Escapades With Skulls

[Eleatic 1033]

 

 

"To those who I have never kisssed I wept for the most, for I have never truly loved them. For those who I have, I have never told them, because I have never had the ware to kiss them." Sixstrings, on a drunken tirade.

 

Love is an abstract emotion created as the reaction of certain chemicals with a counterpoint. To that point, it is a purely biological chain to a reasonable goal. Herein lies the difference between a Dread Knight, and a Human, where one feels love through those abstract and cool chemicals, the knight feels anger through runes etched on cold steel. As the human feels sadness, and regret, as does the knight, yet only so do the runes shimmer. 

 

Verin Etitlan looked out over the world, figurative eyes glancing over to all possibly in vision. He was on the summit of a mountain, it's pinnacle. As a mortal man, he might've been praised for exemplary skill in endurance, this was the simplest thing to anything. He was caked in dirt, mud, and snow. He stared down to a small creak and groove in the forests below, a stone pillar protruding out of the ground at the area.

 

He's smiled, and he's laughed, and he's sung. The knight looks out over the desolation, the begginings of a song he once heard creeping into the back of his mind with grim riposte. Rudders are rudders my days here are done, the noblemans' taken my life. He thought of the Dread Lord, the corrupt vision of the angry figure engrossing his consciousness. Dark iron gleaming against the floor, he had woken up during the procedure which severed love from mind. That raw extract philosophy gleaming on the ground, he had asked why. He didn't remember the answer. 

 

He held a skull in his right gauntlet, it was caked in blood. He spun it around, letting his 'eyes' sink unto the sockets. He had found that in the cell. It was likely his own, he grunted at it. In shakespearean fashion, he murmered a few lines of rhetoric to it. "Who are you?" He said simply, continuing to crack the gentle surface for no particular reason. He let it stay, gripped tightly, no longer cracking it. He was frozen, he realized after a bit. A side-effect of reaching the summit of a mountain that was without extraordinary effort, which he had in simplicty. Once he busted out, he voted to do something somewhat helpful for a change. 

 

A week later, the same armor re-entered the cloud temple. It went over to the notice board, posting something rather erroneous up.
 

"To all who read this message, this is a warning,

Apothecary of the former Teutonic Order is a servant of The Harbringers.

Anyone of name Burz' is a servant of the Harbringers.

A little girl was found to be serving them. She wore a pink dress. 14-15. Red eyes. Being corrupted. 

One or two other Sarients, or formerly so, are in the service of (or were formerly) the Harbringers.

 

THIS IS A GENERAL ALERT. I REPEAT. THIS IS A GENERAL ALERT. ANY OF THE ABOVE INDIVIDUALS SHOULD BE CONSTRUED TO BE DANGEROUS.

 

S.V"

 

((don't stop

believin))

[TheBareSheet 194]

Enjoyed the read!

[Merkaken 516]

Alexandros looks at the note, grunting a little. He hefts his mighty longsword onto his shoulder before trotting off.

"It would appear I have blood to shed in the name of My Lord... The worshipers of the false god will die..."

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.