12-17-2010, 09:33 AM
â€ÂYou shouldn't have come back. It was bad enough that you left... returning, what did you expect?â€Â
The knife was buried once more, digging deep in his chest, tearing a low moan from his lips, but not by pain. There was no pain in this, not of the body anyway, only the burning cuts of betrayal. He let out a wheezing breath, feeling, as if from far away, a strange new movement as he breathed. At least one lung had been punctured this time and more damage was to be expected.
The hands holding him down withdrew, the dry creaks of their owners departure over the snow sent a shiver of relief down his spine, or that's how he would've described it. The man standing above him, glaring, if one can truly glare when lacking eyes, said nothing for several heartbeats Heartbeats? What a joke. But there was communication there, of a sort, a feeling shared between the two of them. And the knife spoke it's own silent threats. Through the eye, or in the neck. Then that's that.
But no more words were uttered, no insults or pleas, no dire warnings or promises of revenge. Only silence. But I suppose it can speak loud enough. Loud? Hah! Until the knife was sheathed and the third set of feet trudged away through the snow. Relief wasn't the response now, he wasn't sure what was. But then he rarely knew what he felt these days. Just a dead sort of neutrality, perhaps. Live or die, what does it matter once you've been through it already?
“Thought for sure he'd finish you there, boss.†At that he flinched, eyes darting over the trees to find the source of the voice. Maybe not so indifferent after all? He couldn't spot anyone, not that he really thought he would have. The voice of another friend, one even older than the last one at that. And far less merciful.
“Gotta say, never thought we'd see you again. Got some guts coming back now, and calling on the old steelpot like that, like it was all like it used to be? Heh, heh... Guess he managed to carve out most of it though, yeh?†A deeper shadow seemed to materialize from among the trees, taking the form of a thin, no, skeletal, man dressed all in ragged leathers that once might have been coloured black but now were more of a dirt grey, with a matching smell too, to be sure
He was right about the guts though, damn him and his morbid humour. The front of the robes were left a ruin of torn cloth and flesh, all manner of unspeakable things welling out over his lap and even beyond. Certainly a lot worse than a punctured lung. A disgustingly sad state of affairs, all in all, and a pitiful start of what should have been a glorious return. Aah, the dreams, the vanity!
Drawing another wheezing breath, he collected himself for a reply. Preferably a witty one, something sharp to end this charade. But before he could open his mouth, or even formulate something that possibly could sting the mockery out of Raef the ugly little shit stunned him with his next few words.
“We better just stuff all that back inside you, as good we can, Charles is liable to change his mind any moment now. Or one of his boys might come crawling back to see if you got something worth the killing.†The lines and shadows of Raef's face twisted into a most unsettling leer as he looked on on the feeble attempts to bring some order to the ripped open belly. “Good thing you still have some friends, eh? Though I wager you expected me holding that knife. Guess things change, they certainly have around here and not much to the better I can tell you. But don't you worry, I'll bring you to someone who can stitch you up, and then maybe you and I can make some changing of our own. Just like the old days, eh? Or the old, old days I suppose, Apothecary.â€Â
The knife was buried once more, digging deep in his chest, tearing a low moan from his lips, but not by pain. There was no pain in this, not of the body anyway, only the burning cuts of betrayal. He let out a wheezing breath, feeling, as if from far away, a strange new movement as he breathed. At least one lung had been punctured this time and more damage was to be expected.
The hands holding him down withdrew, the dry creaks of their owners departure over the snow sent a shiver of relief down his spine, or that's how he would've described it. The man standing above him, glaring, if one can truly glare when lacking eyes, said nothing for several heartbeats Heartbeats? What a joke. But there was communication there, of a sort, a feeling shared between the two of them. And the knife spoke it's own silent threats. Through the eye, or in the neck. Then that's that.
But no more words were uttered, no insults or pleas, no dire warnings or promises of revenge. Only silence. But I suppose it can speak loud enough. Loud? Hah! Until the knife was sheathed and the third set of feet trudged away through the snow. Relief wasn't the response now, he wasn't sure what was. But then he rarely knew what he felt these days. Just a dead sort of neutrality, perhaps. Live or die, what does it matter once you've been through it already?
“Thought for sure he'd finish you there, boss.†At that he flinched, eyes darting over the trees to find the source of the voice. Maybe not so indifferent after all? He couldn't spot anyone, not that he really thought he would have. The voice of another friend, one even older than the last one at that. And far less merciful.
“Gotta say, never thought we'd see you again. Got some guts coming back now, and calling on the old steelpot like that, like it was all like it used to be? Heh, heh... Guess he managed to carve out most of it though, yeh?†A deeper shadow seemed to materialize from among the trees, taking the form of a thin, no, skeletal, man dressed all in ragged leathers that once might have been coloured black but now were more of a dirt grey, with a matching smell too, to be sure
He was right about the guts though, damn him and his morbid humour. The front of the robes were left a ruin of torn cloth and flesh, all manner of unspeakable things welling out over his lap and even beyond. Certainly a lot worse than a punctured lung. A disgustingly sad state of affairs, all in all, and a pitiful start of what should have been a glorious return. Aah, the dreams, the vanity!
Drawing another wheezing breath, he collected himself for a reply. Preferably a witty one, something sharp to end this charade. But before he could open his mouth, or even formulate something that possibly could sting the mockery out of Raef the ugly little shit stunned him with his next few words.
“We better just stuff all that back inside you, as good we can, Charles is liable to change his mind any moment now. Or one of his boys might come crawling back to see if you got something worth the killing.†The lines and shadows of Raef's face twisted into a most unsettling leer as he looked on on the feeble attempts to bring some order to the ripped open belly. “Good thing you still have some friends, eh? Though I wager you expected me holding that knife. Guess things change, they certainly have around here and not much to the better I can tell you. But don't you worry, I'll bring you to someone who can stitch you up, and then maybe you and I can make some changing of our own. Just like the old days, eh? Or the old, old days I suppose, Apothecary.â€Â
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