Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Feb 28, 2020 14:44:14 GMT
The ground rises up to meet him, armoured knees clattering to the dark stone. Around him, splashes of dark crimson glint in the dim light.
Is all that mine? he wonders. His gaze wanders lazily up, a strange warmth spreading through his chest. He feels like he’s underwater, limbs slow to respond, vision drifting in and out of focus. He sees Baine surge forward, a look of panic in his eyes, fumbling for something at his belt. Then, strangely, he stops, nods and swings his weapon at the towering corpse-knight in front of him.
A smile spreads lopsidedly across Varis’s face.
At last he thinks.
Then something collides with the side of his head, the forces of the blow knocking his helm free, the chin strap catching around his gorget. His vision begins to dim, then his face explodes in pain and there is only darkness.
It begins as a glimmer, like sunlight on water seen from below. He rises. The light shines from behind a figure. No. The light shines from the figure.
It’s her.
She smiles, eyes clear and kind, face washed clean of the mud and gore that caked it when last they parted. She opens her mouth to speak, and blood flows from her lips.
No, not blood.
Petals.
Crimson rose petals shower him as something catches hold of him and drags him backward. He reaches out, desperately trying to claw his way back, but the force is relentless, dragging him ever onward. Away from the light. Away from peace. Into the darkness below.
He opens his eyes. There is soft grass beneath him. His mouth feels strange, dry and cold. He draws a shuddering breath, pushing himself up and hacking. From somewhere nearby comes a strange, metallic grinding sound.
“Hello, little mortal. You arrive a touch sooner than expected, but are no less welcome for that.”
The voice is like steel wrapped in velvet. It slithers over his mind, stiffening his limbs. He looks up.
The garden is unchanged from the last time he was here. Sinuous vines cover dark wooden trellises, heavy with vibrant red blossoms. Soft grass carpets the pavilion, and all around, creatures from every sphere of damnation lounge and take refreshment. The sky overhead burns.
The owner of the voice sits draped over a throne of viciously thorned rosewood. Her black wings are furled, pale, flawless skin making the flowers around her seem otherwordly. She gives him a cannibal smile.
A single, choking sob escapes his throat. The sound is foreign to him, like the rattling of a sword in its scabbard.
“Poor mortal. What’s the matter? Do you not like your gift?”
Pushing himself to his feet, he notices his hands for the first time. Someone has dressed him in armour of raw black iron, the spiked brutality a strange echo of his own panoply. He turns his gauntletted hands over, and the bottom drops out of his stomach.
It is not armour. It is his flesh.
“What have you done to me, creature?”
His voice is like an iron file. The Sanguine Rose gives a musical laugh.
“Done to you? Why, I have given you a body worthy of your purpose. See for yourself.”
She gestures, and a sheet of pure silver appears before him. Reflected in the mirrored pane he sees a creature of nightmare - thick, black iron plate covers it from head to toe. Savage spikes adorn every surface, and hellfire burns within the visor. At his left hip, a sword and at the other, a sinuous black hilted dagger. He draws the smaller blade and slashes at the mirror. The floating sheet of silver evaporates before the hell-forged steel.
He takes a step toward the throne. It’s occupant laughs again.
“Come now, little mortal. I admire your boldness, but do you really think you can harm me here?”
A sound comes from deep within the iron helm, like the grinding of steel on stone - a rasping, percussive roar that grows in volume. The Sanguine Rose frowns slightly in distaste.
“Something amuses you, little mortal?”
The terrible laughter subsides, the scorched figure straightening.
“So wise, Mistress. So powerful. And yet you do not understand so simple a thing as a man. You think I fear oblivion? I do not.”
He raises the blade before him, pointing it at the creature. She leans forward on her throne of thorns, fascination writ large across her porcelaine face.
“I would rather be nothing, than become the thing I hate. What dies in Hell is lost forever. The decision is a simple one. I cannot serve you; and so I must unmake myself here.”
With that he reverses the blade, the tip pointing into the eyeslit of his helm, and plunges it forward.
“Stop.”
Her voice is calm but firm. The tip of the blade halts a hair’s breadth from the opening. His arms quiver with denied force, but the blade will not budge, betraying him at the last moment. The Rose stands, walking languorously down from her throne, eyes fixed on the black iron figure before her.
“I have to say, I am impressed. It is not often I am surprised, and you read me well - I had not anticipated that one who so clearly thirsts for glory could also be bound by honour.”
She spits as though to clear the taste of the word from her mouth.
“Cunning. And decisive. Yes, I think you will do well here, mortal. But there is something you have forgotten.”
Her voice is cold steel now, and her eyes burn like the sky above her.
“In this place-”
She raises her arms, turning a full circle to encompass the entirety of her garden, the twisting vines and the twisted creatures among them.
“- I am the mistress. You are bound to me; by blood and bone, by oath and soul. The oldest of magics. To you, I am as a god, and you will die when I wish it, not before. Now. Kneel.”
With a grinding of iron on iron, the figure sinks to one knee. She places a hand under his chin, lifting the helmeted head to look directly into her eyes.
“Whom do you serve?”
He trembles, resisting with every fibre of his being, but he is no match for the ancient bindings. Like a distant forge wind, like the scream of tortured metal, the voice she has given him tears from the mouth of the helm.
“I serve the Sanguine Rose.”
Is all that mine? he wonders. His gaze wanders lazily up, a strange warmth spreading through his chest. He feels like he’s underwater, limbs slow to respond, vision drifting in and out of focus. He sees Baine surge forward, a look of panic in his eyes, fumbling for something at his belt. Then, strangely, he stops, nods and swings his weapon at the towering corpse-knight in front of him.
A smile spreads lopsidedly across Varis’s face.
At last he thinks.
Then something collides with the side of his head, the forces of the blow knocking his helm free, the chin strap catching around his gorget. His vision begins to dim, then his face explodes in pain and there is only darkness.
*
It begins as a glimmer, like sunlight on water seen from below. He rises. The light shines from behind a figure. No. The light shines from the figure.
It’s her.
She smiles, eyes clear and kind, face washed clean of the mud and gore that caked it when last they parted. She opens her mouth to speak, and blood flows from her lips.
No, not blood.
Petals.
Crimson rose petals shower him as something catches hold of him and drags him backward. He reaches out, desperately trying to claw his way back, but the force is relentless, dragging him ever onward. Away from the light. Away from peace. Into the darkness below.
*
He opens his eyes. There is soft grass beneath him. His mouth feels strange, dry and cold. He draws a shuddering breath, pushing himself up and hacking. From somewhere nearby comes a strange, metallic grinding sound.
“Hello, little mortal. You arrive a touch sooner than expected, but are no less welcome for that.”
The voice is like steel wrapped in velvet. It slithers over his mind, stiffening his limbs. He looks up.
The garden is unchanged from the last time he was here. Sinuous vines cover dark wooden trellises, heavy with vibrant red blossoms. Soft grass carpets the pavilion, and all around, creatures from every sphere of damnation lounge and take refreshment. The sky overhead burns.
The owner of the voice sits draped over a throne of viciously thorned rosewood. Her black wings are furled, pale, flawless skin making the flowers around her seem otherwordly. She gives him a cannibal smile.
A single, choking sob escapes his throat. The sound is foreign to him, like the rattling of a sword in its scabbard.
“Poor mortal. What’s the matter? Do you not like your gift?”
Pushing himself to his feet, he notices his hands for the first time. Someone has dressed him in armour of raw black iron, the spiked brutality a strange echo of his own panoply. He turns his gauntletted hands over, and the bottom drops out of his stomach.
It is not armour. It is his flesh.
“What have you done to me, creature?”
His voice is like an iron file. The Sanguine Rose gives a musical laugh.
“Done to you? Why, I have given you a body worthy of your purpose. See for yourself.”
She gestures, and a sheet of pure silver appears before him. Reflected in the mirrored pane he sees a creature of nightmare - thick, black iron plate covers it from head to toe. Savage spikes adorn every surface, and hellfire burns within the visor. At his left hip, a sword and at the other, a sinuous black hilted dagger. He draws the smaller blade and slashes at the mirror. The floating sheet of silver evaporates before the hell-forged steel.
He takes a step toward the throne. It’s occupant laughs again.
“Come now, little mortal. I admire your boldness, but do you really think you can harm me here?”
A sound comes from deep within the iron helm, like the grinding of steel on stone - a rasping, percussive roar that grows in volume. The Sanguine Rose frowns slightly in distaste.
“Something amuses you, little mortal?”
The terrible laughter subsides, the scorched figure straightening.
“So wise, Mistress. So powerful. And yet you do not understand so simple a thing as a man. You think I fear oblivion? I do not.”
He raises the blade before him, pointing it at the creature. She leans forward on her throne of thorns, fascination writ large across her porcelaine face.
“I would rather be nothing, than become the thing I hate. What dies in Hell is lost forever. The decision is a simple one. I cannot serve you; and so I must unmake myself here.”
With that he reverses the blade, the tip pointing into the eyeslit of his helm, and plunges it forward.
“Stop.”
Her voice is calm but firm. The tip of the blade halts a hair’s breadth from the opening. His arms quiver with denied force, but the blade will not budge, betraying him at the last moment. The Rose stands, walking languorously down from her throne, eyes fixed on the black iron figure before her.
“I have to say, I am impressed. It is not often I am surprised, and you read me well - I had not anticipated that one who so clearly thirsts for glory could also be bound by honour.”
She spits as though to clear the taste of the word from her mouth.
“Cunning. And decisive. Yes, I think you will do well here, mortal. But there is something you have forgotten.”
Her voice is cold steel now, and her eyes burn like the sky above her.
“In this place-”
She raises her arms, turning a full circle to encompass the entirety of her garden, the twisting vines and the twisted creatures among them.
“- I am the mistress. You are bound to me; by blood and bone, by oath and soul. The oldest of magics. To you, I am as a god, and you will die when I wish it, not before. Now. Kneel.”
With a grinding of iron on iron, the figure sinks to one knee. She places a hand under his chin, lifting the helmeted head to look directly into her eyes.
“Whom do you serve?”
He trembles, resisting with every fibre of his being, but he is no match for the ancient bindings. Like a distant forge wind, like the scream of tortured metal, the voice she has given him tears from the mouth of the helm.
“I serve the Sanguine Rose.”
