Nighted in Tribulation

[Zarsies 6795]

 

Spoiler

Follow up to this. And yes, yes, I know. Knight, night. Don, dawn. They’re puns.

 

 

Below, butchered in bereavement and breadth of black, there came shudders. A man laid decked in sheets and layers of bitter metal, the armor as solid and cold as its wearer. The stillness and chill of the body denoted a status of death, surely, and was far from capable of withstanding the warmth of waking. Devoid, nigh statuesque, and bleak; this was a stoney corpse of little popularity and minor fame. Yet still, stinging with frigid stiffness and hard, it stirred. Twas not the body that moved for it already laid in the everlasting, numbing comfort of dark restings. It was the spirit, the soul. Silhouetted in sinewy threads of dainty, lithe strings, the man roiled. Tiny alterations of this soft, vaporous twine rippled out from the body while he tossed and turned, shuddering and twitching. It was the image of the man although wreathed in a phantasmal display. The dullest of light flickered from him while riled and stirring, a vision moving in a helpless and splashing manner as if restrained and drowning in the deathly nightmare of his own build. 

 

Lapping and puddled within his own, whispers came. Like the murmurs of a brook and silence drawn from lakeside tides, voices came from the black and stillness. Quiet, very quiet. By ones and twos they came, then threes and fours. They all sang, sang in cries, in indecipherable  tongues with pained whispers. But they were not individuals; they were one, same voice, but broken. Each a new tone, each a fractured sliver with its own octave from the throat of the dead and bodiless. Ethereal and cast in despair, the cries surmounted one another and climbed to a peak. A final cry rang out among the depths of the below and the threads took shape. A duplication of the deadman rose, dark and amorphous. His form came and went, his voice rose and fell, and like deep sea waves he wavered. While this changing composition woke from its lost self, a bubbling and splashing voice choked out from the figure lifted out of its slumbering and taken in terror. Uttering momentarily without sense, cohesion came to its words and as its first speech, reawakened, it went appropriately as a quote.

 

“‘̕B͘on͏e҉ ͡c̶old,͢ ͟su͢n̨ d̛ead, ͟u̷n̕l͜i͠fe̕ ͝eţe͡rnal. ͠P̨a̕le̸, ơ’s͜o̶ ͢pal͏e̴.’͜”̢

 

The man rose, his concrete form behind, and the image of his self took its shape. Like a blossoming, macabre flower, the spirit pieced together from its straggling, slumping parts and converged. Threads tied, strings fused, and the faintness of his whole became thick. The man sat upon the pedestal his body had been laid upon previously, yet he dripped and quivered with unknown substances. His skin, spectral; and his bones, luminous. Wordless, he rose from sitting upon his own body and came into the air. His feet graced just over the stones path, taken to the air over it. Levitating and odd, he called out in a drenched voice that trickled and wept before washing out into the shadows;

 

"̸R̨͟i͏̡͠s͘e̶̴̢ń̷.͠"̛͢

 

 

[_Sug 2809]

"Welcome Back....." A graven would say to the newly arisen man.

[Keldrith 717]

A ghost would tap his chin as he observed this, nodding after the gravens comment "It actually worked.." 

[Angmarzku 1251]

The ghoul would drag his feet along the road with a hunched position snarling

[tilly 5115]

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