11-13-2010, 06:35 PM
The sword didn't hurt. No, the sword was remarkably painless. As Anta stared at the hilt of one of Reigen's pet Death Knight's sword, pressed against her stomach, those are the thoughts that spin through her head. I'm dying. Her eyes reached up to the imbecile that killed her. Out numbered and betrayed by my own kind. Doubly so. She reaches for the blade. I can't move my arms. She attempts to close the wound. I can't align my magic. She reaches into her core, her weapon, her disease. I feel it there... but why can't I... why can't I use it? She feels her body heat up. I'm dying. Her skin begins to harden... no, blister and scab. I'm dying. She looks up at the pet death knight. Her heart beat sounds through her ears, deafening her world. I'm dying. Pain overwhelms her body. Her heart rate quickens even more, dangerous. I'm dying. Her eyesight goes first. Wet feeling against her cheek. Blood. Pain. Her heart rate beats against her. Her veins burst. Her blood scabs. Her scabs burst. Her hands disfigured, fingers in one lump. She opens her mouth to scream. Her teeth get in the way, her tongue is no longer there. I'm dying. Her hair falls down her shoulders, coming to the floor. Her ears are no longer there. She hears her heartbeat. Death. Her stomach acid pours to the ground, freed. Her heartbeat pounds at her head like a jackhammer, and then is relieved. Her chest split open. Nothingness.
Nothingness is a good word, because as her body crumbled to dust in the rain, nothing remained. A smear of blood in a minute, and then nothing but memories.
In a mage's lab far away, something peculiar was happening. A vial of blood collected from a Death Knight took to simmering, boiling, shaking... A vial of blood kept in an air tight container and suspended, secured, and well protected in case of accident. It wasn't a valuable substance, but a dangerous one. The vial died out, pushing the cork from its top as it finished bubbling, and lay still.
Many such occurrences happened that night. Researchers saw their specimen bubble and die. The blood was no longer carrying a potent disease as its host was lost.
Days later an overwhelmed priestess started receiving packages. The samples of blood came with strict instructions, after all, as Anta's fail safe method to ensure her passing was not missed. Andradea ignored the first package. Ghosts from my past. She thought. She'll never be the same as she was. I don't owe her anything. The second package was thrown away. She was consumed by rage. The third package brought hesitation. She's better off dead. The fourth package was opened, but contents burned in the nearest bonfire. I can't Fifth package. let her Sixth package. destroy herself seventh package. Again. Eighth, ninth, tenth. Less than hours apart they arrived. The fifteenth package was kept. The last favor I owe her. The priestess brooded. Preparations were made.
Under the moonlight was a meeting. On one side a priestess, wearing nothing but ceremonial garb, and on the other was a vial of blood, dull under the pale light. Resurrections were resurrections, she didn't know what was about to happen was going to be very, very painful.
A blinding flash. Pain. Mouth opens. Someone's screaming. The world rushes up to meet her. Armor, where is it? Her hands search her body, finding only flesh. Axe... Her hands run to her shoulders, finding only air. She frowns, her hands reach up to wipe her face clean of... What... Fingers touch skin... soft... her cheeks. There's no pain. Nails dig into flesh. No blisters. She breaths, noiseless. No disease. She screams, her voice as pure as the moonlight. Nothingness. No reason. Where. No weapon. No purpose. Her fists beat at the grass. She huddles up and cries, and is able to for the first time since she was turned. She sleeps, as painlessly as she ever has since she turned. She wakes, as alone as she ever was since she turned. Nothingness.
Andradea left long ago, heart full of nothing but pity and sadness.
Nothingness is a good word, because as her body crumbled to dust in the rain, nothing remained. A smear of blood in a minute, and then nothing but memories.
In a mage's lab far away, something peculiar was happening. A vial of blood collected from a Death Knight took to simmering, boiling, shaking... A vial of blood kept in an air tight container and suspended, secured, and well protected in case of accident. It wasn't a valuable substance, but a dangerous one. The vial died out, pushing the cork from its top as it finished bubbling, and lay still.
Many such occurrences happened that night. Researchers saw their specimen bubble and die. The blood was no longer carrying a potent disease as its host was lost.
Days later an overwhelmed priestess started receiving packages. The samples of blood came with strict instructions, after all, as Anta's fail safe method to ensure her passing was not missed. Andradea ignored the first package. Ghosts from my past. She thought. She'll never be the same as she was. I don't owe her anything. The second package was thrown away. She was consumed by rage. The third package brought hesitation. She's better off dead. The fourth package was opened, but contents burned in the nearest bonfire. I can't Fifth package. let her Sixth package. destroy herself seventh package. Again. Eighth, ninth, tenth. Less than hours apart they arrived. The fifteenth package was kept. The last favor I owe her. The priestess brooded. Preparations were made.
Under the moonlight was a meeting. On one side a priestess, wearing nothing but ceremonial garb, and on the other was a vial of blood, dull under the pale light. Resurrections were resurrections, she didn't know what was about to happen was going to be very, very painful.
A blinding flash. Pain. Mouth opens. Someone's screaming. The world rushes up to meet her. Armor, where is it? Her hands search her body, finding only flesh. Axe... Her hands run to her shoulders, finding only air. She frowns, her hands reach up to wipe her face clean of... What... Fingers touch skin... soft... her cheeks. There's no pain. Nails dig into flesh. No blisters. She breaths, noiseless. No disease. She screams, her voice as pure as the moonlight. Nothingness. No reason. Where. No weapon. No purpose. Her fists beat at the grass. She huddles up and cries, and is able to for the first time since she was turned. She sleeps, as painlessly as she ever has since she turned. She wakes, as alone as she ever was since she turned. Nothingness.
Andradea left long ago, heart full of nothing but pity and sadness.