Author Topic: A living memory  (Read 1342 times)

DreamlessWalker

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A living memory
« on: February 22, 2017, 09:11:24 PM »
The rising sun brought little warmth to his aching bones, and the retreating shadows that fled the hotel room brought more worry than comfort to his weary mind.

He surveyed the room in silence.

Mind numbing distress kept in check, lower lip bitten to further suppress a cry of anguish.

"What a miserable foxhound, have I become."

The magister's trained mind forced itself to rewind and take in the scent and sights of the hotel room. Several mugs housing a dark liquid spread an inviting aroma, a floor nearly concealed under a layer of scattered uniforms and furniture, and whatever was left of fleeting inspirations, drawn on cheap canvas dotted the walls.

He found it all meaningless now. A gaping maw within his mind hungirly devoured any memory of duty and needs. All he felt were the twists and turns of a phantasmal dagger, relentlessly gnawing the back of his head.

"But you were destined to fail. For how long did you think you could keep this charade going?"

"She knew it. She could not bear the stares of the pass and by. Her peers mocked her. Her child wept in the mention of your name.  Your affair was an open game to suitors."

"A hundred solar for them to last a month!"


"Nonsense, a week, and that is a stretch!"

His mind burrowed further.

The hotel room was lit with the soft dancing light of numerous candles, and none of his paintings covered the wall.

Two mugs of crimson liquid sat on the corner of a closet, dwarfed by the bottle of wine that kept watch. The smell was intoxicating.

"..I would elaborate, but, you know how I am with words."

"Try"

"Can't we just kiss instead?"

"Mm..non. You can do it. I want to hear what you have to say."


"Well, mon cher.."

Half a dozen candles snuffed out, and the window creaks open.

The woman before him fades behind a veil of smoke.

"What a fine craftsmanship, to produce a man who can suffer so much. A one eyed monster who can feel and desire, but not weep and crumble.
A product with a compass deep inside its depths, to know when its legs carry it true, but cursed to always lose its way."


He carried on.

Duty forced him away from the city of lights abroad,

When the wind howled and cried a painful requiem.

His mind lulled itself back in time, and the deathly song grew silent.

The walls of a makeshift tent became a well-lit table for two.

"She says she knows nothing of the drug."

"Did the two of you had a good time, then?"

"Non."

"Why? She's pretty."

"And so are you."

She stops, hesitating, surveying the magister inquisitively.

A loud crash echoes in his mind.

Footsteps

"What are you doing?"

Twenty Two's face is a charred mess.

One eye stares at him from across the room,

A perfect sphere of blue,

The other is a lump of coal.

Molten skin and sinew artfully converge with her lips

And they sprout into a breath taking view.

"Subject Sixty Two"

"Mrhm, the Magister?"

"Bring him in. Subject Twenty Two's little munity might've sparked the fire of rebelion in his heart."

The operating table slides into the room.

More dead eyes.

More lips that will forever remain sealed.

The walls collapse in silence, and he finds himself surveying the tent's interior.

"You forgot to feed me."

A ball of shadows opened its mismatched eyes, seizing up the rugged man he called Master.

"You know its not something I can risk to do outside of the Republique."


"I worry about you. How can you allow a woman to steal your mind?"


"Leave it be."

He narrowed a sole eye at the cat, and rubbed his palms together. The habit overcame the cold dispelling wards, which amused him.

"The same happened with that yellow haired woman. And the black one before her. Men become prisoners to greed and power, but you? A pretty woman is all that it takes."


"A different kind of pathetic. Now go to sleep. We've to make it back home tomorrow."

"Why did you tell that woman you've someone waiting at home?"

The feline cants its head, seemingly amused.

"She might come back. For me, for the city."

"A different kind of pathetic."


He closed his eye.

The republique was his third love.

An enlightened lady, elegant and intelligent.

At first she scowled at his limp and the ruin that was his visage.

But with time, her cold stares turned to that of pity.

He bled for her, his sweat entwined with her soil, and for her sake, he barked the loudest of any Hound.

His conscience returns in the hotel room.

Steady feet secure his departure down a fleet of stairs.

He places the key within the hands of a puzzled servant.

"All I ever wanted to was to sleep and forget.

But I cannot truly forget. If not I, who would remember?

My very skin is the canvas of the past.

While others sleep, I stand guard in the rain.

While others forget, I will always remember you,

My beloved."


DreamlessWalker

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Re: A living memory
« Reply #1 on: June 03, 2017, 01:57:00 PM »

The Talons stood firmly, Zweihanders held high, kissing the bleak sky.
They almost looked peaceful in the downpour.
The heroes of Falkovnia, wordlessly accepting the burden of duty.

Valerian's blade cut into a Doppelsöldner's midsection and exited through the Beak shaped helmet.
Another's head sent a wave of mud that stained the otherwise spotless plate armour of his comrade.
The other Talons observed in utter silence as the massacare continued, untill a Zweihander cut into their flesh.

'I wonder if it makes it easier. When they stay silent like that.'

A crackling thunder roared from the other side of the field, just behind the massacared company, painting the hill in a sickly green aura.

A jolt of anxiety raced through the magister's frame and he leapt into action, sprinting past Valerian into higher ground.

" . . Vae . . "

A circle of acid surrounded the foreign arcanist and the furious downpour blindly charged the barrier, perishing with a threatening hiss.

The magister anchored himself into the ground and began to utter his own words of power, a risen palm that characterized the school of Conjuration shadowed his words.

A sea of inky, black tentacles erupted from the soil and made for the Arcanist's limbs, tearing through skin and sinew, sliding into their prey's gaping maw to sate some ungodly appetite.

Breeze looked away with a burdened exhale.
A silent agreement between the comrades had them run through the trampled grassland towards the cliff side fortification.


"Report?"

"A company of Zweihanders and a magister, Sir."

"Good. Seen anything else?"

"Non. We had to engage before we could fly further down towards the border."

Juste noded formaly and sent the two auxiliary away.



Breeze crashed unto the wall, chest heaving dramatically as he drew the fresh, salt flavored air.
He could hear the men prepare without, the rain banging mercilessly against the house's wooden frame.
A bache of company men shifted a canon elsewhere.
Officers shouting orders, and men complying.

'Why am I here'


And that rain.
That fucking rain, showering them mercilessly for two days in a row.

'Do I even plan on returning?'

Bloodied fingers massaged the bridge of his nose, leaving a palid line of crimson.
He allowed himself another moment of rest before turning to the secured spelltome.




He took a stand just over a small hill that surveyd the fort's interior.
The hawks were attacking the gates with renewed strenght, having brought a suitable artillery for the task.

His comrade stood by the far side of the camp, in just where the cliff ended, already wating for the next sally.
They exchanged a nod and began their preperations. He'd keep his mouth shut if his fingers could draw his magic.

Valerian's physique violently altered, his arms retreating back into his armored torso and bent into a sharp angle, forming white, pale wings.
Breeze just finished growing feathers when Valerian took flight beyond the gate.

'Shi-'

A bolt nearly missed his head, and he dove sharply to the side, further from the gate, following Valerian's course

THUMP

Several bolts lodged themselves into a nearby tree, followed by another barrage.
His right wing was on fire, and he began to lose altitude.
Valerian quickly circled back and dove towards the ground, and his Zweihander silencing one of the pursuing Talons.

"I'm going back!"


Breeze made a clumsy cut away from the occupied Talons.
More forces streamed towards Valerian, and he left a bloodied path in his escape.

SHRIIIIEK


The Falk's artillery hit the fort's front, sending splinters and debris everywhere.
He could swear hearing a cry of pain from within, despite the rain's effort to overcome it.

Mirroring Valerian's maneuver, Breeze dove to the ground and landed clumsily on the far side of the village, not  far from the border pass.
Another barrage hit the fort. This time he heard no cries of pain. Only the indifferent wind and the violent crashing of waves.

Breeze's eye settled on the bleak horizon and he yanked a bolt from his shoulderblade.
The republique was so far away from this post.
Solange's world was so far away from this post.

'What am I doing here?'

Was this it?
Was this his time to die?

He coughed meekly, and left out a trembling exhale.

'A memory only dies when you extinguish its flame.'


'I am all smoke now. I think its time to put the past to rest.'




The Falkovnian detachment secured the artillery piece dutyfully.
His red wings spread across the sky, his nostrils enlarging to take a clear breath.
And then he lunged.

The men shrieked something in an unfamiliar language and greeted his dive with a volley that shredded his wings and pierced his scales. The Zweihanders cut his feet, and he could feel the ocean of blood pouring from inbetween his red armour.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to die without feeling this pain. He envied the men Valerian slew. He envied the Arcanist.
He wanted to run.

Breeze sent a powerful swipe at the artillery and splattered it to pieced. What remained of his wings stretched, and he hauled his body up into the air, clumsily gliding just above the Fort's walls.

He crashed unto the fort's courtyard with a loud thud.
This is how the end felt like.
The massive wings retreated back into his body, his  legs rested uselessly within the mud.
Reality blurried. He could feel the candle's fire extinguishing.
"A..m I-.."

He felt something yanking his naked body from a formless sea of black.
tp, tp, tp
The familiar sound of rainfall greeted him back into the world of the living.
Breeze couldn't agree if he felt relieved or not.

Lis treated his wounds. The world span around him.
Sinew and muscle reformed, but the soldier carried on dutifuly, despite the grisly sight.

"Falkovnians!"

A task force hauled itself over the walls and unto the defenders.
Blurried shapes came face to face, steel to steel.
Lis left his side
They were losing. His comrades were dying, damnit.

'MOVE'


A command echoed in his mind, and he found himself obeying meekly.
His fingers searched for something. Something he couldn't name or explain.
Something to save his comrades.

Weak legs carried him to a stand.
His conjured staff kept him standing straight, and despite himself, he found comfort in being alive.
Several Companymen were laying lifelessly on the ground, while Juste was holding several at bay.
Falkovnian crossbowmen hit their rear and forced those that didn't fall to the sword to find shelter.

The scroll unrolled before his eyes
Holding it weakly, he began to read the faded runes that decorated its surface
He violently shuddered and fell to his knees.
The papyrus like material crambled to dust.
Time stood for just a moment.

A baleful scream escaped his depth
Friend and foe screamed before collapsing lifelessly
And he felt like dying again.

« Last Edit: June 04, 2017, 08:15:53 PM by DreamlessWalker »

DreamlessWalker

  • Outlander
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Re: A living memory
« Reply #2 on: March 08, 2019, 06:23:19 AM »
'Sixty two. That is your number- that is your propose. Is there no greater gift than simply being given one? Many a folk limp across life in search of a meaning, and yet here you stand, already knowing which path to follow at such a young age.'

The words were branded into his mind, much like the number that was inked upon his nape.

He stood upon the peak now, gazing down the pikes and slopes that composed the storm struck mountain. His achievement was hollow. There was no view to be seen past the raging snow, no hymn to be heard past the wailing wind.

"Am I not part of the cattle, and fate a hound?"

He fought past the storm to a familiar nook, where he unloaded his belongings into a neat heap of essentials: Wood, rations, an array of thick and isolating clothes, a cot, and a book.

In the not so distant past, the latter was brought so the magister could capture the present: the farmlands of Barovia, the lush green of Dementlieu, the forests of Hazlan.

Memories of the past eluded him, then: When he truly thought he was beyond the path he was assigned to follow, when the verdict of his birth proved to be nothing more than a preemptive sentence- meaningless words and a meaningless number. He was Eddard Breeze, and he found his place with a woman he loved, serving a cause he could stand behind. The safety of the republic. The safety of Solange and Dorian. With each day, he awoke, not a number, but a man.

A long stream of white escaped his lips. The camp was set, and his weary bones found rest before the fire. A voice jolted within his mind, commanding. The same dagger that relentlessly bore into his existence.

'You have remained the same, Sixty two. Always the same; a limping sheep, refusing to accept the reality of its purpose. No amount of lies could ever alter the nature of your design. '

The traveler tightened his grip upon the book, continuing to bore into the fire.

In his mind, the spectral Hound leered at him, much like a predator would its prey.

Was he a fool for choosing to fight such a beast? To imprint a name where a number once stood? Life and prosperity, when his very visor bears the incurable marks of the past?

How selfish was he, to choose life over death? To choose and remember those that did not escape? The same numbers that might truly choose to not be remembered at all.

He clutched the book tightly against his chest, suddenly vulnerable before the mountain chill. It broke past the fur and linen and sunk its teeth into his flesh and bone. His body shook violently, a desperate survival mechanism against the oblivious world without, while irregular breathes shook his diminutive body.

'How could I allow their death to fade into obscurity?'

His teeth sank into the flesh of his cracked lip, drawing a trickle of crimson.

The hound circled the dying fire now, its ink like paws leaving a trail of corruption upon the pristine snow. It stopped- flaring its nostrils, feeding upon the scent of anguish that all but stuck to the small crevice like a stubborn parasite.

'Twenty Two is forever gone, in the flesh- as are the others. But I wear their memory proud on my own skin. Men and women alike recoil in horror at the sight- just as they would, were they to hear the yielding of their flesh, and the distorted pleads that echo from the throats of dying lab rats. You were there,' the traveler stared at the hound, a pitiful shed against the storm, 'You pleaded the same. Yet I was never given the solace of death.'

The hound slunk towards the man, each step squeezing a hiss from the frost beneath it. Its eyes were flares of malice, alien, yet familiar in their origin.

'What a miserable Foxhound have you become, Sixty Two. The task you were entrusted with was of your own making- a scapegoat, a failsafe, to justify a selfish journey. And look at you now.'

A wisp of smoke exited out of the Hound's gaping maw, while its inhuman eyes focused, narrowed, a violent ripple along its prolonged canine head sending the two orbs into a horrifying spasm. He now knew those eyes. The forlorn orb on his left remained a useless pit of charred flesh, while his right eye jolted agape in terror, clouded by a surfacing tear.

The eyes of Twenty two, and his own, were all too misshapen upon the head of the abomination. Noxious fumes and a bile of of corrosive black fluid spewed upon the ground as it opened its maw. A mockery of human speech blurted out in a sickening amalgamation of anguish and rage:

'You left us to rot, sixty two…'