Post by Greg on Aug 27, 2006 15:17:49 GMT -5
An eye twitched, shedding a tear of dry dust across a forest of withered eyelashes. With a sudden spark the rheumy eye's milky blue haze tightened, focused into a perfect blue pupil framing a small, dark iris. Small blood vessels came to life around the clear sky-hued circle, as if they were tiny red lightning bolts bombarding a lovely cobalt world. Several burst, and tiny red splotches of blood clouded the eye as something akin to life raped its way through the man's face, sliding along dry and decayed veins.
The spasm of an errant muscle in the man's pursed cheek gave rise to other small tremors, and a diseased energy flooded the corpse's central nervous system in an awkward ripple. The icy blue eye performed a lazy roll, then snapped to attention, iris shrinking under the focused will of dominant thought.
Asher lay on the moist bank of the Styx, limbs strewn about in a careless fashion that the dead seem to maintain with pathetic abandon. Had someone stumbled by, they would find no discrepancy to stay their attention. The man was dying; perhaps dead already. Nothing remarkable to note of, stained and battered armor (though through use or simple wear of time), bearing a faded and unrecognizable sigil. The forgotten crest had been emblazened upon the simple spread of armor across the dead man's chest, and one of the metal shoulder-bells had been lost. Seen through various gaps and pieces of missing armor were bandages, dry cloth reduced by time to paper.
Although none were present to appreciate his rise from the dormancy of death, Asher felt crowded, vulnerable, borne down by the grip of a deeply seated paranoia which racked his dead tissues with cramped, pinching muscles, and pulled his thin, cadaverous knees to his worn breastplate and rocked slightly. He hadn't died well this time.
The final taunt of his advesary echoed profoundly in his ears (which wept blood and now heard nothing).
"Get thee off the skin of this world, thy filthy, aborted, thing!"
And so yet again whatever Asher had become was cured of the mortal world. With deeply rooted tensions in his gut, he managed a hacking noise from deep in his throat. His second and third heaves managed nothing, but finally a choking sputter removed a broth of blood and congealed mucus that had been well seated in his lungs. A rasped rattle shook the man, as he began to retrain his body in the art of breathing. Inhale. His blood struggled through his body thickly, almost randomly, here breaking skin and spewing forth; there stopping fully on barriers of decayed flesh or dried clots. Exhale. The frenzy of Asher's blood died down to a trickle, and the tingle that filled his body faded to a dull flush. Inhale. Exhale. With a dissatisfied grunt, the man pounded his armored gauntlet over his chest in the manner one beats on the steering wheel of their unstartable car, or one who smacks the side of their television when the reception flickers out. His heart started grudgingly, beginning the dull throb that pushed the blood through his veins properly.
Body twitching erratically with the unceasing movements of numb muscles, the living corpse pulled itself to the Styx hand over hand, kicking restlessly against the glassy sand with awkward feet. In a fashion that could only be described as animalistic, Asher lowered his head and gulped heedlessly of the river of the dead. Though tasting of alkaline and sewage, and smelling of a three-day old battlefield in a humid summer, it was wet, and Asher's lips were parched from several months? Years? Of neglect. After well gorging himself, he fell back from the bank and let out a wailing cry, a throaty roar rarely heard higher then the Malebolge.
"Bah!" Asher declared vainly. "And Rot!" He swung drunkenly to his feet and swayed unsteadily. The silence of the Styx was perturbing, for the dead did not moan their dismal nocturne as they had in seasons past spent. The echo of the monk who had drawn about Asher's conclusion crumbled to cobwebs in his mind, and a blessedly moment empty of thought bubbled forth. He snorted contentedly, staring out across the familiar river with one shivering blue eye. "It profits you naught."
The spasm of an errant muscle in the man's pursed cheek gave rise to other small tremors, and a diseased energy flooded the corpse's central nervous system in an awkward ripple. The icy blue eye performed a lazy roll, then snapped to attention, iris shrinking under the focused will of dominant thought.
Asher lay on the moist bank of the Styx, limbs strewn about in a careless fashion that the dead seem to maintain with pathetic abandon. Had someone stumbled by, they would find no discrepancy to stay their attention. The man was dying; perhaps dead already. Nothing remarkable to note of, stained and battered armor (though through use or simple wear of time), bearing a faded and unrecognizable sigil. The forgotten crest had been emblazened upon the simple spread of armor across the dead man's chest, and one of the metal shoulder-bells had been lost. Seen through various gaps and pieces of missing armor were bandages, dry cloth reduced by time to paper.
Although none were present to appreciate his rise from the dormancy of death, Asher felt crowded, vulnerable, borne down by the grip of a deeply seated paranoia which racked his dead tissues with cramped, pinching muscles, and pulled his thin, cadaverous knees to his worn breastplate and rocked slightly. He hadn't died well this time.
The final taunt of his advesary echoed profoundly in his ears (which wept blood and now heard nothing).
"Get thee off the skin of this world, thy filthy, aborted, thing!"
And so yet again whatever Asher had become was cured of the mortal world. With deeply rooted tensions in his gut, he managed a hacking noise from deep in his throat. His second and third heaves managed nothing, but finally a choking sputter removed a broth of blood and congealed mucus that had been well seated in his lungs. A rasped rattle shook the man, as he began to retrain his body in the art of breathing. Inhale. His blood struggled through his body thickly, almost randomly, here breaking skin and spewing forth; there stopping fully on barriers of decayed flesh or dried clots. Exhale. The frenzy of Asher's blood died down to a trickle, and the tingle that filled his body faded to a dull flush. Inhale. Exhale. With a dissatisfied grunt, the man pounded his armored gauntlet over his chest in the manner one beats on the steering wheel of their unstartable car, or one who smacks the side of their television when the reception flickers out. His heart started grudgingly, beginning the dull throb that pushed the blood through his veins properly.
Body twitching erratically with the unceasing movements of numb muscles, the living corpse pulled itself to the Styx hand over hand, kicking restlessly against the glassy sand with awkward feet. In a fashion that could only be described as animalistic, Asher lowered his head and gulped heedlessly of the river of the dead. Though tasting of alkaline and sewage, and smelling of a three-day old battlefield in a humid summer, it was wet, and Asher's lips were parched from several months? Years? Of neglect. After well gorging himself, he fell back from the bank and let out a wailing cry, a throaty roar rarely heard higher then the Malebolge.
"Bah!" Asher declared vainly. "And Rot!" He swung drunkenly to his feet and swayed unsteadily. The silence of the Styx was perturbing, for the dead did not moan their dismal nocturne as they had in seasons past spent. The echo of the monk who had drawn about Asher's conclusion crumbled to cobwebs in his mind, and a blessedly moment empty of thought bubbled forth. He snorted contentedly, staring out across the familiar river with one shivering blue eye. "It profits you naught."
