Run
08-27-10, 08:28 PM
Beneath a skeletal tree whose branches cast a gaunt mosaic over a featureless gray sky, July Nusquam sat huddled with his knees to his chest, feeling more vulnerable that he had ever been. His dull, flat eyes, the crystal icy cyan clouded with a milky cataract, looked up to watch his hand raise up into the air. He pressed the tip of his middle finger hard against the pad of his thumb, and with a vicious jerk, brought forth a snap that seemed to echo as hollowly as his body, and -- nothing. The cold here was palpable, and it stropped it's teeth on his bare neck and cheeks. However, it had some sort of weight to it, thick enough to feel syrupy somehow as he passed his arm through it, the cold enough to chew upon like snow. Then again, maybe it wasn't the atmosphere that was heavy -- maybe it was himself. July struggled to keep his eyes open as he pulled his legs closer to himself.
The fire had left him, and so had life's warmth.
He would have sighed in frustration if he could, but he found quite quickly upon "waking up" that his lungs no longer worked, though it did not greive him. He neither had a pulse, and he found that his throat was so dry, such a curious thing amidst all this cold. He kept catching himself trying to scoop snow up off the ground to slake his thirst, but all that remained on the ground was seared, grayish grass. Trying to clear his throat, July pressed a hand to it and stretched his neck. However, he imagined that his parched throat was the least of his concerns, considering that it was shredded open with intense violence. His long hair was matted to the right side of his face with dried blood, and the breast of his shirt was stiff with it as well. A narrow hole, like one derived from a katana's blade, cast a peekhole through his heart and out through his shoulder blade. Thinking about it, his brow gathered in a thin storm cloud of rage, and his cracked bloodied lips opened slowly, mouthing the name. He would have spoken it, but his diaphragm lay limp in the bottom of his chest.
'Rheawien.'
His teeth shone dully as his lips peeled back and away, caked with clotted viscera. His hands clenched into tight balls of fury, white bloowing at the knuckles. In the history of all his life, and now, apparently, un-life, there was no one he hated more, and it infuriated him that now that he was gone, there was no way he could ever get revenge. He wanted to burn her. To kill her would be too pleasant. He wanted to lock her away somewhere dark where he could go to torment her whenever he wished. He wanted to demean her, he wanted to spit vigorously in her face, and grind into the dirt. He wanted to violate her. Rape her and fill her with a mistake. He heard an alarming crack; one of his teeth shifted and he unclenched his jaw, letting it hang, but he let his brow ache as he held that hateful expression. If his eyes weren't of the dead, they would perhaps darken from their usual color with abhorrence for the name that swarmed in his mind with imagined tortures.
'RHEAWIEN!'
Even as he writhed in eternal torment in the Great Nether, which he know had no doubt existed, considering his current location, he would cling to that rotten whore's name with the hopes that either some way, some how, he would reincarnate, or the animosity would manifest in the Firmament as a hulkish abomination that lusted only for the last fading beats of her heart. For now, though, all he could do was wait and stew in his fury and regret.
"You should not be here," a soft, apprehensive voice announced.
July's head popped up, instinctively knowing the statement was being lobbied at him. Before him, on the path of roughly hewn cobblestones stood a feminine figure in a roughly wrought burlap robe, clutching a gnarled wormwood staff in both hands, seeming to lean against it. Aside from her sudden appearance, two things amazed the young, dead man. She was the only thing here that carried a tint that was not bland; her hands were shaded with a blued-green tint, flecked with dark teal. And as he watched, unable to speak, knobby little mushrooms sprung up through the cracks between the cobblestones, a limited rainbow of dark shades.
"I don't know what happened to you," the odd woman began, her tone one of humility, despite the amazing things all about her, "But it was not your time. You still have many grains left in your glass." July slowly stood, and as she stirred, her hood lifted slightly, giving him a glimpse of her face. A delicate chin and jaw, lips plump and curved like a cherub's bow. Just the hint of her nose left him to pass it as dainty, perfect form, and his face contorted into that of surprise, clapping a hand to his throat in self consciousness. He felt a tapping at his hand, and glanced up just as one of the branches of the tree he'd sheltered himself under snapped off, breaking down into splinters before his very eyes. Something clicked in his mind, and he glanced up in shock.
This was Jomil the Hermitess. A Thayne? Pausing to consider the situation, it made sense that she came to mend this situation; his presence was causing a sort of imbalance, and she represented the breaking down of order, devolution. Despite all his brashness, he pursed his lips and cast his eyes to the ground, waiting for her next words. "We are forced to send you back, or strain your thread. However, there are...complications. Your blood and the vampire's blood mixed."
The heaviness in the air fell away, and he felt a million pounds light. What lock had seized his tongue broke away. "What do -- " Before he had a chance, the world he had fretted so much in streaked past into
This takes place after this (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=2600) quest, in which July was killed. It takes place before the FQ/MQ as well.
The fire had left him, and so had life's warmth.
He would have sighed in frustration if he could, but he found quite quickly upon "waking up" that his lungs no longer worked, though it did not greive him. He neither had a pulse, and he found that his throat was so dry, such a curious thing amidst all this cold. He kept catching himself trying to scoop snow up off the ground to slake his thirst, but all that remained on the ground was seared, grayish grass. Trying to clear his throat, July pressed a hand to it and stretched his neck. However, he imagined that his parched throat was the least of his concerns, considering that it was shredded open with intense violence. His long hair was matted to the right side of his face with dried blood, and the breast of his shirt was stiff with it as well. A narrow hole, like one derived from a katana's blade, cast a peekhole through his heart and out through his shoulder blade. Thinking about it, his brow gathered in a thin storm cloud of rage, and his cracked bloodied lips opened slowly, mouthing the name. He would have spoken it, but his diaphragm lay limp in the bottom of his chest.
'Rheawien.'
His teeth shone dully as his lips peeled back and away, caked with clotted viscera. His hands clenched into tight balls of fury, white bloowing at the knuckles. In the history of all his life, and now, apparently, un-life, there was no one he hated more, and it infuriated him that now that he was gone, there was no way he could ever get revenge. He wanted to burn her. To kill her would be too pleasant. He wanted to lock her away somewhere dark where he could go to torment her whenever he wished. He wanted to demean her, he wanted to spit vigorously in her face, and grind into the dirt. He wanted to violate her. Rape her and fill her with a mistake. He heard an alarming crack; one of his teeth shifted and he unclenched his jaw, letting it hang, but he let his brow ache as he held that hateful expression. If his eyes weren't of the dead, they would perhaps darken from their usual color with abhorrence for the name that swarmed in his mind with imagined tortures.
'RHEAWIEN!'
Even as he writhed in eternal torment in the Great Nether, which he know had no doubt existed, considering his current location, he would cling to that rotten whore's name with the hopes that either some way, some how, he would reincarnate, or the animosity would manifest in the Firmament as a hulkish abomination that lusted only for the last fading beats of her heart. For now, though, all he could do was wait and stew in his fury and regret.
"You should not be here," a soft, apprehensive voice announced.
July's head popped up, instinctively knowing the statement was being lobbied at him. Before him, on the path of roughly hewn cobblestones stood a feminine figure in a roughly wrought burlap robe, clutching a gnarled wormwood staff in both hands, seeming to lean against it. Aside from her sudden appearance, two things amazed the young, dead man. She was the only thing here that carried a tint that was not bland; her hands were shaded with a blued-green tint, flecked with dark teal. And as he watched, unable to speak, knobby little mushrooms sprung up through the cracks between the cobblestones, a limited rainbow of dark shades.
"I don't know what happened to you," the odd woman began, her tone one of humility, despite the amazing things all about her, "But it was not your time. You still have many grains left in your glass." July slowly stood, and as she stirred, her hood lifted slightly, giving him a glimpse of her face. A delicate chin and jaw, lips plump and curved like a cherub's bow. Just the hint of her nose left him to pass it as dainty, perfect form, and his face contorted into that of surprise, clapping a hand to his throat in self consciousness. He felt a tapping at his hand, and glanced up just as one of the branches of the tree he'd sheltered himself under snapped off, breaking down into splinters before his very eyes. Something clicked in his mind, and he glanced up in shock.
This was Jomil the Hermitess. A Thayne? Pausing to consider the situation, it made sense that she came to mend this situation; his presence was causing a sort of imbalance, and she represented the breaking down of order, devolution. Despite all his brashness, he pursed his lips and cast his eyes to the ground, waiting for her next words. "We are forced to send you back, or strain your thread. However, there are...complications. Your blood and the vampire's blood mixed."
The heaviness in the air fell away, and he felt a million pounds light. What lock had seized his tongue broke away. "What do -- " Before he had a chance, the world he had fretted so much in streaked past into
This takes place after this (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=2600) quest, in which July was killed. It takes place before the FQ/MQ as well.