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02-25-2014, 12:33 PM
Mauja Frosthjärta
Question: What's the sick idiot doing out on the shadowy sea?
Answer: Being a sick idiot.
He just couldn't help it. He couldn't stop himself from crawling back onto the surface like an ant hungry for sunlight; couldn't stop himself from traversing the blackened realm looking for signs of life. It was there in his heart, in his blood, the flickering flame of a sentinel, the deep, driving need to guard and shepherd and, most of all, protect: safeguard life. It was the warmth in his blood keeping the fever company, the reason he drifted through the shadows like a stray ray of moonlight. His breath was a cloud in the cold, dark world, betraying the life in him—and the gentle glow of his face was a beacon for all things both dead and alive, but he didn't care. Not in that moment. So be it; they saw him. If they came, he'd lead them on a merry chase to the caves. He wasn't all that far from them, anyway. He paused. Looked about him in the darkness. Breathed. In, out. What a cursed, desolate place Helovia had become. Why did it always end up this way? This wasn't the first time the sun had fallen from the sky and endless darkness wrapped itself around them. Did they have such powerful foes, or were their Gods this weak?
He moved again, walking slowly across the seeming graveyard, senses alert and thoughts drifting through his slightly pounding skull. Part of the reason he was out here wasn't only to find stragglers (or shadow-creatures to cure), but to find those he hadn't seen since coming to the caves... d'Artagnan, Loudmouth, Ophelia, Faelene, Arah, and everyone else he cared for, or thought he did; the list was long, too long. The idea of losing them to this darkness filled him with shameful wrath—some of them, he'd lost on his own, had let go of. He'd allowed d'Artagnan to walk away from him (months ago, but still), and when Loudmouth had fled back towards the beach, he'd been unable to stop her.
And Ophelia.. he sighed.
Movement, at the crest of a hill on the horizon, caught his gaze. He stumbled to a halt, stood stock-still, breath pooling tentatively into the air. Friend, or foe? It moved slowly, and trying to smell it was no use, because up here, everything smelled dead.
His heart was pounding in the silence, too loud in a dead world. He was life and light, where there should be none.
He was not directly in its path, but if it went doggedly straight ahead, it would pass close by. Warily Mauja held his ground, pale head raised towards the fallen stars; it was tilted to the side, long forelock falling off his face in a cascade of white. Only time would tell what it was, coming down that slight slope. Only time would tell if he had to run, dodge his way back to the sanctuary where help awaited...
And thus, he waited.
Answer: Being a sick idiot.
He just couldn't help it. He couldn't stop himself from crawling back onto the surface like an ant hungry for sunlight; couldn't stop himself from traversing the blackened realm looking for signs of life. It was there in his heart, in his blood, the flickering flame of a sentinel, the deep, driving need to guard and shepherd and, most of all, protect: safeguard life. It was the warmth in his blood keeping the fever company, the reason he drifted through the shadows like a stray ray of moonlight. His breath was a cloud in the cold, dark world, betraying the life in him—and the gentle glow of his face was a beacon for all things both dead and alive, but he didn't care. Not in that moment. So be it; they saw him. If they came, he'd lead them on a merry chase to the caves. He wasn't all that far from them, anyway. He paused. Looked about him in the darkness. Breathed. In, out. What a cursed, desolate place Helovia had become. Why did it always end up this way? This wasn't the first time the sun had fallen from the sky and endless darkness wrapped itself around them. Did they have such powerful foes, or were their Gods this weak?
He moved again, walking slowly across the seeming graveyard, senses alert and thoughts drifting through his slightly pounding skull. Part of the reason he was out here wasn't only to find stragglers (or shadow-creatures to cure), but to find those he hadn't seen since coming to the caves... d'Artagnan, Loudmouth, Ophelia, Faelene, Arah, and everyone else he cared for, or thought he did; the list was long, too long. The idea of losing them to this darkness filled him with shameful wrath—some of them, he'd lost on his own, had let go of. He'd allowed d'Artagnan to walk away from him (months ago, but still), and when Loudmouth had fled back towards the beach, he'd been unable to stop her.
And Ophelia.. he sighed.
Movement, at the crest of a hill on the horizon, caught his gaze. He stumbled to a halt, stood stock-still, breath pooling tentatively into the air. Friend, or foe? It moved slowly, and trying to smell it was no use, because up here, everything smelled dead.
His heart was pounding in the silence, too loud in a dead world. He was life and light, where there should be none.
He was not directly in its path, but if it went doggedly straight ahead, it would pass close by. Warily Mauja held his ground, pale head raised towards the fallen stars; it was tilted to the side, long forelock falling off his face in a cascade of white. Only time would tell what it was, coming down that slight slope. Only time would tell if he had to run, dodge his way back to the sanctuary where help awaited...
And thus, he waited.
A million miles from home, I'm frozen to the bones, I am... a soldier on my own, I don't know the way.
