Fight 2: Flood Reserves
May 8, 2024 21:11:49 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on May 8, 2024 21:11:49 GMT -5
napoleon la lande
The air is full of a rotting smell.
Then it gets mixed in with a metallic tang, like old pennies gathering rust at the bottom of a fountain. The taste of rust rises at the back of his throat.
He fights the urge to retch again, but it’s a hard battle as the muscles of his gullet contract wildly, attempting to squeezing out whatever stomach acid had crawled its way out, and Napoleon keeps his teeth gnashed. Don’t throw up again. Because if he starts, he’s afraid it would never stop, not until everything within him has come out and leaves him only a husk.
What did I do to deserve this?
The concept of divine punishment, although popular in the religions his parents worshipped, has never been much concern to him previously, not when he was content behind tall, dazzling walls of the La Lande manor, fed on a silver platter and kept like a bejewelled egg. But once his life began crumbling like a home in Shearhill, he began to learn prayers, hymns, reciting each word as if speaking them could earn him everything back.
Even now, shivering in this dark, he suddenly finds his lips open and close in a mantra, over and over. Hold onto hope and it will never abandon you. Hold onto hope and it will never abandon you. Hold onto hope and it will never abandon you.
Napoleon wants, no, needs the words to be true. And If he could escape, he promises to whatever god that he would build an altar under its name and offer it sacrifices every other day. If he could live, he would forever be bound to its worship, a reverent follower to the very end.
But if a god dwelt in these walls, they were not a kind one.
He still prayed regardless as he pulled back his glaive, looked at the two stumbling through the dark like drunkards at a theatre show, and then made a choice.
Played god, to an extent, by slashing towards one of the shapes.
Then it gets mixed in with a metallic tang, like old pennies gathering rust at the bottom of a fountain. The taste of rust rises at the back of his throat.
He fights the urge to retch again, but it’s a hard battle as the muscles of his gullet contract wildly, attempting to squeezing out whatever stomach acid had crawled its way out, and Napoleon keeps his teeth gnashed. Don’t throw up again. Because if he starts, he’s afraid it would never stop, not until everything within him has come out and leaves him only a husk.
What did I do to deserve this?
The concept of divine punishment, although popular in the religions his parents worshipped, has never been much concern to him previously, not when he was content behind tall, dazzling walls of the La Lande manor, fed on a silver platter and kept like a bejewelled egg. But once his life began crumbling like a home in Shearhill, he began to learn prayers, hymns, reciting each word as if speaking them could earn him everything back.
Even now, shivering in this dark, he suddenly finds his lips open and close in a mantra, over and over. Hold onto hope and it will never abandon you. Hold onto hope and it will never abandon you. Hold onto hope and it will never abandon you.
Napoleon wants, no, needs the words to be true. And If he could escape, he promises to whatever god that he would build an altar under its name and offer it sacrifices every other day. If he could live, he would forever be bound to its worship, a reverent follower to the very end.
But if a god dwelt in these walls, they were not a kind one.
He still prayed regardless as he pulled back his glaive, looked at the two stumbling through the dark like drunkards at a theatre show, and then made a choice.
Played god, to an extent, by slashing towards one of the shapes.
[Napoleon attacks Ekta | Glaive]
NFs7boa6zPglaive
13165 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage (Glaive)
NFs7boa6zPglaive
13165 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage (Glaive)