Revaliir

Author: An Zian, Posted: Tue Jan 26, 2016 1:29 PM, Post Subject: A Blighted Night, To Be Unalive [W:100]

Sunset was Zian's favourite time of day. It was the time when the shadows were long, yet the people were not fully on their guard like in the night. He slipped into a narrow alley. Ahead of him a lone figure was walking hurriedly in the same direction. Quickening his own steps, Zian shortened the space between them. The dagger was in his hand, the soft, wooden handle was reassuring. Although he had done this half a hundred times before, fear wrapped it's cool fingers around his chest, making his heart beat desperately.
He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that they were alone. He pulled his hood up and then sprinted. Ramming his elbow into the side of the persons neck and bringing him to a fall with a twist of his foot, while at the same time cutting the persons pouch loose with his dagger. The whole thing happened so fast that Zian's victim did not start to scream before he hit the ground. Zian did not pause for one moment. He turned and ran headlong through alleys not stopping before he came onto a busy Street, where he did his best to blend in.

Still panting he pulled of his hood and looked into the heavy, leather pouch. It was filled with gold and silver. Enough for the next few moons to come. Today he could look forward to a hot meal and some mead, maybe even a bath. He found his way to the winking mermaid and stepped inside. A wave of noise greeted him and warmth engulfed him. Clutching his stolen pouch he looked around for a friendly face. Every time he found himself in the tavern he would seek out a person who might be able to help him. To give him a proper job or some kind of opportunity. It was a childish dream of course, every time he left disappointed.
Today he spotted someone odd. His face was far from friendly. Most unnerving were the two different coloured eyes. One black and one blue, each of them had red in them. There was something very inhuman about him. Zian's instinct told him to stay away, yet he was fascinated. For another moment he hesitated before walking over to the stranger, passing a man with an odd look in his face and then seating himself.
“Good evening, my name is An Zian.”

Author: Kalleth, Posted: Mon Dec 21, 2015 12:26 AM, Post Subject: A Blighted Night, To Be Unalive [W:100]

Sunset, the four hundred and ninety eighth year, seventh month, second week, seventh day, since he had awoken. Awoken, in a quiet glade. A glade where nothing living breathed. A glade where no moonlight could shine on any blade of grass, where all the blades were embedded in his heart. His unbeating heart, which had bled still fresh from his lips, his neck, his back. The stinging, sallow scent of blood on the air and the unceasing quiet, had left a sour taste in his mouth. In those depths, it had been a strange unearthly sensation, taste. And yet, it had brought him back. That taste had turned from bitter revulsion, to slight reproach, to ravaging hunger. A hunger which tainted his being, animated it, kindled it, and gave it death's wings.

That night was long ago, and time had wound its weaving fingers around him since, with weathering, eroding, unrelenting teeth. And yet, he remained a blooming presence, a rose in a waste, a sapphire in a riverbed. It was in this fragile yet enduring state that he found himself, on the threshold of the Winking Mermaid. An establishment which was altogether too clean, too neat and tidy for his liking. And yet there it was, as he opened the door. A spilt drink, and an enchantment, working at the mess and sending it into some unearthly existence. It made his teeth ache. Drawing his gaze away from that ugliness, he made his way to a table tucked into a corner, where an old man sat drearily. He grabbed the man's shoulder and pulled him out and away, whispering a word to him. A word of warning, or a word of soothing. However the man took it, he sat and did not arise.

Frenetic pounding, loud noises, painfully boisterous throbbing and rhythmic movement. Song and dance were not things that he appreciated, as they made it difficult to concentrate. Difficult to avoid concentrating on his aching teeth anyway. He may have enjoyed the arts, or maybe not. Who could know? He wasn't truly himself anymore, and of course, anybody else who'd known him would have to be dead. He had actually tried to search during those first several troubled decades. It was a wonder he was still alive, unburnt, unhanged, and unalive. What a thought, it was, to contemplate how death would seem to one not currently living. Would such a being come back to life, memories and thoughts intact? Doubtful, though this existence had taught him not to presume the impossible to be without any likelihood. He himself was the prime example of this fact, and yet he knew somehow that attempting to test his theories on mortality would likely result in an even sorrier existence than he already possessed.

Ale, tepid and mostly drunk had been left by his table's previous occupant. Lowering his cowl, he turned he tankard over in his pale hands. He'd done this hundreds, maybe thousands of times. A small, conservative sip. He spat. Replacing the tankard, he drew out a stained arrow, one of a dozen. The tip was unwashed, still brown and bearing his last prey's musk. Furtively, he brought it to his mouth and licked the metal. The crusted life essence crumbled into his mouth and melted into a congealed node which tasted about as appetizing as he guessed the ale would be to a living person. Which was to say, terrible. But more tolerable than the ale at least. He stowed the arrow and cracked his fingers, wondering at just how badly his teeth ached.

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