Pressure. The weight of the situation is maddening.
A sea of people, pushing, pulling, clawing, and climbing on and over eachother from the Grave. Every last instinct makes the Wight shudder in fear and dread. She cuts her arm, letting rotten blood flow, to find which way up is. Many others bury themselves deeper and deeper in the bodies as they try and escape. Not this one. Freedom. Harmony.
She crawls to the top, seeing the dead about going absolutely mad, rushing through the city of Varrock. Was this home?
No,
she thought,
home is long gone.
''Welcome to New Varrock'' said one sign, statues of Zemouregal erected about the city, even as the dead now destroyed them in sheer rage. The Wight's mind drifted, and she wondered what made her return.
She looked her arms over. That old scar on her left forearm, the distinct, Jagged S, carved by Aldaren in what felt like a century before remained. She had but a vague memory of the scar, feeling mostly shame and guilt as she saw it. But something new rested over her left breast. A circular scar, where the heart should be. She gripped her chest, feeling nothing.
...Heavens. I'm already dead.
Something in her snapped. Some rage, hatred for what she was now, but... No understanding of why.
The Sea of Dead parted, as a large man clad in heavy Dragonhide approached. He spoke gutteral, as the bare-bodied wight felt flashbacks of more rage. A slight fear and fervour to her fighting, but the man proved to be a far more competant fighter. If one this tall could be a man. ''My Lady... I found you at last.''
The Wight was snatched, whisked away in a teleport.
_____
The One True Nat
06-Jun-2017 19:04:52
- Last edited on
18-Jun-2017 14:46:33
by
Lady Airlea