[Soft-PK] Battery-0%

[ronin_champloo 5951]

[Soft-PK] BATTERY-0%

 

He stood within a dark, and empty basement -- or rather the makings of one. Dirt and rock clung onto the walls and floor, the exit barred off. Not that he wished to leave, there was an order to follow. The construct stood guard, waiting for its creators to come once more, watching over the thing that it carried, a box of sorts. Perhaps, it was one of those magical boxes or crates with food that the people of Viene always loved. And yet, why did people cry and smile when they had saw it. Why was a mere glance able to garner such emotion?

 

Why was it so important?

 

For Dael VIII, fear was never an emotion he understood; the end was unstoppable. Nothing could prevent its swift demise. Like a farmer tending to his crops, it lacked empathy and remorse. The cold hand of death was as fast, as it was gentle. A mere touch and one loses their ability to think, move and act – replaced only with the shell of what they once were.

 

What was this.. vile feeling? It was sickening, yet he could not stop it.

 

The reserves of mana that powered him were so little, fading away with each second that he obeyed his protocol. His limbs grew heavy, aching – even – under the weight of the fetter; a concept that he was completely obvious to. At this point, bathed in the absence of light, his leg lowered to kneel. Was this fear, he thought. The construct didn't know and was uneasy from it.

 

“OBSERVATION: MY-END-IS-NIGH-AND-I-AM-ALONE.”

 

His thoughts drifted to Acre, and onto his compatriots and makers; the Daels. In the final seconds of his demise, he thought of a few individuals; of a crying person who smiled so brightly. A wish, or rather a request was made, that he – too – could smile like that.

 

The segments of his body soon began to crumble, falling onto the floor in the heap of the dark basement. First, the arms that he grew so fond of, and then his shoulders. He felt nothing from the approach of the end, merely a quiet peace – an odd silence that he feared. His legs gave out afterwards, and the construct’s body fell onto the ground. At least now, he understood why people called out to anything amidst their final moments. A thought soon settled, and Dael, the Eighth, spoke out;

“REQUEST: WAKE-ME-WHEN-I-AM-NEEDED.”

 

In the last few seconds, he watched as his entire body turned onto a mass of stone and metal. As the Atronach’s core began to roll out, faintly buzzing with the last remnants of its strength and magical reserves, and finally stopped. What once was a construct now was a crumbled mess of rock. At the top of this hill, however, stood a core, empty and unable to think.

 

Spoiler

OOC:

Had fun playing DV3, but he ran out of battery.

 

[Xx_BloodStalk_xX 2123]

The Dark Lord slowly entered that lowly basement, looking around for the construct that he had been so grateful to. But he only saw pieces. His expression darkened, and assured those around not to feel anything. After all, this thing had not a soul. 
 

Yet, they shared a name. 

The Dark Lord mourns.

[M1919 1057]

A farmhand is a farmhand.

 

Simple words, with simple meanings, yet a value placed upon each syllable. No matter the soul, no matter the design upon which Divine fingers carved in Fate; valued could be synonymous to honored for such a profession.

 

Posters had been made, concerned toward the whereabouts of one particular caretaker in Acre. It described a certain particular being, made of neither flesh nor bone, designed by a particular forgemaster, alien to the barley-coated country north of Vienne.

 

 

A farmhand is a farmhand.