red,black soul; e+a [day 3]
Mar 1, 2018 14:23:32 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on Mar 1, 2018 14:23:32 GMT -5
Ingran Ansgot's back touches the bloodwashed ground for the first and final time; you leave him to rot. You speak softly, as if raising your voice would wake him from his sleep in a bed of hellfire and void. "If I make it there, I hope I find you." Because if there's a man who deserves to share that kingdom of fire and brimstone with you, it's certainly him. A man who emitted an aura of evil from beyond a television screen, who's singular kill captivated you long before you began to draw your path in bloodshed and violence.
Despite the pain pulsating across your face, you laugh when he fails to carry on the banner of resurrection he wore proudly on his chest. He doesn't move.
You wonder if he saw that deadly pinwheel of his come to a halt on circumstance when it did, or perhaps he was too caught up in the moment of spilling the blood of his ally. Losing himself to bloodlust and surrendering himself to a materialization of human mortality. Of course, the real Ingran's bones sit six feet under in District Six, but this is the closest thing you get to the real thing. Something rotting, something twisted.
Something deadly.
You see glass shards half buried in the snow when you turn on your heels; you know a shattered mirror to your soul when you see one. Ice biting the edges of your hardened mind, there isn't a single worry of what that means. What message the Gamemakers tried to send you in digging up a memory three years old and sending him as a reminder that you are a mortal man, not a god.
You tore it down because no one, not even dead men, fuck with you.
There's a heavy pride gnawing at your sleeve, the promise of hellfire chasing away the frost crawling up your skin as you journey from the shards of the shattered mirror. Set the deadly wheel in motion again; you don't hear it stop at circumstance nor do you sense it slow at causation.
The sun kisses your trembling skin and your wounds tremble. "Oh, fuck this." you spit. Your bag slides down your shoulder and it sets still in the snow. You gaze at the hot spring steam wrapping around your ankles and pull medical supplies from your bag.
Then you spot her arrival, rising with the sun.
You stop and stare; your heart is too numb for concern but your mind is too clouded for amusement, you see the pain in her eyes and the wounds carved into her flesh. Your eyes narrow but your expression is flat, dormant apathy eclipses concern that doesn't exist in this empty chamber of yours. "You look like you've seen better days, Euley."
You don't care to ask who or what did this to her, something tells you their wheel stopped turning at causation the moment they decided to leave scars on her skin.