[PK] The Death of a Coward

[ChillDemonLad 170]

His hand shook.

The twitching was not new, years it had been now. Years of shaking and convulsions that racked his form. How his body would crumple to the ground, head hitting the floorboards of the home that felt more akin to a prison most days. Ythur and Ekythkeezh did their best to help- of course they did, but neither knew what was going on with him. How could they? So he shook, and sobbed.

----------------

His hand shook.

The missive in his grip had been read one too many times to count, eyes always landing on what Elijah had done to him. How that memory he was told was a simple mistake from the universe, one where alternatives became mixed, was not truthfully that. How the slap of the hand against his cheek had been real, how the porcelain mask had been shoved onto his face had been true. How close he had been to death as a child, it was all reality. He knew not how to cope with the history he now knew besides sobbing into the arms of Sisu.

----------------

His hand shook.

The smell of death reeked. There was no calm, no peace in this wretched church. How the chorus of laughter echoed around him only furthered his fear. He heard the words through ears focused not on speeches but on tear drops. The sight of the world, dead and baren. The parchedness of his throat, the hunger in his stomach. It had all been too real, and he had tried his hardest to forget it all through the listening to something else. He had been hyper focusing upon the fall of tear drops from his eyes to the ground. Tiva heard it, though.

"As for you. . . You fail to impress me. . ."

He made up his mind then he would not beg.

----------------

His hand did not shake.

They would find the corpse of a dark elf in the night, some distant travelers. His flesh and muscles ripped apart, gored, and flayed. Even his bones had been torn out from his body. Only identifiable by the glasses he wore, for everything else that made Tiva the man he was had been torn away. The empty skull sitting on top the pile looked almost mocking. Looted as it was, what little remained would be given to his parents. He at least had a cloth wrapped around him when handed off, so their final image of their son would not be one so profanely wrong.

 

Spoiler

Thank you everyone who made Tiva who he was! To @Sir_omnifor helping me start the character, to @laugh_giggleteheand @hatter for being amazing ic parents, for @Frisketbeing a wonderful teacher even if we never got to magic due to my break, for @Amesti being an amazing friend to the boy, for @ilovewelding123being the best aunt, and for @King_Kunukorchestrating a lovely death. To the two ic parents of Tivu, ill drop by later icly and you can get his money + some items from him! I was given permission to do that at least, so thanks to the folks for that.

 

[PrinceTheDM 275]

Professor Elijah sent a letter that would never reach its destination.

A string once carefully wound now hung broken, frayed at every end. There had been so much twine left to twist. So many words left unsaid. And yet, despite all his efforts, the thread had finally snapped.

He could not halt the turning of the wheel.

The cycle continued, uncaring and eternal. The work remained unfinished, as it always would. A burden inherited, carried, and abandoned to the next trembling hands. Fate marched onward unchanged, deaf to grief, deaf to pleading.

Behind chromatic lenses, tears fell in silence.

And on that day, though the sun still shone above the world, the rain came all the same.

But sorrow granted no respite.

The desk still waited. The candles still burned. There were still lectures left half-written, papers left unanswered, and wandering souls in need of guidance. Though one thread had been severed, countless others remained tangled around his weary hands.

And so Professor Elijah dried his tears, gathered the broken strands, and continued onward.

For his work was never truly finished.

There were still students left to guide.

And still lessons left to teach.

[King_Kunuk 3022]

The Witch King gazed down at the elven welp that was left to his unkind ministrations. Contempt seethed through his mind. What need does he have for cowards? Only the mighty and those with drive and will could stand against him, and perhaps even with him.

 

Thus, Tiva was sent to an ignoble death; consumed by hungry thralls to obsessed with the need to satisfy the eternal hungry which no amount of flesh could never meet. Such was the cruelty of the world.

 

 

And the Gravelord was beyond cruel in all things he did.

[laugh_giggletehe 113]

 Angstslop in spoiler.

Spoiler

KILL JOHN LENNON!!!

Grief.
It is a wicked thing that strikes when one expects it the least. It is a contaminant that seeps into the very pores of everything that is and everything that will be; the whispered echoes of love lost haunting the ears of all that knew the departed.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱𝄞⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Tiva Milan Ukesh’tahel was unrecognizable by the time his remains were brought to that quiet household. When the knock settled against drooping ears, the drow had set their book face-down against their shared desk with a smile.

The years had been hard on the beloved son, his condition worsening as the sparks in his eyes dampened. What once was a bubbly, energetic child had grown into a nervous, shut-in adult- but he had left the house.

“Progress.”, Ythur had whispered to themself, watching Tiva wind down the stoney path from an open window. It had been a proud utterance, if a tentative one.
Nothing could have prepared them for that progress to be cut short, for the news that beckoned them towards the door.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱𝄞⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Grief.
Like a physical weight, it bobbed painfully within their throat as they took that crimson-stained fabric into their arms. The sickening scent of iron flooded the air as what remained of Tiva was jostled.

In this moment, clarity is offered unto the half-blind father. They had always known death for what it was- a horrifying, inescapable fate. An executioner with no moral obligation, no desire to turn away the undeserving or those with life left to live.

Ythur knew, of course, and they knew that it was absurd to live in fear of such a thing if it would come regardless. To live one’s life fully, they must do what they wish- accomplish as many goals as they can before the final sleep; not because they wish to be remembered, but simply because they want to.

In this moment of horrible, perspective-altering clarity, they realize that Tiva had never accomplished what he always wanted.

And his glasses slipped from their hold, clattering against the wooden floor.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱𝄞⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Time passes, and yet the father is stuck in that moment. The realization, the denial, and the gutwrenching understanding that nothing would be the same repeating time and time again, echoing about their skull.

Time passes, and yet the father remains seated just outside of their son’s bedroom, spine pressing uncomfortably against the mossy stone wall. Both of their arms enwreathe his remains until the cloth is rendered a mere formality, until the blood seeps through their own shirt and plasters itself against flesh.



Until they are ready to let go.

Edited May 8 by laugh_giggletehe

[198Os 48]

Reserved

 

[ilovewelding123 8]

reserved

[Frisket 4537]

Vivien sat behind her office chair, the great oak table before her buried beneath scrolls, petitions, and unfinished documents awaiting preparation for the coming court week. The scratching of pen against parchment had long filled the chamber in a steady rhythm, until suddenly, it ceased. Her hand stilled. Ink gathered at the tip of the quill and bled into a dark pool upon the parchment before she finally lifted it away, placing it carefully back within the ink bottle.

 

Silence settled over the office.

 

Vivien was not a woman who forgot people. Especially not those who had once carved themselves into the chambers of her heart and mind. Important people lingered with her, sometimes as ghosts, sometimes as wounds. And now, in the quiet stillness of dusk, one such memory returned to her.

 

Slowly, she turned within her adorned chair and looked out beyond the window panes toward the fading horizon. The amber glow of sunset spilled across the rooftops and cast long shadows over the Glennmares restaurant of Garenburger below. Yet her eyes did not truly see the city before her. They wandered elsewhere, far beyond stone streets and crowded taverns, searching for someone absent.

 

Where was he now?

 

Was he alive? Wandering? Bleeding beneath foreign skies? Had the world swallowed him whole as it had done to so many others before him? Or perhaps worse, had he simply become another name condemned to memory alone?

 

The thoughts lingered heavily upon her.

 

And as they did, her imagination betrayed her once more.

 

She saw them all again.

 

Her students. Every single one of them.

 

Not broken. Not dead. Not corrupted by the horrors of the Black Church nor dragged screaming into the grasp of the Black Sepulchre. Instead they stood around her in warmth and laughter, alive and whole. Some were older, some younger, yet all wore the proud hats and robes of masters accomplished. Their voices filled the room with joy as they spoke over one another, smiling as though the world had never once been cruel to them.

 

No graves.
No failures.
No funerals.

 

Only happiness.

 

Only peace.

 

And Tiva among them.

 

For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe it.

 

Yet the dream shattered as quickly as it came.

 

How foolish she was.

 

Vivien knew better than to indulge in comforting fantasies. The world had long since beaten such innocence out of her. She knew the truth of things. She understood reality in all its ugliness. From Jude and Arthur, to the mage world itself, to the darkspawn, the Empire, and Idunia alike. She had witnessed what became of promises in this world.

 

Promises mattered to her.

 

Perhaps more than they should.

 

For Vivien did not make promises lightly, and those she did make became chains upon her soul. Unfinished vows lingered within her like open wounds, gnawing endlessly at the back of her mind. She remembered the promise she had made to him, remembered every word of it with painful clarity, and the uncertainty of whether she would ever fulfill it weighed heavier upon her than any crown or courtly duty ever could.

 

That, above all else, was what haunted her.

 

And so the woman rose from her chair at last, her expression hardening as the last light of dusk faded from the sky.

 

If the world would deny peace to those she cared for, then she would carve justice from its flesh herself.

 

And she would make it known upon the coming crusade, as righteous fire burned the flesh from every hellspawned creature that dared stain the realm with its existence

Spoiler

I hope u had fun, Tiva was a great character, and dw bro there will be other opportunities for you in the future.

 

[AechQQ 104]

The Darkstalker looked down at the shattered corpse of an elf. Remorse.. was not the right word. He dwelled upon this for a moment. Disappointment, that was it. A bard had just parted the Sepulchre with a quest, and this elf lay dead on the floor.

"A pity"

He waved a hand to the ghouls, motioning them to move the body into storage, before turning and walking down the hall toward his quarters.

[Shadeleaf 1021]

The Stillness of the World - at times - brings peace to even the most decrepit minds.

 

The depths of the tundra are kin to this Stillness, one so brutally honest as to recognize those that find their home within not-distant family.

 

The creaking of long rusted gates broke the Stillness, and the echo of distant, clownish cackling ensured it remained shattered for quite some time. Nazkorhus had it's duties, and fulfilled them punctually; so for a time, it listened. The levity - could one call it that - continued for some time, groans of evident captives filtering through the iced metal grates, one... no - two, identified as the conversation droned on.

 

They had a shepherd present, a necromancer, and what ever monstrosities the 'Meat-Circus' deigned to drag about on their horrid crusades. The job was simple then. From beneath aged wood suffused with the never-melting ice of the far north, the Lich would produce a ledger; a dusty thing, writ once, then twice, then thrice over rendering the damned thing looking as beaten as the corpse-mage itself. But like the corpse-mage, it had a job to do, and as the tally marks fell into each column of  'resources' derived from the living - Lifeforce, Available Genus, Soul-Fragments and so on, the Stillness of the world once again braced the mummified thing. 

 

It thought for a moment - ever so fleeting - what each tally mark meant. There was little emotion behind the action -  and what a rare action it was indeed - but steeped in logistics as the Lich was it could not help but think of the families each tally left in their wake, the abandoned goods never to be found, the half-written and secreted letters to some hopeful paramour that would never be delivered. They were all just statistics of course - but statistics of a different kind... a kind that brought just the slightest fleeting feeling of discomfo-

*SLAM*

 

In the doorway of the frozen office stood two forms, those of the first Black Scribe, and the Witch King himself. The later smiled... he hardly had the vigor to smile anymore... perhaps the Lich had miscounted. The implication was clear , and with the Stillness forced once more back into the tundra, the damned thing took up its work and began to hover towards the door -- after all, the tallies only counted for 'theoretical' resources, now was time for the dirty work.

[Sr_Dimentio 584]

"Tsk..." Joka, the ''charming magician'', a Lich Draugar that took part on the capture of the poor elf groaned as he saw the execution of the man, going to float away to another room "Just mindless violence... Without purpose..." He mumbled, the voidstalker jester going to take a rose that slowly withered on his hand. "What a waste..." Who knows what he meant by that, the theater kid floating to his room on the MEAT CIRCUS to continue practicing his dramatic evil monologues.

[Sir_omni 151]

„Even in death I have failed to protect you Clement“ said a Gaston looking down from the heavens „ I wish it all could been better“

[Chimeraof1999 1187]

Spoiler

 

 

A soft echo of wisps and gentle greetings echoed around the place he once called treasured and home. That place no longer represented that when he had to aid those he once knew into the streams unforgotten. Souls leaving the bodies of the dead deepened the sadness in the creature unknown to him.

 

The creature stepped forth as the poor elf entered the halls, their frame twisted and contorted after a nasty entry of death, gore and sadness. There was no words upon the creature's maw, only a soft frown as he went to embrace the entering Elf. 

 

There was nothing he could do, but hope in this vision, they would get to the afterlife they so desired. . . His eyes filling with soft swells of golden tears as he looked on at a person he did not interact with but watched from the shadows, beckoning every good move. They disappeared from their life, trying to not interupt the natural order of humanity but yet did not wish to leave that poor soul alone, oh Tiva. Maybe one day, they could've wished to see them again, wandering about the mortal planes again/

 

But that would not be the case in this very day, as he would watch their form begin to mold and twist into something greater from what they once were, the creature looked away as Tiva disappeared to where they would remain. All he hoped, is that the rumors were true.

You don't enter the same way you died, into the warm embrace of Unknown Spirits. 

 

They hoped Tiva wouldn't forget that feeling of solace. The one thing that made sure to keep them going, forgot them to make them seem Tiva didn't need help.

 

The creature fell to his knees, as he heard the wisps of Tiva disappearing from behind, as a violent streams of tears echoed in the dark mid-section of where he guided.

 

You were not a coward.

 

You were.

 

You.

[Shadeleaf 1021]

The Stillness gave way yet again.

Sockets snapped up from ruined tablet - the third this saints day. It joined the pile of its fallen brethren, each born of slate with failing sheep-skin laid o're top as a medium of writing. Each had failed in its task. Each had failed to do its duty. Each was weak. And weakness is what the Lich Saw then, not just in stone, but in the tattered 'remains' - could they be called that - which were draped and mixed into the pile of unfortunate subjects of the prior day's reaping.

 

The remains were not rotten (the cold made sure of that), but they were... darker than the others. Maybe frost-burnt, or perhaps charred traditionally? No... an ear-tip, sharp as a dagger (thats what they used to call us you know...) and the distinct features of a young elven face - barely clinging to fragments of bone for structure (what a waste). The Lich's fingers now free of stone tablet, free of logistics danced idly at it's side. It thought to the purgatory it had endured, the screaming souls writhing for a chance at being chosen for some unknown fate. It thought of Hell - the same all Mali'ker that did not follow their ancestral practices would find in demise.

 

He could not save them all.

 

What were the chances then that this poor corpse had venerated it's ancestors?

(The creature's left hand had already begun to rise)

 

What was the cost-benefit analysis of wresting a soul from eternal reward, verses saving it from eternal torment?

(Lifeforce poured from unwilling finger-tips)

 

Had this poor thing even seen it's first century?

(The flesh knit with it's neighboring rot)

 

It had been nigh three decades since the Lich-Draugar was risen (had the 'ker lived so long)? Nearly eight centuries now and still the corpse-mage felt it wasn't enough (it was never enough). What would ██████ think -- what would ███████ suspect of him should he find out (They never mattered... they'll forget you too). 

 

"Helun-Velulaeya maluan ra." it would pray to a power that would not listen. "Uhv'laht-urev a'nork." None would listen anymore... except perhaps...

 

The being (the ghoul) that shuddered now atop the pile of corpses. With lungs borrowed from the other creatures it struggled to 'breathe' (what did you do to him?), not yet knowing it need not dabble in such laborious waste (did he have a family)? As a scream cut through the stillness of the sepulcher... once again did the Lich reconsider it's actions, and perhaps... for a moment, wish again for the sweet embrace of the grave.

[Smoketheknight 285]

The Dark Harlequin pondered alone above the top of the chilling mountains, gazing upon the domains of his beloved Witch Kingdom. 

 

Suddenly, a thought went past his mind, that dark elf he helped to capture without hesitation, and the terrible fate he had succumbed with. 

 

"Something isn't quite right here. . ." The Harlequin mutters "The story of a man cannot end so. . . abruptly. . ." 

 

There was a long pause, the paramount humming in thought , the silence is only broken by the whistling wind.

 

"This is. . . your second act, my friend. " - "You better get prepared, for you shall perform soon."

 

"Theatrum mundi"