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 Posted: Sat Dec 24, 2016 11:05 pm
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Posted: Sat Dec 24, 2016 11:07 pm
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Standing in front of the hearth, firelight reflected in his eyes, Kursha watched the flames eat away at the last of the letter and the tyrian seal it came with. He stood quiet, still, and without expression. His mind was as blank as his face. Only the sharp snap and pop of the fire perforated the silence.
Minutes passed. A dusting of cinders covered the firewood. The flames had dimmed down to a quiet glow. A coldness crept in. All of a sudden, Kursha turned. Moving briskly, he strode from the room. Behind him, the door closed with a rumble.
He made his way through the dark empty halls quickly though unhurried. When he reached the stairs, he brought his pace to a jog. His sandalled feet slapped loudly against the stone steps. As he ascended the air grew colder. The brick walls seemed to leech any warmth from their surroundings. By the time he reached the top, his breath left him in puffs of steam. Not stopping, he threw open the door and stepped out onto the bastion. A chill, blustering wind greeted him, howling over the landscape.
Kursha crossed to the edge of the tower. Leaning against one of the merlons, he crossed his arms and rested his chin over them. He stared out at the horizon without focus. The wind roared around him. As he stood there, the cold bit into his bones and left him numb. At last his thoughts began to catch with him.
Where had he gone wrong?
The question had plagued the back of his mind since he had crawled away from Rasali's hive two weeks earlier. Only now, summoned to the front of his thoughts by the crushing doom that loomed over him, did he consider it. The answer was simple. He had screwed up when he used Aandes to get to Rasali. Even if he had not contradicted Regina’s orders directly, he should have known better. Playing with fire only got one burned, and much like the arrest warrant downstairs, his life had burnt up until all that was left was ashes. But what about before that? His life had been a wreck even before he had decided to kidnap Aandes—the queen’s stamp only validated it.
Quiet and contemplative, Kursha watched as the horizon turned cloudy and snow began to fall. The wind had not let up, and a flurry of flakes spiralled around him. A few melted against his skin.
One thing after another, eventually everything went to s**t. From his failure to capture Rasali, to his reunion with Luxara, to his battle with Stryke, to his command of the rebel hunt, at every turn he proved incompetent. Hell, he had even managed to bring ruin on himself during something as stupid and harmless as Bloodfest. Regina had reached out to him and he humiliated himself in front of her. Somehow the harder he tried, the harder he fell.
Dully, Kursha ruminated over his shortcomings. Victory, the Colonel had said, was the only thing that mattered. His legacy—his worth—would be determined by his successes and his failings. Intent held no value if he could not follow through. He believed that with his whole being. Desperate to find recognition, he had fought every step of the way. He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to demonstrate his worth. As it turned out though, success required a little more than wanting it badly enough. It required skills that he did not have. That or sheer luck, and he had spent all his escaping death.
“I’m at my limit,” he realised, speaking without meaning to. He barely heard. The wind stole his words away.
Kursha straightened. He had begun to shiver, and his fingers felt like ice. He flexed them a few times to work the cold out. He would get frostbite if he stayed out for much longer. Briefly, the idea almost appealed to him. Facing the cold would be easier than facing his future. A sharp gust of wind raked its claws across his back just then, and he thought the better of it. Turning, he went to the door, and started back down the stairs.
It was several minutes before the feeling returned in his legs and arms, and several more for toes and fingers. He hugged his jacket tighter around himself to keep the warmth in. For a moment, his bodily gratification overrode all other senses. As he continued through the empty halls however, the familiar itch of despair pricked at the back of his mind. Inside, he felt trapped, caged by silence and hunted by shadows. He could never hide from his own thoughts here.
His feet carried him back down the halls and past the alcove where his lusus took roost. “I’m going out,” he said as he went by. 'Going where?' his thoughts echoed. He had no answer. He had made the decision on a whim.
From the alcove a rustling of wings came in response. In his peripheral vision, he glimpsed the Colonel dozing with her head tucked under her wing. She did not so much as look at him as he went past. Kursha expected as much. Their relationship was distant and tenuous at best. He continued down to a second set of stairs.
As he walked, his mind brewed up dark thoughts, thoughts that had long lay sleeping. They came to him in no particular order. Just musings of regret and self-defeat.
The Phoenix initiative was one such musing. He had joined on a whim, out of spite for the Colonel, yet he might have found as much comradery as he ever would there. Even as an outsider, they had welcomed him because they could not afford not to. His compatriots offered him some semblance of respect. And even if he might not have gotten along with all of them, at the very least he had forged some kind of kinship with Byakko. They had worked together. She put her trust in him, and went out of her way to communicate with him. For some reason though, he had thrown away her good faith like it was worthless, and worn the title of a turncoat proudly. For that he would be labelled as a traitor no matter where he went for the rest of his life.
He had already seen it. The party at Awassi’s hive had been a constant uphill battle, and Regina no doubt regarded him with suspicion from the start. His brief flicker of fame had put his failures in the spotlight. He was a walking disaster, an outcast.
It was nothing new, he realised. He had always been alone. The few friendships he claimed were little more than an illusion, all one-sided endeavours. As much as he endeared himself to Alifax, the redblood never seemed to notice, and Sarcel, as much as he admired her, regarded him with contempt. Even Lorata only admired a cheap mask he wore. What other friendships he might have once had were now nothing more than shattered fragments of history: Stryke, whom he had pushed away; Vremea, whom he had failed to understand; Luxara, who had failed to understand him.
In retrospect maybe he had asked too much of Luxara. Only one troll had ever seen through to Kursha’s true self, and he saw further than Kursha ever wanted anyone to see. Perhaps further than even Kursha had. From the night at the theatre onward, Ganyma’s words had a way of burning themselves into his thinkpan. And if Kursha ever forgot them he had the scars on his chest to serve as a reminder.
Bitterness stung the greenblood's pusher. He was entering dangerous territory. If he took this self-reflection much further, he would cross the point of no return. He knew what waited in the darkest recesses of his brain. He had come this far though. His self-loathing had never been more transparent. Self-destruction had always come easy to him. Why not see it all the way through?
He reached deep, to where he could inflict the most damage: Ganyma and Rasali. Two of his deadliest opponents, not for how near they brought him to ruin, but for how easily they read him. Kursha had lived in denial for so long, but now he faced it without accepting excuse: he was a coward. The only reason either of them had left him alive was out of pity. His existence was utterly worthless.
At the last step, Kursha paused. Something in his chest shrivelled up to be replaced by a void. Tucking his chin, he pressed his forehead into the heel of his hand. His nails dug into his scalp as he squeezed his eyes shut. A laugh bubbled up from his throat. When had everything turned so rotten? Tears pricked at his eyes. To his core he felt like a corpse, fetid and half-decayed. It was like he had woken up from a sleep only to find his life was already rotted through. There was nothing there worth saving.
Kursha took in a sharp breath, then pulled his hand away and opened his eyes. His emotions quelled, crushed and compacted by a familiar sense of disassociation. He took the last step almost gingerly and crossed the grand entry hall to the double doors.
As he approached, he almost missed his rifle, leaning next to them. It was the rifle Rasali had not broken, the one he had carried in his youth. His gaze lingered on it. Back then it had meant so much to him. It had not been just a tool; it was at the root of his very identity. In retrospect the idea seemed ridiculous. Kursha grasped the gun by the barrel. Sentimentality rushed back at him. Ridiculous maybe, but true.
Not really thinking, he reached into his pocket to check that he had ammunition. As his fingers felt around for cartridges however, they found something else. Along with two rounds, he pulled out a ratty, familiar piece of fabric: a Polka dot ribbon. Kursha stared at it. There was a brief reprieve in his thoughts. A memory he had hidden sprang into his mind. He had always meant to give it back. Even now it was not too late. After all, what she had given him...
A vision of the arrest warrant in the fireplace interrupted the thought.
Kursha curled his hand into a fist. He stuffed the ribbon and the rounds back into his pocket. “You’re kidding yourself,” he muttered. He had his chance. He could eat the consequences.
Rifle in hand and mind made up, he pushed open the heavy double doors several inches. Wedging the muzzle of the rifle in between them, he pulled them shut again. The rest of the gun, including the grip and stock, jutted out just above waist level. Kursha grabbed ahold of the barrel and braced himself. Then he pushed with all his might.
There was a brief creaking of wood, followed by a splintering. A second later, the metal screamed in complaint and the barrel snapped in half. Both Kursha and the crippled weapon fell to the floor.
Picking up the rifle, Kursha studied it. He expected to feel something at the sight of it split in two, but nothing came. Instead he could only think how appropriate it was. With one shot he had started everything, and with one more he could end it. He loaded a cartridge into the chamber and turned off the safety.
His finger on the trigger, he brought the end of the barrel under his chin. After a moment however, he changed his mind and pressed it to the side of his temple. He closed his eyes tight. No screwing up. No leaving it to chance. It would be painless. If he had any last doubts, he shut them out. He was dead anyway. It might as well be on his terms.
He pulled the trigger. |
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Posted: Wed May 24, 2017 3:49 am
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The screams were the first indication that something was wrong.
They started distant at first, a few startled yelps from further within the mall. But then they drew nearer, and with increasing alarm. Outside, trolls began to look up, wearing expressions of confusion. A few seconds later, a shout went up, and they all scattered like bowling pins, fleeing some invisible force. A scream from a voice that belonged to no troll filled the air in their absence. It grew louder, closer, with an intensity that curdled blood and stopped hearts. Then, the moment it stopped, the front of the salon exploded.
Shattered glass sprayed across the floor. An enormous, white, feathered lusus crashed into the salon, talons gouging wide furrows in the floor as it struggled to find purchase. As it shook the shards of glass from its wings, a fierce raptor head swivelled atop a serpentine neck to survey the room. A streak of green blood that marred its beak gleamed in the salon light. More blood stained the beast's talons.
The lusus' head snapped into position as it locked onto a target. Wings hunched, it took two shuffling steps towards a yellowblood beautician. Its eyes penetrated hers with fierce command. Then it extended its head towards her, and screamed.
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Posted: Fri Aug 18, 2017 8:43 pm
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As she finished with a client. the screaming had Elidae's spongeclot's perk. Screaming in New Hemisect wasn't entirely abnormal, though what had her curious was the increase in volume and number of voices. Huh.
The explosion of glass and gust of strong wind paired with screaming from within the salon came as a surprise, but what caused it had Elidae's full attention. What she knew of Kursha's lusus presented itself in an unnerving display. While the yellowblood unshielded her arms, she noticed the olive blood staining The Colonel's beak and talons. Kursha. With their eyes interlocked, Elidae tilted her head backwards as if in sudden understanding. Unquestioningly, Elidae rushed out of the salon with the crunch of glass beneath her boots. Even if someone followed after her, she did not care. She had to get to him. Confused, panicked, and distressed, Elidae did her best to appear calm and collected as she ran. The train to Busthind felt sluggish, and her legs could not move quickly enough through the station and out into the frigid cold. The yellow blood pumping through her veins burned against the chill, but the only thing on her mind was her moiral. The Colonel, impatient and commanding, had Elidae climb through a maze before she realized she finally reached her destination. A metallic aroma wafted in the air.
"Kursha?!" Immediately, Elidae rushed to his side, though hesitant when she became aware of the bloody mess surrounding the greenblood. He lye motionless on the stone ground while the harsh, wintry wind whistled in the stillness. Eyes wide with fear and apprehension, she fell to her knees and opened her mouth, uncertain what to do. "Kursha!" She cried, now grabbing hold of the sides of his head. It lolled in her hands. She leaned forward and listened for his breathing. Slow, irregular. Putting her spongeclot to his chest, she could at least hear the faint beat of his bloodpusher. Then, after quickly wiping the green blood from his face, Elidae looked around helplessly. He wasn't dead. Yet. "What do I do? What do I do?" She looked back towards The Colonel, searching for an answer. After a quick inhale, she remembered. "S-Stop the bleeding...!" Tearing part of her sleeve off, Elidae attentively pressed the cloth to the wound, her face scrunching in displeasure from the squelch of blood. Her emotions began to catch up with the shock. As tears sprang to her eyes and her lower lip quivered, Elidae continued to apply pressure and figured out her next plan of action.
"O-Okay, Kursha...! Everything will be alright! Everything is fine!" Elidae reassured with a shaky, yet peppy voice, more for herself rather than the unconscious body of Kursha Vidari. She repeated her words of reassurance constantly as she attempted to figure out a way to get him to a hospital. Luckily, The Colonel was willing to direct her.
Following Elidae having to alternate between carrying Kursha’s limp body on her back and shoulders, and pulling him through Busthind while leaving behind a trail of olive snow, they finally made it to the closest infirmary in the village. Even with her frozen limbs and soiled clothing, the yellowblood waited anxiously and paced as he was taken in, surgery on his blown away limb becoming imminent.
Despite being advised to go home, Elidae stayed with Kursha once he was taken into his room for continued recovery. After thanking the nurse, she sat in a chair beside the hospital recuperacoon gingerly in the quiet, She brushed away stray hair framing his face, allowing her fingertips to trace the outline of his cheek and down to his chin. He remained unconscious.
“You look so peaceful when you're sleeping...” She murmured, ending with a slow exhale. Reaching slowly, Elidae surrounded his only hand with her own, holding it delicately as if he could break at any moment. She stared at him for a long while, deep in thought, yet avoiding the most apparent change about him. And then her eyes drifted to his bandaged shoulder tinted with green. Nothing connected to it. She shut her eyes tight. The questions she wanted to ask him would have to wait. For now, she felt relieved he didn’t bleed out in the snow she had to drag him through. For now, he was safe.
The restlessness soon dwindled, replaced with inescapable exhaustion. After rubbing her heavy eyes wearily, Elidae slumped over the recuperacoon at his side and sunk her face into the warmth of her sleeves where her folded arms cradled her head. Sleep beckoned her, but she knew better than to do so without the safety of supor slime. Still, she did not want to leave him. For a long moment, she remained still in the same position, resting, her body teetering between reality and the comfort of sleep.
Green Minuetttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt |
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Posted: Mon Oct 16, 2017 7:51 pm
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White faded from his vision. There was ringing in his spongeclots. The room pulled into focus in flashes. Splashes of blood. The smoking remains of the rifle lay scattered across the floor. His finger still gripped the trigger. Blood and a burning smell. The image swam, with spots of black. He said something and the Colonel threw him to the ground. He could almost hear the sound of his own voice, pealing with laughter. A pair of mangled feathers slipped from his grip as the world pinwheeled. His gun. His finger still on the trigger. A sick sense of achievement. He threw the weapon away. The walls closed in on him. Across the infinite stretch of floor, the double doors loomed, partly open. The white expanse beyond...
Just like a lingering memory so long ago. Snow. Cold. Absolution...
White.
In the quiet of the room, a clock ticked like a heartbeat. Kursha lay in an exposed casket of sopor slime, staring up at the ceiling, expression vacant. In his peripheral vision, he caught glimpses of the various medical instruments on either side of the recuperacoon. A pair of tubes wound down and into his left arm. Another attached to his chest monitored his bloodpusher rate. He averted his eyes. Underneath the ticking of the clock, he could hear the gentle hum of the machinery that kept him alive. Time had begun to move again.
As he ripped the offending cords away, Kursha gripped the side of the recuperacoon to pull himself upright. His hand missed and he splashed back into the bottom of the basin. Pain shot up his right all the way to his shoulder. “... ********. All right.” From somewhere in the room, he heard the rustling of paper. A chair scooted across the floor. He tried again, instead only using his left. His head and shoulders emerged over the lip of the recuperacoon. Slime dripped down his sides.
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