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VARROCK PALACE, DEPARTMENT OF MILITARY SCIENCES
ADMINISTRATIVE QUARTERS
03:12 VT
Jon Church frightened himself awake, screaming out briefly into the calm air of his rather posh room, flinging the Elf Warrior from full mount on top of him and scrambling rather sloppily for his knife. Flinging himself off the bed and on top of him, Church raised the blade high above his head and sank it deep into wooden flesh. He panted, shivering with fear and adrenaline. His foe, he found, was but thin air. A figment of the mind. The doctors had been telling Church that he was sick. He was beginning to believe them.
He had always had nightmares, those were common fare ever since he came back from the War to Iseult and his daughter. In time, it was the nightmares that had made her leave. Lately,
they had been growing stronger and more frequent. Church's will gave way to a bursting dam of emotion, and for perhaps a full minute he sobbed on all fours, his tears leaving little pocks of moisture on the raw wood floor. When he finished, he wiped his eyes and began once again the ritual. The doctors had instructed Church that some degree of rigid, spiritual routine could be therapeutic for the soul. They said that warriors since the time of Arrav had done similar things in one age or another, to cope with their own experiences.
First, he produced and lit a tarromin roll, lighting it with a match. Then, he laid out a thin cloth sheet across the wooden floor, over the tear-marks, and sat in front of it on his knees, like a Wushankan warrior. He breathed deeply and laid out all of his tools on the hasty mat.
(Continued ->
ADMINISTRATIVE QUARTERS
03:12 VT
Jon Church frightened himself awake, screaming out briefly into the calm air of his rather posh room, flinging the Elf Warrior from full mount on top of him and scrambling rather sloppily for his knife. Flinging himself off the bed and on top of him, Church raised the blade high above his head and sank it deep into wooden flesh. He panted, shivering with fear and adrenaline. His foe, he found, was but thin air. A figment of the mind. The doctors had been telling Church that he was sick. He was beginning to believe them.
He had always had nightmares, those were common fare ever since he came back from the War to Iseult and his daughter. In time, it was the nightmares that had made her leave. Lately,
they had been growing stronger and more frequent. Church's will gave way to a bursting dam of emotion, and for perhaps a full minute he sobbed on all fours, his tears leaving little pocks of moisture on the raw wood floor. When he finished, he wiped his eyes and began once again the ritual. The doctors had instructed Church that some degree of rigid, spiritual routine could be therapeutic for the soul. They said that warriors since the time of Arrav had done similar things in one age or another, to cope with their own experiences.
First, he produced and lit a tarromin roll, lighting it with a match. Then, he laid out a thin cloth sheet across the wooden floor, over the tear-marks, and sat in front of it on his knees, like a Wushankan warrior. He breathed deeply and laid out all of his tools on the hasty mat.
(Continued ->
08-Nov-2016 07:23:20
Deliberately and lovingly, Church began to disassemble and clean his powder weapons, wax the string of his crossbow, and sharpen his knife. Ancient warriors believed that their weapons possessed conscious spirits. Church feared what personality his efficient and precise instruments would sport were this true. When he slept, and dreamt, he remembered. When he is calm, in these moments, he could analyze. He had been away for so very long. Nearly as long as his unit was isolated from the rest of the Varrockian army back in the War. Almost a year, living like an animal, constantly on the run. The wretched vyres had caught him, he escaped, and was caught again. Their camps were the worst of it all. He shuddered to recall what he saw in them. What he'd done. When he was rescued, he was a withered husk. A month of soft living, chef-cooked meals and feather beds had nursed him to health, but a primal, reptilian part of Church's psyche drove him towards the slog. He found himself drawn in by the challenge, the law of the jungle. To kill of be killed.
This part of Church had been calling the shots for quite a long time now. Very little in the way of fear or apprehension remained. Church had murdered innocents, spat in the very face of Varrockian martial law, executed a fellow VSS Group Director and stepped on more toes than a Dwarven machine manufactured with the goal of stepping on toes in mind. Now more than ever, many men and women wanted him dead. He knew it was only a matter of time. But, no matter what, he drove forward with one goal in mind: to discover the source of it all.
(Continued ->
This part of Church had been calling the shots for quite a long time now. Very little in the way of fear or apprehension remained. Church had murdered innocents, spat in the very face of Varrockian martial law, executed a fellow VSS Group Director and stepped on more toes than a Dwarven machine manufactured with the goal of stepping on toes in mind. Now more than ever, many men and women wanted him dead. He knew it was only a matter of time. But, no matter what, he drove forward with one goal in mind: to discover the source of it all.
(Continued ->
08-Nov-2016 07:32:57
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