Hatchet Without The Hatchet

[Rig 17591]

When Kairn awoke in the woods at the latest hours of the night, he fumbled along the ground, naked knuckles scraping against the gravel. The dark winds howled and though there was great unease within the man, he allowed his fingers to abruptly stop fidgeting as he regained his focus, heart beating feebly in his chest as every inch of his body ached. His flesh stung from the rigor of his pilgrimage with such ferocity that he could barely manage to stay upright, yet he did so anyway. No matter how cruel the elements could be, woe to those who could not withstand them.

 

The druid had spoken to his mentor of the primeval rage of nature, the darker forces at work within it and the omnipresence of it at every given time, lying dormant and festering until called upon. With him were those feelings he had locked away; spitefulness, rage and other pains running as deep as a sunken chasm in the earthen floor. He grasped onto those feelings to sustain himself and lied in wait, not easing that tension within himself for even the briefest second of respite, any lapse in his judgement could very well be his last.

 

His stomach growled from his fasting, the numbness of his chilly fingers and toes being the last outward feelings he possessed, fear and anger churning within him. In coming to the forest had he sentenced himself to die? The other druids spat on him, called him a draoi, and disrespected him at every turn. This was no penance, he decided inwardly, there is never a good reason to show an ounce of pity to the same men and women who try to tear you down and have for years worked at unraveling your hard work and ruining your life. For there to be balance there must be conflict. Nature is nothing but conflict that churns in the soft underbelly of the world if mortals dare hold it at bay with civilization.

 

The rims of his eyes were touched with redness and swelling, his forearms and legs riddled with bug bites and caked with mud. And still he peered into the darkness, the onset of dawn bringing some light to his rough and black world. He did not dare wreath in pain as others did, he would not die today, he had been here for nearly a week already, fasting and helping himself to occasional sips of water when the agony grew too great to bear.

And it was then it came to him, that sudden rush of adrenaline, his pupils dilated as he almost convulsed from the strange sensation that touched his nerves. It was no ecstasy, just unbridled fury as before him he saw a black pool, its waters whisking like churned milk, shallow depths illuminated by an eclipse of shadow. He saw his own visage, gnarled and leathery and burned, leathery and unkind. He saw the toll his visions had taken on him, the gauntness of his cheeks and the thinness of frame as he felt his ribs.

 

 

Your eyes are deceived. Uncloud them.

 

Words rang out within whatever sparse consciousness remained untouched by hunger and hopelessness. He had thought this journey would be futile, thankfully he was wrong, although he could not pinpoint where this voice had come from. Is it his own? Is it the Aspects? He decided it didn’t matter and listened, though nothing further came. He felt his blood boil, his bloodshot eyes wrung dry from the fury he was taken by. A blood curdling scream followed, the waves splashing as the sky was tinted by a rosy hue, the depths of the water plagued by rainfall as acidic drops of water touched its surface with a sizzle and pop. And as he saw nothing but red and the acid drizzling down his seared and deteriorating flesh, he awakened to daytime, infernal rage being his only feeling as the pain and angst had all but subsided.

[Ambduscias 1028]

"Who the **** names these missives? A retarded gorilla?" inquires notable necromancer, the Cardinal.

[Guest]

11 minutes ago, Ambduscias said:

"Who the **** names these missives? A retarded gorilla?" inquires notable necromancer, the Cardinal.

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[mitto 2312]

Valor would emerge from the depths of the Naelurir grove, gripping the wood of the entrance as he peered out at the moon. His left hand would raise to stroke the scarring on his cheek. "Passion." He would state, a long pause before proceeding towards the city centre.

[devvy 1348]

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

 

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