Registered Member #25613
Joined: 2:30:16 am GMT 12/16/21
Posts: 8
It wanted blood.
Tormenting visions tore at him as he clawed his way to consciousness. The room around him was dark - an ascetic, windowless chamber meant for those expected to place divine contemplation over material comfort. Perfect for the Stone Circle, the previous occupants of the temple. Now, it was furnished with gaudy amenities - silver candelabrums, fine bedding, a patterned rug. The Flames of Andarus, or at least their patrons, certainly had a taste for finery.
He felt himself shiver - the fire had dwindled, and the spacious stone room now chilled him to his bones. Throwing off the bedcovers, damp with sweat, he stumbled to the cabinet across the room. It was not long before his eyes adjusted, owing to the dim light filtering in through the door - the corridors were lit by braziers at all hours. He felt for the basin and splashed water across his face, feeling relief despite the chill. The malaise of a light fever clouded his waking thoughts - he had pushed himself too far these past few days, in a bid to escape this maddening repose.
At least he knew he was awake.
He was no stranger to nightmares, even before he journeyed to this land. Little more than phantoms of his former life, wreathed in flame, mocking his weakness and complacency. They had since gained substance - found purchase in the sickness festering inside him. He would feel the warm redness gushing from a cruel wound torn by his very hand. He could see the dark mirrors of those he held dear, jeering as they cast him down. His stomach churned at the thought - it was all too real, but those visions were merely intruders in the night. It was something else he feared, lurking beneath...
The ghost of his arm ached, radiating from the stump down to where his fingers ought to be. That pain was near-constant, though he was growing accustomed to it. His fingers found one of the bottles by the basin. He could tell them apart by size well enough, flicking the cork off with his thumb - the acrid scent confirmed it. It was an infusion of herbs that had been prepared for him, meant to numb the pain. Just a sip - any more and he would retch. He recalled the foul taste of medicine from his childhood sickbed, spitting it out when the nursemaid bustled away. Part of him still felt that same child, indignant over his own frailty. "No use bearing the pain, it will only slow your healing." He muttered, chastising himself.
His stomach roiled - disgust, disquiet... and a yawning, fathomless hunger for something that was not sustenance.
He could see the bust of Andarus, or perhaps one of the saints, scowling disapprovingly from atop the centre of the cabinet. Part of him rankled - who was He, dead or driven from the world, to judge him for mortal frailty? The thought was suppressed violently as a dozen stern elder chaplains' faces loomed out in his mind, a fitting rebuke for his insolence. At least he could still master his own pride. He recalled the reasons he had sought to join the church and learn of the faith. The uncanny feeling of familiarity between worship of the Light and his now-distant patron deity. The desire to again become a part of a greater, divine whole, to surrender the torment of his competing impulses and whet his mind on selfless service. Did he still want that? In his heart of hearts, faith in Andarus simply felt right... But the Flames?
He would tear down their halls and butcher every last one of them.
The savage thought struck him unsuspecting and he fell back, knocking the basin to the floor where it shattered. It cut through the silence, and he heard another noise behind him - was he not alone..? Nothing - he was alone... It was merely the echo upon the stone. A deep breath as he strained his ears... No footfalls, only silence followed. The relief was palpable, as he would not need to offer explanation or endure piteous looks. The thoughts cleared, and the more disciplined parts of his mind probed the source of the outburst. The Flames troubled him with their methods, pursuing their goals heedless of the suffering wrought in their wake. They were ruthless beyond need, a dire warning to any man who fell short of the divine. And there was no man who did not fall short of the divine.
Ah, was that it? The red spectre, when it last found him had whispered of its hated foe. A scorching brilliance that would reduce him to ash - had done as much, in his twisted nightmares. But he denied it the blood it craved, never again would he have a part in such treachery. So refused, did it look to another fearsome threat to its vile existence? The Flames would happily send him to the pyre if they knew the truth, and even whole he could not hope to defeat them. Indeed, he had contemplated that very thought long before the demon set him on this cursed path... The memory sent a chill through his spine. Mira... the kind-hearted child, a glorious saint in the eyes of her supposed protectors.
No. Give it blood, and it will never be sated.
He stooped to collect the broken ceramic shards one by one, a laborious task in his condition. The edges could not pierce the thick calluses of his hand, and even without the numbing herbs he would scarcely have felt their bite. Clear of the floor, it became a problem for the morning. Would that the other could be denied so easily, but that fiendish hunger would ruin him if left untended. And yet, he was at a loss. It craved blood, he had shed blood, and he had taken in Blood. All to seal away the affliction, that he might one day be free of it. And yet it lingered, insidious tendrils burrowing into his mind and unearthing every wicked, murderous thought it could find.
He laid himself back on the bed with care, the stinging pain of his maimed limb a constant companion. Fatigue bore through the fear and confusion, and in the brief respite it offered he sought to calm his thoughts. Something roiled and swam beneath his skin, something warm and clear - not the red haze, which nursed hatred in his wake and left him nauseated - there was purity there.
The thought frayed as he drifted again into slumber. He had to find it, whatever it may be. Else he would find himself swept away, when the tides of madness rose again.
Registered Member #25613
Joined: 2:30:16 am GMT 12/16/21
Posts: 8
She will be your death.
The ominous thought rippled through his mind and shook him loose of his contemplative state, as he stood alone in the temple grounds. The cool breeze of the early morning offered a great deal of comfort over the stifling, heavy air inside. The Blood had settled, mingled within his essence even as the sickness wore it away from within - he had felt calm and stillness within for the first time since the sickness took hold. Too much, he began to fear - his foe still walked the land, and the spectre of death still lurked on the horizon. With his grievous wound, he may never again properly wield a blade. Tasks that had once required nary a thought frustrated him now, and the pain... The pain at least, had lessened with merciful haste.
The waking visions had abated as well, or at least those summoned from his curse - he knew by now that the land itself would readily plant its figments in his mind. Yet he could still feel it in his dreams, grim clouds promising despair and anguish. Some nights the tide would rise as if to swallow him - he would awaken then, his throat burning as the Blood seethed almost as if agitated. The heat of that fiery river still flowed through him... Yet, he understood none of it. One power, beyond his comprehension, doing battle with another that would unravel his mind and take his life with it. How could he even fight such a thing? Would he live long enough for it to matter? An unseemly dread nagged at him, as if it saw a blade hanging over his head.
"Dmitry?"
Her voice shook him free of his racing thoughts, and he turned to see. The White Rose of Steinkreis, the very subject of the red spectre's dire warnings. And yet, he himself would only see the kind-hearted noblewoman, who sought only to help. Today it seemed she was burdened by more than her considerable share of woes, but a large stack of papers... Missives, at a glance? His meditations would have to wait for another time...
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An urgent plea, among the letters. A swift ride, across to the Landing. An arrival... too late, much too late.
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It was some time later when he at last found space for his own thoughts, though it was difficult to welcome them. The pair found themselves in the home of the woman who had sought their aid, a woman mourning the loss of a young son for whom they had rushed in the vain hope of saving. The weight of sorrow hung heavily, but he for his part hoped now to at least offer some support. And yet here he was, his mind elsewhere as they enjoyed a somewhat rustic meal. He looked to his companion - no doubt troubled over the day's events, more than he - yet she bore it with such grace. At least for now he knew what her worries might entail, a rare mercy upon him indeed. Quite often he felt a strong sense of his companion's concerns going unvoiced... As was her right, of course, but on such weighty subjects it left him troubled. Her nature, perhaps?
...Or was she afraid of him?
"She should be," the grim voice found purchase in his mind. "You nearly killed her, and the sickness inside wishes you had succeeded." The harrowing ordeal was quick to surface in his memory. The desperate struggle for the relic in the ruins of the Empyrean vault... The demon's taunts ringing in his ears, shadows closing in around them, narrowly matched by a fierce elven blade. The horrible bloodied haze in his mind, a mark left by one of the vault's prisoners... And a single spark of light, holding the fiend and its allies at bay.
"...you need to betray me."
He remembered her words, his revulsion at the very idea. How could she ask him that? Did she expect it to come so easily? But there in the darkness of the tomb, as hope faded... "It was the only way..." He tried to assure himself, but he still did not believe it. He staked her life in a bid to escape total failure. The act itself nearly broke him, but it worked - his enemy truly thought him so far gone, had not realised just how far they were willing to go. Near a month of darkness followed, balancing on the edge of utter madness - a madness that shielded him from suspicion, as surely as it eroded his very soul. In the end it all proved to be for naught, and the very hand that wielded the treacherous blade was broken beyond repair.
He heard her speak his name, bringing his attention once again to the present conversation. Doubtless his fell mood showed on his face, assailed as he was by such appalling recollections - but such an expression ought to be expected in this circumstance. With some effort he pushed the worries aside, joining in the pleasant small-talk. Absently offering a brief tale of his homeland, far from here and further from his thoughts now. He knew well what they were here for, and he meant to see it through. Do at least some good, as if it might pay for his failings. Soon enough the conversation drifted from him, and his mind slipped back to the conflict nagging at him.
"I should fear her, because she could kill me. Or she should fear me, because I might kill her. Well, which is it? Shall we both live in fear of death at each other's hands? Shall I run, as I did from my homeland?" All that guilt, that sick feeling from his cursed state had truly worn upon him - now, he struck back in defiance. "Running, to spare her? No, it is more cowardly than that. I would run to escape not only death, but for fear that I do not control myself. That I cannot overcome the powers this land raises against me. That I cannot master my despair, facing my imminent demise." He looked across to her, and smiled - she had every reason to run, but she too remained. How could he do anything less than to match her courage?
A little while later they bid farewell to their host, who at least seemed somewhat cheered by their company - though surely, it was a brave face that the grieving mother would doubtless wear out over the days to come. For his part he had grown to appreciate the peaceful moments that evening had offered - a piece of normalcy, a small reminder of what he fought for. He had little to say as they rode back to the city - much had been said through the day, and he dared feel a touch of satisfaction that he had quelled the voices of doubt even a little while. They parted ways, and he returned to the temple - passing the very spot where she had found him, that morning.
She was trouble, yes. He knew that much from the very beginning. Walking by her side, she may very well lead him to death. Indeed, he would not even be the first... And yet, despite all of this he could not be deterred. He felt a sense of clarity he had not known since he was very young, ignorant of the world's cruelty. A sense that he was needed, that he belonged there.
He wished to fight by her side, even to his last breath.
Registered Member #25613
Joined: 2:30:16 am GMT 12/16/21
Posts: 8
[ image disabled ]
The iron hand rested on the table, a piece of true artistry among all his possessions. It had been a curious happenstance, stumbling upon the dwarven master smith in the library of Steinkreis. But he had been eager to hear the former knight's tale, and offer his aid... though the dwarf's reasons remained unfathomable. Certainly, dwarves were never said to be an unkind people, yet still... to craft such a device for a stranger? A man not renowned for any great deeds, nor blessed with high standing? "Perhaps it was the challenge, that most drew his interest." He mused on this, idly. Yes, dedication to the craft was a trait well-established among dwarfkind, one that he understood well.
Indeed, they had spoken a great deal of the intersection of their interests - the ruins of Vongottstein, and what secrets that place might hold. It was of course no secret that the people of that lost kingdom produced countless mechanical wonders, but animated prosthesis? The master smith seemed to think it true, spoke on the account of a maimed demon-slaying knight, but... he could dare not hope for truth in such a tale. More than that, a great deal had been made of the hope that Vongottstein had found some means of saving those who had been touched by the red sickness. Yet, in the end it was the Rift that had destroyed Vongottstein, and it seemed only a vain hope that its solution was somehow buried amongst the remains...
There was no use dwelling on that. They would search below, and range to the far corners of the realm regardless if there was any true hope at all. Better that, than simply entomb himself and wait for death, or revel in madness as his fiendish opposite surely had. He looked again to the iron prosthetic - with this, his repose was finally at an end. While he had certainly not been wholly idle, taking up the sword had proven both difficult and dangerous. Thus, the "Blademeet" - the beginnings of an idea for gathering those others who sought to put their skills to use in the time of relative peace that had followed the establishment of the young king's reign. The young king - a warrior himself, he had been told. There lay the hope of a tournament, where every halfway-trained noble might seek glory. It held little appeal for him in itself, although he might concede that he had some use for prestige. No, it mattered more how the city as a whole could benefit. The displays of valour, reminding the people that the finest knights of the realm protected them, and that they too could strive to stand among them... All this, alongside a joyful celebration. There could be no better time for it.
Yet... Peace could not last, and already there were troubles arising. There had been no time to make the rounds seeking patronage for the event, and this was unlikely to change soon. Worse yet... Among peaceful days, he could happily forget the nightmares. Between waking and seeing to his morning prayers he could push those dark thoughts aside with the hope of a brighter day, a hope that was usually answered. What would become of his mind, when the day no longer proved a refuge from the night? The sickness was not beaten, it was destined to return and time was not on his side. He was no gifted scholar, nor a wielder of powerful magics. He was a swordsman - and even with an iron hand, much less of one than he once was.
The limb fit comfortably over the stump of his arm. Holding it up, he could almost fool himself into thinking he was whole. He felt himself clench a fist... But the hand remained staunchly immobile. And yet despite that... He felt stronger. The mechanism would allow him to grasp a blade if not grip it, and it was a step closer to his former prowess - but that was not where that feeling came from.
"You survived. Alone in the depths, outmatched - you fought, you lost, but you still live. Your injuries have slowed you, but they will not overcome you. Your fight is not over yet."
They were his own words, but they reassured him all the same. Enough to drive the red haze back into the dark recesses of his mind... for a little while longer.
[ The Island of Thain ]
Venator, fata signatus