Serilliant
06-11-07, 06:28 PM
((Open to whomever can deal with a rusty duck. Let's rock.))
Years had passed since boots pressed into the graveyard's tentatively yielding soil. The dirt was packed tight from ages of use, but the recent rainfall helped to ease it somewhat. There was still a multitude of prints around a particular stone in the far right corner of the group; it bore the name of 'Serilliant'. There was no body buried below its ominous declaration. In fact, the man who owns the name now stood just meters away under the metal gargoyle that perched atop the graveyard's gated entrance. The stone had been put there at the request of the village elders and those who knew the truth of Serilliant's continued life were never granted an explanation. Instead, they were instructed to keep quiet and go about their lives and think nothing of the lie the gravestone silently repeated.
Naturally, the young psionic was not really granted the ability to return to his supposed resting place. This visit was instead facilitated by the Citadel monks, who masterfully constructed the arena from nothing more than memories read from his mind. Serilliant had asked nothing of their services in a great deal of time, but the allure of seeing his home village once again finally brought him back. Why he selected this particular locale required an explanation he himself could not even provide. There was some comfort, he supposed, in seeing his own name written somewhere in the village. And while its appearance on a gravestone served only to perpetuate the lie of his death, its very existence, at least, lent credibility to his life.
With swordhand rested on his blade's polished hilt, Serilliant ventured deeper into the graveyard. The moss muffled his steps somewhat, but the damp ground would still yield an occasional satisfying gurgle. He continued in until he arrived at small mausoleum that was slightly raised above the ground and accessible only by a triad of stone steps. There was, thankfully, no body inside, but a pair of prominent slate guardians armed with lances and topped with crowns still guarded the surprisingly wide entrance. The inside was small, consisting only of a few square meters of space, enough for a stone coffin that would eventually be placed on the back wall and about five or six mourners. A circular hole cut high on the west wall cast an oblong red-orange spot on the floor from the setting sun that hung low in the sky.
Serilliant seated himself upon a wooden pew placed off-center. It one one of the very few organic items in eyeshot in a place composed almost entirely of stone, metal, and decay. His seat provided a unique view of both his gravestone on the far end and the half-open gate that marked the only entrance to the yard. The monks assured him that there would be a competitor to show up shortly, but he could not bring himself to trust such a guarantee. Why, after all, would someone gleefully enter a graveyard when there must be countless other rooms constructed of happier thoughts?
A single crow cawed in the distance. Then, the air fell silent.
Years had passed since boots pressed into the graveyard's tentatively yielding soil. The dirt was packed tight from ages of use, but the recent rainfall helped to ease it somewhat. There was still a multitude of prints around a particular stone in the far right corner of the group; it bore the name of 'Serilliant'. There was no body buried below its ominous declaration. In fact, the man who owns the name now stood just meters away under the metal gargoyle that perched atop the graveyard's gated entrance. The stone had been put there at the request of the village elders and those who knew the truth of Serilliant's continued life were never granted an explanation. Instead, they were instructed to keep quiet and go about their lives and think nothing of the lie the gravestone silently repeated.
Naturally, the young psionic was not really granted the ability to return to his supposed resting place. This visit was instead facilitated by the Citadel monks, who masterfully constructed the arena from nothing more than memories read from his mind. Serilliant had asked nothing of their services in a great deal of time, but the allure of seeing his home village once again finally brought him back. Why he selected this particular locale required an explanation he himself could not even provide. There was some comfort, he supposed, in seeing his own name written somewhere in the village. And while its appearance on a gravestone served only to perpetuate the lie of his death, its very existence, at least, lent credibility to his life.
With swordhand rested on his blade's polished hilt, Serilliant ventured deeper into the graveyard. The moss muffled his steps somewhat, but the damp ground would still yield an occasional satisfying gurgle. He continued in until he arrived at small mausoleum that was slightly raised above the ground and accessible only by a triad of stone steps. There was, thankfully, no body inside, but a pair of prominent slate guardians armed with lances and topped with crowns still guarded the surprisingly wide entrance. The inside was small, consisting only of a few square meters of space, enough for a stone coffin that would eventually be placed on the back wall and about five or six mourners. A circular hole cut high on the west wall cast an oblong red-orange spot on the floor from the setting sun that hung low in the sky.
Serilliant seated himself upon a wooden pew placed off-center. It one one of the very few organic items in eyeshot in a place composed almost entirely of stone, metal, and decay. His seat provided a unique view of both his gravestone on the far end and the half-open gate that marked the only entrance to the yard. The monks assured him that there would be a competitor to show up shortly, but he could not bring himself to trust such a guarantee. Why, after all, would someone gleefully enter a graveyard when there must be countless other rooms constructed of happier thoughts?
A single crow cawed in the distance. Then, the air fell silent.