Inside the Palm of My Hand
Nov. 24th, 2008 09:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shosenRed haze and hunger. Always the voice in his head. Unable to concentrate, to think, but so easier to know the greater goal. Stand and fight or stand and fall, and for your world my Leige.
He cringed, deep inside where he remembered himself behind the veil of hunger. Bristled against the bowing, scraping, but the rewards... Oh, they soothed his chaffed ego.
Shiver of familiarity. Flash of awareness before the need to consume takes over. Taste denied by shimmering air followed by shadows, and those he knows. Caressing darkness, taken in, at one with him always. The barrier fades, the shadows withdraw, but before he can bite there's blinding agony piercing from the sky. Burning, searing, relentless light, and the voice in his head fades with a condemnation of his failure. Again.
He wakes, once again aware of his wreck of a body around him. Hard boards press against thin flesh, splinters threatening to piece through. He sits, looking around at broken furnitue coated in choking dust and dry pollen. Feble light struggles through the open door, highlighting the figure who stands looking outside.
A snarl threatens as his mind fills in the form and insults spring to his lips, ready to hurtle themselves toard the ungrateful farmer's brat from so long ago. But they are not released. His lips do not move. The figure turns and he finds himself the focus of fel-touched eyes set in sharp features and framed by long tapered ears. The familiarity persists, but he does not know this elf and the insults die unspoken.
“We were halfway here,” she says, one hand waving at whatever lies beyond the door, “before I remembered he doesn't live there anymore. I'm not sure why I came in the first place; I know what he'd tell me to do. Maybe I just hoped he'd do it for me.”
He tries to demand an explanation, but these words are prisoners too, and now even his limbs refuse to obey him. He is not his own master, and yet his King's voice is still silent.
The elf starts on a different topic. “Do you know what you get, if you combine the training of a warlock with that of a priest?”
His body shudders in rememberance of bright pain.
“Someone who understands both how to control a mind and enslave a soul,” she answers herself, and then looks him over. “If it's corrupted, anyway. And you've certainly progressed far in that, more in one year than I managed in two.”
He sneers, and this his body allows, gives him leave to wonder what else he can get away with. The elf ingnores the gesture.
“I've never really liked doing either, you know. I've been the recipient of the first far too often, and the second,” she trails off and then shrugs. “Well, it loses it's appeal once you've used it against a friend.”
He calms himself, forcing back the frustrating and annoyance, thinking clearly for the first time. He is not defenceless, after all. The tingle of power, the corruption she'd mocked, dances over his skin, through his inner being, and back again, and he calls.
The elf's eyes narrow as the dingy room flashes purple and beside him a form manifets. She raised her hands, only to pause as he tries to scream at the cloudy blue shape that's arrived in the place of the large felguard. She laughs then, not mocking but as grating to his ears as if it had been. She steps forward to hug the silent voidwalker, as much as one is able, and it allows the gesture.
A smile is still on her face when she steps back. “I suppose we're not supposed to play favourites,” she says to him, “but Thokdok was always mine.”
He clenches his teeth, snarling.
“This makes things somewhat easier. You see, I don't really like doing this, and it's probably the stupidest choice I could have made, but I'm not really sure what else I should do.” Her face turns serious again. “I can't let you wander around gnawing on people, but it seems I cannot bring myself to kill you either.”
He scoffs at the weakness and her eyes narrow.
“So this is what we'll do, until I either think of something else, or I get over it. Whichever.” She beckons to the voidwalker, and the trecherous thing follows her to stand beside him. “I'll be back soon. Make sure he doesn't leave.”
She steps out the door, to whatever wasteland surrounds the desolate ruin she's left him in. The voidwalker stands silent, quiet as his too isolated mind. He remains there, motionless, and seethes.
He cringed, deep inside where he remembered himself behind the veil of hunger. Bristled against the bowing, scraping, but the rewards... Oh, they soothed his chaffed ego.
Shiver of familiarity. Flash of awareness before the need to consume takes over. Taste denied by shimmering air followed by shadows, and those he knows. Caressing darkness, taken in, at one with him always. The barrier fades, the shadows withdraw, but before he can bite there's blinding agony piercing from the sky. Burning, searing, relentless light, and the voice in his head fades with a condemnation of his failure. Again.
He wakes, once again aware of his wreck of a body around him. Hard boards press against thin flesh, splinters threatening to piece through. He sits, looking around at broken furnitue coated in choking dust and dry pollen. Feble light struggles through the open door, highlighting the figure who stands looking outside.
A snarl threatens as his mind fills in the form and insults spring to his lips, ready to hurtle themselves toard the ungrateful farmer's brat from so long ago. But they are not released. His lips do not move. The figure turns and he finds himself the focus of fel-touched eyes set in sharp features and framed by long tapered ears. The familiarity persists, but he does not know this elf and the insults die unspoken.
“We were halfway here,” she says, one hand waving at whatever lies beyond the door, “before I remembered he doesn't live there anymore. I'm not sure why I came in the first place; I know what he'd tell me to do. Maybe I just hoped he'd do it for me.”
He tries to demand an explanation, but these words are prisoners too, and now even his limbs refuse to obey him. He is not his own master, and yet his King's voice is still silent.
The elf starts on a different topic. “Do you know what you get, if you combine the training of a warlock with that of a priest?”
His body shudders in rememberance of bright pain.
“Someone who understands both how to control a mind and enslave a soul,” she answers herself, and then looks him over. “If it's corrupted, anyway. And you've certainly progressed far in that, more in one year than I managed in two.”
He sneers, and this his body allows, gives him leave to wonder what else he can get away with. The elf ingnores the gesture.
“I've never really liked doing either, you know. I've been the recipient of the first far too often, and the second,” she trails off and then shrugs. “Well, it loses it's appeal once you've used it against a friend.”
He calms himself, forcing back the frustrating and annoyance, thinking clearly for the first time. He is not defenceless, after all. The tingle of power, the corruption she'd mocked, dances over his skin, through his inner being, and back again, and he calls.
The elf's eyes narrow as the dingy room flashes purple and beside him a form manifets. She raised her hands, only to pause as he tries to scream at the cloudy blue shape that's arrived in the place of the large felguard. She laughs then, not mocking but as grating to his ears as if it had been. She steps forward to hug the silent voidwalker, as much as one is able, and it allows the gesture.
A smile is still on her face when she steps back. “I suppose we're not supposed to play favourites,” she says to him, “but Thokdok was always mine.”
He clenches his teeth, snarling.
“This makes things somewhat easier. You see, I don't really like doing this, and it's probably the stupidest choice I could have made, but I'm not really sure what else I should do.” Her face turns serious again. “I can't let you wander around gnawing on people, but it seems I cannot bring myself to kill you either.”
He scoffs at the weakness and her eyes narrow.
“So this is what we'll do, until I either think of something else, or I get over it. Whichever.” She beckons to the voidwalker, and the trecherous thing follows her to stand beside him. “I'll be back soon. Make sure he doesn't leave.”
She steps out the door, to whatever wasteland surrounds the desolate ruin she's left him in. The voidwalker stands silent, quiet as his too isolated mind. He remains there, motionless, and seethes.