Post by Markas Virnala on Feb 1, 2020 18:25:48 GMT
With a clatter, the sword tumbles to the floor. The hand that held it, once so familiar, turned cold and distant. There is a pang of guilt looking at the discarded weapon, the craftsmanship of a friend should not be treated like this. The blade itself is spotless now, gleaming in the light with a polish that only comes through hours of dedicated cleaning. But it still looked dirty. As he falls back against the wall, his legs give out and he crumbles to the floor, eyes never leaving the sword.
This was a very different feeling to process. He had killed before, of course. Mostly for what he felt was a good reason; self-defence, saving someone he cared for. Mostly he still regretted doing it, though, in the quiet hours when his mind wandered. But this time had been different. It was the right thing to do. It WAS the right thing to do. He kept telling himself that but it didn't make him feel any better. Wil had the right idea, handing the other one a weapon first, it was still a death sentence but it felt cleaner than this. Still, at least he spared Sheryl from doing it, that just didn’t sit right with him.
After spending the afternoon drinking with the others, Markas was starting to feel like the drink was wearing off, or maybe he just wasn’t getting as drunk anymore, which might be something to be concerned about. But that was something he could think on later. It had been a pretty weird few weeks, as he finds himself sitting on the floor of his room in the Mirror again. Some of the best and worst times he has had in a long time. This was decidedly one of the worst.
The monk sits up and forces a long steady breath as he closes eyes.
When he opens them again, the Gilded Mirror, his room and raucous noise from the bar are all gone. Instead, He finds himself in a large circular room with eight archways leading off to long dark corridors. The walls are a polished white marble, rising up to a high domed ceiling, obscured slightly by a glowing white haze filling the room with an oddly bright light. The floor is a rougher grey stone that feels slightly warm to the touch. The place is silent but for the distant sound of thunder occasionally reverberating through the walls. He stares straight ahead for a long moment until a sound just to his right cuts through his concentration, the scrape of something sharp across the stone floor. With a heavy sigh, Markas stands and turns to greet the newcomer, a kobold.
They set off down one of the corridors, Markas keeping step with the smaller creature as it almost leads the way. The walls down this particular corridor are lined with doors, next to each hangs a large, life-like painting, each one showing scenes he recognises, faces, conflict. The kobold seems to ignore all of these, maybe not even seeing them but for Markas, each is as oddly captivating as the last and his eyes flick over images: a Large Half-Orc feeding a dog something from his pack in a grassy field; a crowded tavern with a performance going on in the background; a vast panoramic view of distant mountains climbing up of windswept plains; a tall firbolg holding out a colourful wreath of flowers… Tearing his eyes away from a particularly new image of a female tiefling, Markas turns to see the Kobold has stopped outside a door with a completely black painting next to it.
A deep frown crosses his face as he follows them through the door into a clearing surrounded by trees. The sun is high in the sky and a gentle breeze rustles the trees as he steps into the familiar clearing. He feels the weight of the sword in his hand as he crosses, stopping next to the Kobold. Nearby, the shadows of the others watch, featureless and grey but present all the same.
Markas looks at the Kobold for a long moment, the deep sad frown still across his face as he looks at their blank expression before finally speaking, “I’m… I’m sorry it went this way.”
The Kobold says nothing of course. He never heard them speak in life, how could they have a voice here.
“We tried to help you. We used the materials you collected to make an antidote and fed it to all of you - “ Half of the shadows appear to fill out, revealing several other Kobolds and a Dragonborne, “- but…. Well, it didn't take.”
Silence.
The monk lets out a sigh, knowing what comes next. The Kobold is unflinching as a thin red line traces itself across their skin. He glances down to the sword in his hand and sees the crimson spread across the blade and the floor.
“... We didn’t want you to suffer out here the way you were and well… there wasn’t anything else we could do for you at that point.”
The Kobold weakly shrugs as another shadow fills in to reveal Sheryl standing nearby
“…I wasn’t about to let her do this.”
Another two shadows fill in, revealing Wil and BB.
“No… Wil made his decision already by giving your friend the knife -” in reaction to this, one of the Kobolds holds up a knife that has appeared in their hands, “-and I wouldn’t leave it to BB either. That wouldn’t be fair”
The Kobold’s expression finally changes to one of frustration and points at the monk accusingly.
“... I suppose so. But I wouldn’t be happy with it.”
Silence.
He stares at the Kobolds face for a long moment, taking in every detail before closing his eyes. He takes a deep breath in, holds it for a few seconds and exhales in a slow controlled breath. When he opens his eyes, he is back in the corridor and the door is shut. He turns s and walks back the way they had come, noticing the new large painting of the vibrant red flower by the door.
His eyes open again… and the room is dark. The sword sits on the floor in front of him, finally clean. As the noise from the bar seeps it's way through the wooden boards, the familiar hand takes up the sword again.
This was a very different feeling to process. He had killed before, of course. Mostly for what he felt was a good reason; self-defence, saving someone he cared for. Mostly he still regretted doing it, though, in the quiet hours when his mind wandered. But this time had been different. It was the right thing to do. It WAS the right thing to do. He kept telling himself that but it didn't make him feel any better. Wil had the right idea, handing the other one a weapon first, it was still a death sentence but it felt cleaner than this. Still, at least he spared Sheryl from doing it, that just didn’t sit right with him.
After spending the afternoon drinking with the others, Markas was starting to feel like the drink was wearing off, or maybe he just wasn’t getting as drunk anymore, which might be something to be concerned about. But that was something he could think on later. It had been a pretty weird few weeks, as he finds himself sitting on the floor of his room in the Mirror again. Some of the best and worst times he has had in a long time. This was decidedly one of the worst.
The monk sits up and forces a long steady breath as he closes eyes.
When he opens them again, the Gilded Mirror, his room and raucous noise from the bar are all gone. Instead, He finds himself in a large circular room with eight archways leading off to long dark corridors. The walls are a polished white marble, rising up to a high domed ceiling, obscured slightly by a glowing white haze filling the room with an oddly bright light. The floor is a rougher grey stone that feels slightly warm to the touch. The place is silent but for the distant sound of thunder occasionally reverberating through the walls. He stares straight ahead for a long moment until a sound just to his right cuts through his concentration, the scrape of something sharp across the stone floor. With a heavy sigh, Markas stands and turns to greet the newcomer, a kobold.
They set off down one of the corridors, Markas keeping step with the smaller creature as it almost leads the way. The walls down this particular corridor are lined with doors, next to each hangs a large, life-like painting, each one showing scenes he recognises, faces, conflict. The kobold seems to ignore all of these, maybe not even seeing them but for Markas, each is as oddly captivating as the last and his eyes flick over images: a Large Half-Orc feeding a dog something from his pack in a grassy field; a crowded tavern with a performance going on in the background; a vast panoramic view of distant mountains climbing up of windswept plains; a tall firbolg holding out a colourful wreath of flowers… Tearing his eyes away from a particularly new image of a female tiefling, Markas turns to see the Kobold has stopped outside a door with a completely black painting next to it.
A deep frown crosses his face as he follows them through the door into a clearing surrounded by trees. The sun is high in the sky and a gentle breeze rustles the trees as he steps into the familiar clearing. He feels the weight of the sword in his hand as he crosses, stopping next to the Kobold. Nearby, the shadows of the others watch, featureless and grey but present all the same.
Markas looks at the Kobold for a long moment, the deep sad frown still across his face as he looks at their blank expression before finally speaking, “I’m… I’m sorry it went this way.”
The Kobold says nothing of course. He never heard them speak in life, how could they have a voice here.
“We tried to help you. We used the materials you collected to make an antidote and fed it to all of you - “ Half of the shadows appear to fill out, revealing several other Kobolds and a Dragonborne, “- but…. Well, it didn't take.”
Silence.
The monk lets out a sigh, knowing what comes next. The Kobold is unflinching as a thin red line traces itself across their skin. He glances down to the sword in his hand and sees the crimson spread across the blade and the floor.
“... We didn’t want you to suffer out here the way you were and well… there wasn’t anything else we could do for you at that point.”
The Kobold weakly shrugs as another shadow fills in to reveal Sheryl standing nearby
“…I wasn’t about to let her do this.”
Another two shadows fill in, revealing Wil and BB.
“No… Wil made his decision already by giving your friend the knife -” in reaction to this, one of the Kobolds holds up a knife that has appeared in their hands, “-and I wouldn’t leave it to BB either. That wouldn’t be fair”
The Kobold’s expression finally changes to one of frustration and points at the monk accusingly.
“... I suppose so. But I wouldn’t be happy with it.”
Silence.
He stares at the Kobolds face for a long moment, taking in every detail before closing his eyes. He takes a deep breath in, holds it for a few seconds and exhales in a slow controlled breath. When he opens his eyes, he is back in the corridor and the door is shut. He turns s and walks back the way they had come, noticing the new large painting of the vibrant red flower by the door.
His eyes open again… and the room is dark. The sword sits on the floor in front of him, finally clean. As the noise from the bar seeps it's way through the wooden boards, the familiar hand takes up the sword again.