzyingly weak—cramps of hunger bit at his insides, and he felt he'd not eaten or drunk in days, room whirling with any sudden movement. Black popped in front of his eyes—the necromancer blinked it away, forcing his breathing to still, rubbing at his aching throat and glancing around the room for water, a wineskin, anything... “Glede?” His voice was a hideous croak—but at least it was his own, a normal voice, simply aching and stripped of moisture. It sounded piteously weak in the tent, and he coughed, brows knit, trying to throw it out again. “Glede...?” A reed's squeak. Not even a mouse would hear that. Scowling, the necromancer set upon getting his bearings instead, wriggling out of the stinking furs and searching for his shoes—there! At the corner of his little bedding, stained—to his renewed horror—with blood. Swallowing, Phaedrus pulled them on, moving slowly, gingerly, like an arthritic man; at last, with trembling hands, he managed to tie them, faced suddenly with the monumental task of standing. Taking a deep breath, the necromancer leaned forward, bracing his hands upon his thighs—then, like some poorly rusted automaton, slowly rose and creaked to his knees, head spinning giddily; he swayed, clutched at nothing, found sudden support in what must have been intended as extra firewood. A bone-dry branch, snapped with inhuman strength off a twisted scrub tree—Phaedrus gave little care to if it'd hold his weight, leaning against it as if he'd climbed Eldahar's highest mosque instead of risen from bed. Trembling, Phaedrus grit his teeth, shaking life into his leaden legs. And again, more forcefully: “...Glede?” The silence scared him more than he cared to admit. He had a sudden image of his friend snapped between the maws of the Changer, lying strewn across the scrublands. Or perhaps there was no Glede at all—perhaps all of last night had been a wild fever-dream; perhaps he'd been a man all along and his addled mind created a metal giant, broken and traumatized in too many ways to count. Suddenly, in the daylight, everything felt different, cast doubt on anything that had happened. Phaedrus fought the feeling, scraping forward, his hair askew and matted with blood or filth in some places, lending him a feral aspect; he licked his lips as he dragged himself further, reaching for the tent flap with a bone-white hand. He almost feared what he would find upon leaving that insular bubble, the false world inside the desert. “Glede?” He mustered, a call with all his weakened strength, and flung aside the flap. |
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| Glede | Aug 20 2014, 11:39 PM Post #18 |
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And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.
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Phaedrus' glassy-eyed blink was little consolation to his confusion, little assurance. He could see troubled gears turning—he wondered what every twitch of that full, pale face portended, what it meant. But that wonder, he thought, must be culled. One did not agree to vanquish a dangerous necromancer with a man one did not trust. He had sat in the smoldering glow till the necromancer's words had dribbled into nothing like wax from a dying candle; he had watched the flickering light of that wakefulness fail, finally, and sink into the furs. On the morrow... He had felt stricken by the weakness of his last words, the tortured grate bleeding away into breathy sleep. His friend with shut eyes—dreaming. Dreaming of what? Of what did men dream? Glede could not remember. He watched for awhile, but it became dull. And men required sustenance. Sustenance required hunt. The metal man scraped to his feet, awkward and stooped in the darkness and lull. * * * Outside the tent, Glede felt as though he were swimming. For awhile his thoughts had been aflame, the spark of conversation spiraling into an inferno: A wayward almost had animated and then left him, leaving a confused wreck in its callous path. Like sand slipping through fingers; or, he thought dumbly, the scent of campfire-smoke lost in the bowels of Kahlid, where the damned wandered, isolated. He knew that he was not alone and that he had a lead, but what else? The substance he had pretended to draw from their conversation dwindled, in the light of contemplation, to nothing. He laughed at me. He knows I am ignorant—naive—tender as a newborn. He thinks I do not know that much misery awaits... The feeling of being on the verge of some personal discovery tortured him; he did not know the identity of the person this discovery encompassed. He did not even know if he liked that person, or if he could ever be that person again. A sense of self was something that men with pasts and with beating human hearts possessed—not broken things that wandered the scrubs and spoke to no one. He thinks... I have conviction. It was not lost on him, that night, that the sword he drew had slain many men. The metal man prowled the cracked earth like a panther. He could not move quickly or without stop; his limbs, he found, were worth little in the way of grace. It had never nagged him more that he was built to bring a weapon down with immense force, and this only. He could barely hunt rabbits and snakes, much less whatever manner of beast could survive out here, in the wastes where not even men—those champions and usurpers of Soare, whether flesh or djinn, or elf—dared go. This treacherous and isolated home had been chosen without thought for meat. Glede himself did not eat. He huffed, claws scraping the scarred hilt, frame tight with careful movement. A nasty growl rolled from him, shaking his entire frame—then, a whisper: “Nailah, give me patience. Nailah, make me a better man for this.” It was all he could do. You are a man, at least. A good man, perhaps—a man who can find a solution. You care for this Phaedrus. Find him sustenance. You must. The scimitar slid from its sheath and bit the open air. A towering black figure braced itself against the gales, indistinct shape slithering through the whipping night. Little steps. * * * The wind tore over the Xeric always. It ripped into the tent, made the flap tremble fit to break against its bindings; even the smell of the coals wavered in a draft, dust kicked up on the parched earth to swirl and shiver against canvas. Ever lingered the sound of scrubs tousling, twitching like frazzled cats' whiskers. Glede? Glede--? The construct was fond of the way the sun slashed through the heavy tatters of clouds; it reminded him of happier days up north, times he couldn't quite remember. The long night of hunting had availed him little, but the only weariness he felt was in his soul: He could not bear to face Phaedrus with the meager fruits of his scrounging, especially not after the sorcerer's restless talk all night. Yes—the gods had seen Glede, crouched across the firepit. Nailah had judged him, no doubt, listening to the red-head's nervous mumbling, watching the tearing of his fingers at his own throat. The construct had thought to help him once, to pry away those fingers and shake him awake, but to what end? Some darkness dripped through his mind, black as pitch, and coated his eyes just beneath the lids. Surely to shake him awake would be more cruel than kind. But the contents of his mutterings had been strange. The calling of a master had been expected—and was, to be fair, most frequent. But the thin burble in-between, the calls for thick soup and laments about vineyards-- Nailah forgive him for eavesdropping! but what was this man accustomed to? ...Glede? The tent-flap scrunched and folded aside under Phaedrus' hand, admitting its manhandler. Glede stood at some length from the tent, crouched and lost in thought. He had not heard the first two calls, but turned now as the pale sorcerer belted out his last. The daylight was no more flattering to his rusted, sharp armor: His movements seemed even more jerky, as if some puppeteer soul wrenched every limb into place. In one fist was clutched his scimitar, rusted and awful, held as if brandished, as if to kill; the wicked void-like length of it stabbed into the pale morning air. He paused, bent, neck inclined and chain rustling, as if scenting out some unseen prey. Darkness filled the pit of his face, unfathomable. Predatory. In his other hand, he held a bundle of what looked like weeds. “Forgive me,” came the voice, a hesitant wheeze. He tucked away the blade with a hollow sound. “Your voice sounded unfamiliar to me. I am glad to know it has healed so—quickly. For last night it was terrible indeed. “How was... your sleep? You shook with many nightmares. As though on the scales before Ma'at, it seemed, pleading. Frightened of judgment. I am—I am sorry. Forgive me. I should not broach the subject.” Glede's gaze flicked over Phaedrus, the monumental effort of his stance, the clammy pallor of the hand on the tent-flap. He seemed to crumple further into himself, but lifted the hand that held the weeds and gestured to a makeshift basket nearby that brimmed with them. “Inside, inside. I expected your sleep to last longer. I meant to—rekindle the fire. Cook? Cook. Aten willing, I will cook for you.” A hoarse laugh, bordering on the unhinged. Can you cook, Glede? Can you remember how? Would it hurt to try? A shiver rustled him. “If my memory guides me true, Nailah preserve us—I found... a plant that grows sometimes in the shrubs. It is bitter and coarse. But edible, cooked or eaten raw. There is nothing else here. This is a barren land.” The wind whipped, suddenly harsh, across the scrubs, as if to emphasize his words. The two of them were tiny in that expanse, the sky broad and oceanic above them. |
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| Phaedrus | Aug 21 2014, 10:17 PM Post #19 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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The sun flashed off the construct's armor. For a moment, the world outside was blinding—Phaedrus squinted, shielding his eyes; the scrubs rustled for miles, swallowed by the melting horizon. So it had not been a dream. But something possessed him—the necromancer froze, seeing a violence in the way he gripped the scimitar, blade flaring with the sun. For a moment, he stared down a trapped beast, its eyes feral, unreadable, uncomprehending. Trembling, Phaedrus rose a hand, boots scuffing the barren ground— Forgive me. The blade met its sheath with a hollow sound, and Phaedrus stared at the construct, throat catching. His hand hovered a moment, abandoned mid-air, gesturing at nothing. At last he withdrew it, resting it uncertainly on his neck. A light cough left him, itched. Threatened to become another hacking fit, but he swallowed, slumping against the stick. “Unfamiliar...” His voice croaked, tapered. The necromancer rubbed at his jaw, grit his teeth. “I see.” He felt awkward of a sudden, swaying there, infirm as a hag and staring some ways from a man he knew from a fevered haze. Last night, only? It felt like years... Now that he stood, he felt the aches of his limbs and soul, bruised by that necromancer's fell magic. “Spirits willing, I should be well enough in a day or two. Then...” the unspoken purpose lingered there. In the sulfur pits of his eyes, the feral twist of his lip. Something predatory crawled across his face, became drawn and cold at the construct's inquiry. He could feel the scabs under his fleshy palms—knew what dreams came with them. Devils knew what he shouted and whimpered; the necromancer licked his cracked lips, nails digging into the wood. He felt naked, vulnerable, a breath away from crumpling into the sand. But he locked his legs, forced up his chin, lips jumping and twisting like worms. “Poor, I admit. But that is to be expected. I shall rest easy when the job is done.” A cold smile cut Phaedrus' lips, like the flash of a dagger. It did not reach his eyes, a threat of naked steel lingering just long enough to warn someone not to press further. Still, though—still, how could he be angry? The construct gestured at the meagre food, his care punching holes in his defensiveness. If not for this man, I'd be dead. A sigh blew through his nose, sent his lank hair to fluttering. He did not need much invitation to totter back inside and slump to his arse—felt grateful for the invitation, stomach aching and clenching. “T-thank you, Glede.” The hoarseness of that laugh sounded too abrupt—too manic, flint striking rock, sparking unpleasantly. Wind sent his hair flying, snapped his clothes—blew a whirl of sand up that bit at his face. Shivering, the necromancer straddled the stick, nodding wearily. “Well. Between us both, surely we can... concoct something. I am fond of cooking.” Though little could be done with weeds and sand. Devils! They did not even have water to boil—how did he mean to cook anything? Perhaps there is still some dried beef... Did he eat it all? He couldn't remember—felt his stomach twist and drop at the thought of living on a basketful of weeds. The aridness swallowed him, reminded him that he was nothing, nothing at all; stripped him naked, left him to be picked off by vultures under the flat eye of the sun. A thing that could die of starvation, forced to flee his human form. An insect. Phaedrus felt eager to hide within the tent and shuffled inside, throwing aside the flap—the shade was some respite, at least, and he sunk wearily by his pack, grimacing all the while. He patted off some dust, unclasped it—dug around until his shaky fingers met supple wineskin, cradling it like a precious parcel. Shook it once before uncorking it, dribbling some of the blessed liquid into his mouth. The desert had turned it warm, sour—but he'd not tasted anything better in that moment, closing his eyes as it washed his parched throat. Phaedrus forced himself to take no more than a few sips, shivering—then returned it to the rest of his belongings, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank the gods for wine,” he muttered, chiefly to himself. |
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