Incubus
Thursday, February 23, 2006
The dubious attractions of Lara seemed more an eyesore now than all his fondest memories of that city on the Vosk, and the metal worker drank himself to oblivion within just a few short ahn after arriving. Heavier and heavier grew his eyelids, mezmerized by the hypnotic dance of the bonfire's flames, until the fellow dropped cold into an unconscious stupor on the ground and ceased to breathe. Somewhere between the planes of death and life, he moved lighter than air across a scorched and eroded landscape, giving chase to a rather vicious doppleganger.
Here in this forsaken, near-death Wasteland, the desire for murder and blood beckoned with a raw and licentious sensuality. He wanted to see the Inamorata dead. Strangled by the chains that kept her bound. Drowned in her own blood. The witch had come for him, to hunt him down and lure him into the abyss. Die, Bitch! He knew the woman could hear him plain as day. He taunted her, as she herself hung precariously in chains over that very same abyss. Yet it was not him who had reached down as far as possible, with calloused fingers that strained to bridge the chasm between himself and the woman... "Athamé!" ... No! Let her die ... For how long could he hang on like that, stretching his hand down to just touch her.. just once? Oh god, don't let her die. Not another death to weigh down heavily upon his conscience. "Tell me what to do, Athamé." Nooo! Fuck her!
It was no wonder that the fellow drank himself into oblivion, and so often. No wonder that he sought out the numbing anesthesia of the Kanda leaf. Harboring a fugitive from the Wastelands somewhere between Cities of the Living and the Cities of Dust took its toll upon his spirit. Here, he had no escape, having been sucked into the vortex of an existance where he did not belong.
What could he hide of himself that wasn't already seen and known by the haruspex? That he was a shell of his former self? A loser and forsaker of his own Home Stone? The scourge and ignoble bane of a proud familial dynasty of metal workers? A black blight on his father's name? By any standard, he should have been revolted and repelled by the woman's very nature. For she was a worker of divinations and omens. Unnatural dark things.
"Athamé. Save yourself!" While it was clear that this twisted Prometheus could not survive without the metal worker, the reverse had likely not been given a single thought. Could Vedric survive... without him? Had he rushed right into the vortex deliberately then, to save his doppleganger as well as himself? Or... had he tread into that forsaken barrens to put an end to their wretched life?
Now I lay me down to sleep...
Here in this forsaken, near-death Wasteland, the desire for murder and blood beckoned with a raw and licentious sensuality. He wanted to see the Inamorata dead. Strangled by the chains that kept her bound. Drowned in her own blood. The witch had come for him, to hunt him down and lure him into the abyss. Die, Bitch! He knew the woman could hear him plain as day. He taunted her, as she herself hung precariously in chains over that very same abyss. Yet it was not him who had reached down as far as possible, with calloused fingers that strained to bridge the chasm between himself and the woman... "Athamé!" ... No! Let her die ... For how long could he hang on like that, stretching his hand down to just touch her.. just once? Oh god, don't let her die. Not another death to weigh down heavily upon his conscience. "Tell me what to do, Athamé." Nooo! Fuck her!
It was no wonder that the fellow drank himself into oblivion, and so often. No wonder that he sought out the numbing anesthesia of the Kanda leaf. Harboring a fugitive from the Wastelands somewhere between Cities of the Living and the Cities of Dust took its toll upon his spirit. Here, he had no escape, having been sucked into the vortex of an existance where he did not belong.
What could he hide of himself that wasn't already seen and known by the haruspex? That he was a shell of his former self? A loser and forsaker of his own Home Stone? The scourge and ignoble bane of a proud familial dynasty of metal workers? A black blight on his father's name? By any standard, he should have been revolted and repelled by the woman's very nature. For she was a worker of divinations and omens. Unnatural dark things.
"Athamé. Save yourself!" While it was clear that this twisted Prometheus could not survive without the metal worker, the reverse had likely not been given a single thought. Could Vedric survive... without him? Had he rushed right into the vortex deliberately then, to save his doppleganger as well as himself? Or... had he tread into that forsaken barrens to put an end to their wretched life?
Now I lay me down to sleep...
