Death of a Renegade

[TryaxReck 377]

 

Vozhd looked down at his palms, wrapped in leather and covered with steel. It was an arduous effort to take them off alone, though it didn’t frustrate him as much as it usually did. After some maneuvering and muffled expletives, the gauntlets were tossed aside. He made moves to unclasp the other bits and pieces of his armor, loosening up the leather strips that bound the metal chassis to his chest, untying all the coiled ropes for the finer parts of his set. By the time the sabatons were removed, Vozhd was in a sweat. He wiped his face, disturbed by the sensation of a cool, stiff breeze surrounding him. Vulnerability mixing with nostalgia. 

 

    The thought lingered as he sat upon a felled tree, the hardy oak succumbing to the harsh weather of the wildlands.  Today was a day of many rediscovered sensations. Soon he felt himself an urge to touch everything again; the grass and leaves, his hair and old disfigured skin. And while he didn’t bother with the caressing of nature, he did take a dip into his own head, fingers brushing along the scars and patches of burnt skin, wounds still stinging from battles had long ago. His forehead scrunched up, brows furrowed as he tried to think, tried to remember what led him here, not just to the forest, but to this state, to be this person. Broken memories tried to fit together, the smells of morning breakfast, the feeling of his feet hurting walking along old roads. A bar, where he met a man with iron infused with his skull, searing pain from fire, torture, and cold resignation when he let go of his son. The eye closed, holding back tears locked away for god knows how long. The tears poured harder as he tried to make them stop, balling his fists and wiping away the physical manifestation of his regret. His self loathing. 

 

    Too late now, he knew that already. The painkillers were wearing off, the stabs of pain when he inhaled grew in intensity. It was coming soon, and he had not the time to be idle. He took his hand and reached in his pocket, taking out a shot of the widow-maker. If the stories were to be true, he’d be passed out drunk for a solid day. Enough time for nature to finish the rest. With a satisfactory pop of the cork, Vozhd with no hesitation downed the glass, gulping it greedily, like it was ambrosia. In a sense, it was to him. Finality, ready to see what beyond brought. Whether it was the torment of void, or the refuge of the seven skies, or perhaps some other deities land, he was ready. And as he lied down upon the grass, moving away from the fallen tree, he tried to remember the few happy moments he had. The passion of lovers long gone, the old memories of dancing and poetry. So he smiled, a weak smile as the black surrounded him, and for a brief moment before he slipped into slumber, he felt at peace. No pain, no regret nor boiling hatred. Just a tranquil bliss. The organs shut down, fighting a hopeless battle, and after a long few hours, the blood ran still and the heart grew silent. Vozhd was finally free, after a lifetime of bondage.
 

 

[SerFinnick 445]

Philip Louis, son of Alexander Joseph, sighs that a man his father both despised and respected finally rests, and returns to reality realizing he didn’t deserve such a pitiful end. 

[Callum 1009]

"Better dead than red"

[ronin_champloo 5951]

“Finally. – The retard’s gone.” 

 

An ‘Aheral mutters briefly, a coarse laughter adorning his lips. His cerulean eyes, birth of an array of inquisitive hues would fixate about the distance. A burning, cinder-like quality hidden within; A serenity then bathing his regal features.

[Nozgoth 3083]

The shivering, cold spirit of Evindal ‘The Defiler’ rolls in his grave.

[Roguechaotic 264]

'Derik Brashton smiles as he sees the man who he once called friend finally laid to rest in a peaceful manner'

[rukio 8924]

Alyssa Swint would smile as her old friend joined her in the afterlife. Her eyes were no longer glassy or void of emotion, perhaps death was been kinder to her than her birth had been.

 

”Prevja, mister armored man.” 

 

[Lhindir_ 3691]

An azdrazi wonders why Vhozd didn’t die earlier, despite killing him in a duel.

[latte 2238]

“Thank GOD- I hated him,” a certain terrorist mutters in the afterlife.