Laser Rain
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- Posted: Wed, 08 Feb 2012 16:28:10 +0000
Christopher Metus
His teeth gritted a little, of all the damnable things that could happen he was injured at this time? Right when something a bit more dangerous than a handful of oversized mosquitos came around? Ugh. His wounds were still open too. He let go of his supporting ally and dropped to one knee again. From his chest, he tore away his shirt, part of which was wrapped around his arm and the rest, his side. With a slight adjustment to his pauldrons, he leaned up against the support on the bridge, he tried to avoid putting weight on Kiya, but it was difficult. The button up shirt he had on previously was absolutely shredded now that it had become bandages. He sort of shrugged it off, in his bag he had plenty to wear, but wouldn’t put it on until he was properly cleaned up and fit once more. His torso laid bare now, the pale, boney thing looked almost sickening. His ribs jutted out slightly, but enough to make them look defined.
His wiry fingers reached up and tugged on his left collarbone, then tested his right. A deep scratch in his pauldron made his face twist around some; he had gotten them made post-prison. Right after he ascended to his own, personal throne. He had planned for a helmet to be made, but he guessed that it’d be better to just buy one while he was traveling. The appearance a Rite put off truly made a statement. Everyone from the city knew of the murderer-sage, how couldn’t they? So he put up his armor, both literally and mentally, to show that forgiveness was there but not simple. Questions from his group arose, how would they pass it? He simply had no idea. The thing was monstrous too. This was all getting to his head, making him anxious and irritated. ‘Submit.’ A voice in his head told him. He often struggled with his own defeatist attitude. ‘Submit.’
He had a headache. They didn’t have time to dawdle here, especially him. He coughed a tiny bit and stood up straight. A slight second wind was coming in. He had absolutely no plan but he did know that they had no time to sit there and discuss it for any extended period of time. “Any plan. Now.” He demanded.
~~~Of course, it came.~~~
His eyes had dulled somewhat; he was living, and likely wouldn’t die if they could at least get some real bandages on him quickly. When Jean approached them, he spoke to the man for one of the first times. ”You wouldn’t be able to help with this, would you?” While Metus was no prince, he was respected in his own kingdom to about the same degree. He saw social classes as natural but pointless. All of the travelers, he would treat the same and speak freely to. This was also a good chance to test some of them. He pulled his shirt off his side to expose torn skin, ripped flesh and a fresh little spurt of blood ran down to his hip, which he wiped back off. Absolutely abominable that he was in this situation, the old him would have no scars to show for a day like this. The old him was dead.
Regardless, his brain snapped back in to the present situation, too often he drifted into introspective lulls. Prison time would do that to someone. There wasn’t much for him to do down there until he started to pray, and even that took over his mind. He sacrificed an old soul, drenched in blood, for a new one bathed in regrets. He hated that he was relatively negative still, and efforts often went to changing that, but there was only so much one could do. The Rite was well respected, but never much of a companion to anyone back home, except those who needed to vent about their (often insignificant) sins.
His wiry fingers reached up and tugged on his left collarbone, then tested his right. A deep scratch in his pauldron made his face twist around some; he had gotten them made post-prison. Right after he ascended to his own, personal throne. He had planned for a helmet to be made, but he guessed that it’d be better to just buy one while he was traveling. The appearance a Rite put off truly made a statement. Everyone from the city knew of the murderer-sage, how couldn’t they? So he put up his armor, both literally and mentally, to show that forgiveness was there but not simple. Questions from his group arose, how would they pass it? He simply had no idea. The thing was monstrous too. This was all getting to his head, making him anxious and irritated. ‘Submit.’ A voice in his head told him. He often struggled with his own defeatist attitude. ‘Submit.’
He had a headache. They didn’t have time to dawdle here, especially him. He coughed a tiny bit and stood up straight. A slight second wind was coming in. He had absolutely no plan but he did know that they had no time to sit there and discuss it for any extended period of time. “Any plan. Now.” He demanded.
~~~Of course, it came.~~~
His eyes had dulled somewhat; he was living, and likely wouldn’t die if they could at least get some real bandages on him quickly. When Jean approached them, he spoke to the man for one of the first times. ”You wouldn’t be able to help with this, would you?” While Metus was no prince, he was respected in his own kingdom to about the same degree. He saw social classes as natural but pointless. All of the travelers, he would treat the same and speak freely to. This was also a good chance to test some of them. He pulled his shirt off his side to expose torn skin, ripped flesh and a fresh little spurt of blood ran down to his hip, which he wiped back off. Absolutely abominable that he was in this situation, the old him would have no scars to show for a day like this. The old him was dead.
Regardless, his brain snapped back in to the present situation, too often he drifted into introspective lulls. Prison time would do that to someone. There wasn’t much for him to do down there until he started to pray, and even that took over his mind. He sacrificed an old soul, drenched in blood, for a new one bathed in regrets. He hated that he was relatively negative still, and efforts often went to changing that, but there was only so much one could do. The Rite was well respected, but never much of a companion to anyone back home, except those who needed to vent about their (often insignificant) sins.
"Yeah well they'll put that on your tombstone as the last thing that you said. i never wanted to kill a man, like i want to kill you man."
The years of pain boiled over, trading blows across the counter.
And when that devil was down he grabbed for his empty old friend jack.
He caught his eye as he took his last breath and that vice went to his head again and again.
"Dear god what have you done?"
The years of pain boiled over, trading blows across the counter.
And when that devil was down he grabbed for his empty old friend jack.
He caught his eye as he took his last breath and that vice went to his head again and again.
"Dear god what have you done?"