Re: The Spectacular Exhibition (S3G2) [Round 2: Space - Abridged]
05-04-2012, 06:39 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by whoosh!.
The feeling of running from the drake was incomparable to anything else that had ever happened to Nemaeus. He could virtually feel his heels burning.
Sure, he'd run from people before. Dangerous people, mostly, or at least intended to be more dangerous than him. And they'd been armed, certainly. But they'd never boasted powers of flight or the ability to spit flames.
And he'd never had anyone else with him. He cast a glance at Tria, keeping pace beside him, half hopefully and half fearfully. He tried to remember what the Counsellor had said about her, but all he could recall from that time was numb shock, confusion and despair. It had all been too fast, too fast -
You should be dead.
He could feel it now, see it, hear it. The rope was rough around his neck. The curtains were open, and he could see the city lights. The blare of traffic drifted in through the open balcony doors, as did the cool touch of the breeze. He hadn't intended to write a note, it had never been in his plans, but he'd found himself encapsulating all the pity of his existence in those two terrible words anyway. Nobody would care. Maybe somebody would even read them. He'd smiled a little, and straightened his lapels. It was funny, the way the suits had just become part of him. Couldn't imagine life without one. Couldn't image death without one either. He'd bundled the pelt around his shoulders for the same reason. Stroked it, ran his fingers through the creature's fur one last time. These were all the things that formed his life.
Night. City. Wind. I'm sorry. Suit. Pelt.
Time to go.
With only the slightest twinge of apprehension, far too late for him to act upon, he had kicked out the stool from underneath him. For a second he had fallen, and for a second he had been utterly free. A dead man had no debts.
“What are you doing!?” Tria screamed at him, huddled behind a ruined and broken wall. Her eyes were red, and Nemaeus was sure she was shaking. He stared at her in utter confusion. His mind was still in the room with his suicide note and the cool night breeze.
Things became a little clearer as the light of the sun was blocked out. Staggering in sudden darkness, he threw his gaze upwards only for the light to return. Nemaeus cursed and covered his eyes, but he had seen it.
Some long buried sense of preservation burst through into his mind, screaming and flailing. Barely thinking, he flicked the wolf skin upwards.
The wall of flame brushed the air beside him. The rest of the inferno dissipated against the fur. It was gone in a second, leaving him choking and gasping but very much unburnt. Seizing the chance, he leapt and staggered to Tria's wall.
She looked even worse up close. Perspiration streaked her face, and her eyes were wide. Her eyes focused on him and she tried to speak, but she only succeeded in half-mouthing something and croaking a little. She absolutely was terrified. Not knowing what to do, Nemaeus outstretched a hand. She flinched and he immediately withdrew it.
How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?
He glanced up at the sky, curiously blue after the storm. No dragon in sight. For the moment. He had time, at least, but what was he going to do with it?
Think!
In response, a few words, half forgotten, politely floated up into his consciousness.
“...she suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress, pyrophobia, and has some overall personality issues...”
Pyrophobia. Of course.
He looked at her again, sharp twinges of guilts running through him as he did so. Why had he taken her with him? He had the sword, so presumably he was the dragonkiller in this story. She had nothing to do with any of this.
He looked away sharply as her eyes met his, but the thrill of the exchange ran through him in that moment. Could he... could he convince her that it was fine? Could he twist her into something more useful? Did he dare?
It terms of pure logistics, it would be simple. Maybe once she was more pliable and less frightened, and nobody could stay scared forever. And if he could protect her...
Then what?
Once he had his ally, what would he do with her in a battle with only one survivor? Is it that difficult to imagine?
Not to mention that logistics wasn't the only thing to consider. Nemaeus looked at Tria once more, not meeting her gaze. The guilt stabbed like knives this time. She's just scared. And she doesn't deserve to be.
Nemaeus felt the fur beneath his fingers. For a moment he stared at the skin of the legendary wolf, and then his mind was made up.
He stood up. Tria immediately clawed at his suit jacket, hissing at him to stay hidden. He gently disentangled himself from her, and stabbed his sword into the dirt. It burst into a flurry of lightning, but he ignored it. Instead he unfurled the pelt. The Kyprian wolf's upper jaw stared reproachfully back. That wasn't worth his attention either, so instead he draped it over Tria's back. The head sat over her own, and the rest wrapped around her fairly easily. The wolf had been large, and Tria wasn't the bulkiest of people. She stared up at him, (causing the skull to fall off and bend back against the fur in a somewhat surreal manner) looking at him with... what? Confusion? Gratefulness? He didn't know, so he lifted the morbid hood back up.
“Don't take it off. You'll be safe from the fire if you keep that on.” He wrenched the sword back out of the dirt, and it crackled contentedly.
He waited for a moment, hoping for some response, but she only looked at him with that curious expression. He paused a moment longer, then coughed and turned away. A roar crashed through the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
Nemaeus inhaled. This was suicide.
He began to walk. The ruins were curious and sprawling, but a relatively intact tower towered before him. He began to climb the steps. Gaining height might actually let him get close to this monster.
His mind flashed back to the single second of freefall, noose around his neck, and nothing in the world weighing him down.
Yes, this was suicide.
That was part of the appeal.
The feeling of running from the drake was incomparable to anything else that had ever happened to Nemaeus. He could virtually feel his heels burning.
Sure, he'd run from people before. Dangerous people, mostly, or at least intended to be more dangerous than him. And they'd been armed, certainly. But they'd never boasted powers of flight or the ability to spit flames.
And he'd never had anyone else with him. He cast a glance at Tria, keeping pace beside him, half hopefully and half fearfully. He tried to remember what the Counsellor had said about her, but all he could recall from that time was numb shock, confusion and despair. It had all been too fast, too fast -
You should be dead.
He could feel it now, see it, hear it. The rope was rough around his neck. The curtains were open, and he could see the city lights. The blare of traffic drifted in through the open balcony doors, as did the cool touch of the breeze. He hadn't intended to write a note, it had never been in his plans, but he'd found himself encapsulating all the pity of his existence in those two terrible words anyway. Nobody would care. Maybe somebody would even read them. He'd smiled a little, and straightened his lapels. It was funny, the way the suits had just become part of him. Couldn't imagine life without one. Couldn't image death without one either. He'd bundled the pelt around his shoulders for the same reason. Stroked it, ran his fingers through the creature's fur one last time. These were all the things that formed his life.
Night. City. Wind. I'm sorry. Suit. Pelt.
Time to go.
With only the slightest twinge of apprehension, far too late for him to act upon, he had kicked out the stool from underneath him. For a second he had fallen, and for a second he had been utterly free. A dead man had no debts.
“What are you doing!?” Tria screamed at him, huddled behind a ruined and broken wall. Her eyes were red, and Nemaeus was sure she was shaking. He stared at her in utter confusion. His mind was still in the room with his suicide note and the cool night breeze.
Things became a little clearer as the light of the sun was blocked out. Staggering in sudden darkness, he threw his gaze upwards only for the light to return. Nemaeus cursed and covered his eyes, but he had seen it.
Some long buried sense of preservation burst through into his mind, screaming and flailing. Barely thinking, he flicked the wolf skin upwards.
The wall of flame brushed the air beside him. The rest of the inferno dissipated against the fur. It was gone in a second, leaving him choking and gasping but very much unburnt. Seizing the chance, he leapt and staggered to Tria's wall.
She looked even worse up close. Perspiration streaked her face, and her eyes were wide. Her eyes focused on him and she tried to speak, but she only succeeded in half-mouthing something and croaking a little. She absolutely was terrified. Not knowing what to do, Nemaeus outstretched a hand. She flinched and he immediately withdrew it.
How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?
He glanced up at the sky, curiously blue after the storm. No dragon in sight. For the moment. He had time, at least, but what was he going to do with it?
Think!
In response, a few words, half forgotten, politely floated up into his consciousness.
“...she suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress, pyrophobia, and has some overall personality issues...”
Pyrophobia. Of course.
He looked at her again, sharp twinges of guilts running through him as he did so. Why had he taken her with him? He had the sword, so presumably he was the dragonkiller in this story. She had nothing to do with any of this.
He looked away sharply as her eyes met his, but the thrill of the exchange ran through him in that moment. Could he... could he convince her that it was fine? Could he twist her into something more useful? Did he dare?
It terms of pure logistics, it would be simple. Maybe once she was more pliable and less frightened, and nobody could stay scared forever. And if he could protect her...
Then what?
Once he had his ally, what would he do with her in a battle with only one survivor? Is it that difficult to imagine?
Not to mention that logistics wasn't the only thing to consider. Nemaeus looked at Tria once more, not meeting her gaze. The guilt stabbed like knives this time. She's just scared. And she doesn't deserve to be.
Nemaeus felt the fur beneath his fingers. For a moment he stared at the skin of the legendary wolf, and then his mind was made up.
He stood up. Tria immediately clawed at his suit jacket, hissing at him to stay hidden. He gently disentangled himself from her, and stabbed his sword into the dirt. It burst into a flurry of lightning, but he ignored it. Instead he unfurled the pelt. The Kyprian wolf's upper jaw stared reproachfully back. That wasn't worth his attention either, so instead he draped it over Tria's back. The head sat over her own, and the rest wrapped around her fairly easily. The wolf had been large, and Tria wasn't the bulkiest of people. She stared up at him, (causing the skull to fall off and bend back against the fur in a somewhat surreal manner) looking at him with... what? Confusion? Gratefulness? He didn't know, so he lifted the morbid hood back up.
“Don't take it off. You'll be safe from the fire if you keep that on.” He wrenched the sword back out of the dirt, and it crackled contentedly.
He waited for a moment, hoping for some response, but she only looked at him with that curious expression. He paused a moment longer, then coughed and turned away. A roar crashed through the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
Nemaeus inhaled. This was suicide.
He began to walk. The ruins were curious and sprawling, but a relatively intact tower towered before him. He began to climb the steps. Gaining height might actually let him get close to this monster.
His mind flashed back to the single second of freefall, noose around his neck, and nothing in the world weighing him down.
Yes, this was suicide.
That was part of the appeal.