Slow rhythmic drip of blood stains the hard cobble stone, as a pair of human knees buckle inward, before suddenly bending as they collapse under the pressure of his own body. Loose clang of metal, lifelessly drooping to the floor with long clangs against the grindstone floor; bringing an everlasting echo within the distilled wallowing walls. Once there was a shining slick steel blade, but now lays in ruins of former glory. Lacking a sharp pointed tip now blunted though usage, with chipped cracks of scars of lost horrors and endeavours. Leather torn and blooded as the faded illusion of the owner's hand briefly lingers in sight before the blood grips and yearns for its forged simulated comfort.
His drained face slowly shank pale skin dwindles and wanes, as his complexion flushes with a ghastly haunting white, deaths cold embrace patiently watching life drain from this body. His eyes mourn his own loss, as his iris expands to absorb the holy single beam of light which drifts over his body. Completely engrossed in his obsession to welcome his own death. His hair twines in a fleeting dance with the elastic wind which pushes his hair to wildly shake in uncontrollable vengeance to bring a semblance of life. Each strand of hair becomes disloyal to the body, which attempts to zone into an everlasting sleep.
Scarlet blood looms longingly over the marble floor; black veins steep and stem though the woven white flecks. Walls overcast as shadows loom with horrifying intensity, as it steadily grows with an infectious fright.
Silently, a darkened figure grows from the penumbra shade. Quietly steeping from the shadow with a pulsing metrical step, each lifeless stride gradually bring itself closer to the dammed. The lone strain of light briefly illuminates the beast.
A short dark coat loosely flutters though the rugged breeze, as three straps stand erect on the black coat; waiting to clamp down over the waving leather. Short, ragged trousers tucked into their pointed boots, each one with a plain silver buckle resting over the ankle. Over the murky silhouette waist, a strain of tightly woven leather clings to a book. Fully attached and stuck to his side. While his left side carries a set of chiming keys, giggling in a chorus of their own pathetic symphony. Being held in the left hand of this figure, a heavy metal lantern with a flickering flame pulses with a natural dance of choreographed movement. HIs hands are covered in a tight grip of smooth waxed straps of parched leather, crafted to tightly strangle itself with a forceful determined legacy to remain waxed to this shadow. Covering his torso. two straps of wielded leather which sit expectedly underneath his blacken coat, as a noticeable bulge lingers slightly out of eyesight on the creature's back.
However, with each step that crawls by this figure moves towards the dying, the shadowy drapes from behind cling to the beast hood to try and remain hidden. Eclipsing and obscuring these figures is a faceless haze in a hushed veil of chaotic darkness. Slowly coming into view, its large beak sprouting from the beast veil. Sickening mask with spawns of darkness slowly creeping though.
The last step echoed hurriedly within the empty room; the body's last moments gazed fixatedly to the figure. A brave hand desperately trying to summon strength to crawl. Yet never truly succeeding.
Haunting sounds erupt from the empty space. Almost taunting the fallen humanoid; with illogical madness of uncontrolled rambling of drunken insults and slander. Each impugnment utterance vocalized with a violent expressive nature, to belittle the dying body. Each grasp of his fallen breath painfully dulled, with an everlasting glare of eyes biting his fallen body, locking his body nerves in a panic-struck state.
Behind the materialized shadow figure, the darkness looms and morphs into a foul cloak which infects the room. Climbing from behind the cloaked man to drown the room in a steady haze.
The lone broken body which stuck to the floor became trapped in the endless wonder of night, his unmoving musk became ridged in the cage of the vast sea of darkness, as it encompassed his entire body.
The last thing the shadowy figure made out before the person died, was the his right eye. Previously drained of life to a still faded blue, now shined a painful scarlet red. His iris dilated, fixating his sight to the figure before him. Before being taken into the everlasting sea of darkness. Completely disappearing.
Time slowed to a dismal crawl. All matter of life ceased to the darkened world, embers of the roaring flames of the beam of light, swallowed to be silenced by the night's heavy burden. Each sense could only suffer though a longing despair of nothing. No sound to ring the bells of life, no touch to feel across skin to flair such gifts of warmth, no remarkable sight any glimmers of stars within a normal belove night; bright sparkles of lost spirits which silently watched over their homes, they all lack any appearance within this endless night.
Immediately, the cloaked shadow’s hand raises. The bulky metal lantern lifted with little issue. Their hand latches onto a rusted handle. A tormented screech evaporates the once sustained rules of silence. The previous pulsing light of the calmed dance now erupts with a scream of liberty as it consumes the area around the figure. The flames gently trawling around the figure; dancing between his body, pulling away the darkness as the phoenix light covers them. Completely encompassing the figure, driving away the infectious night. The blinding wild light gentle grasp and completely overwhelming any sense this figure lost during the lost night.
“It's almost welcoming to see you hear once more friend.” A calm voice announces.
Instantly, the figure hand wraps the detached latch to grip against the bulky frame of the lantern; calling the raging fire to obediently whimper and resign itself to falter into a single tiny candle-lit flame.
The room the figure eyes are greeted two is lit with divine strains of light from a window placed above the wooden beams; fine metal gates on the window parts the light to shimmer, making shadows dance within the open room. A larger circular raised centre which hides behind a low hanging chandelier, with three stainless bars each holding an empty candle in a triangular formation within the circle. The floor is carved from hardened stone (apart from a single formation on a pathway leading to the north most part of the room), with large support beams holding up the upper canopy, with ancient banners of worshipped wonders. Litters of tables and chairs are dotted around this room, some holding sets of fine wine glasses or bouts of mead; each one accepts a planned set of identical chairs -each one holding a diamond crusted jewel within the middle of their spine- of polished wood. Leaning against all sides of the room are lost broken stands of dried metal or patched leather, rusted together in some bashed armour and weaponry; mockingly guards the room with doubtful capability, with countless of these stands appear ready at attention. Leading from the middle circle underneath the glass, a large open fire pit, which currently resides an open inferno which claws away at the wood dripping into its internal stomach; stone walls act as its cage, limiting the spread to its confined area of domination. Heading from the circle, a wooden pathway heads to the northernmost part, which directs to a bar. Ancient wooden runes cover the bar front; humanoid creatures ranging from short miniature figures to grotesque muscles are jumbled together in a symphony of silent noises and stories.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Slouched over the bar, their arms loosely lay across the bar while maintaining each other. A man glaze lingers to watch the shadow appear before him.
A piercing gaze from his hazel brown eyes pound and linger with a hushed relaxed blink; which stop his obsessive starring from continuing for eternity; yet draws the figure's attention to himself anyway. This man's face beholds a small scar just below his left eye, running from the spine of his nose to his tanned cheeks. Resting above his eyes are attuned brows which farrow his relaxed expression. No ceases or natural expression of curiosity; only an artless expression to match his slight smirk. His hair woven in a hanging wave of rich marron brown, which tightly covers his neck. Completed with a trimmed and neat goatee which cleanly carry depth to the man face. His tunic (a dark green fabric matched with small but still noticeable tears) has splashes of stainless metal across his upper chest, just below his neck; with decorative carvings which twine and bud across the metal. From his arms a fine purple silk airily hangs from his arms to cover his shoulder to his wrist.
“Well then friend. Do I dare ask how our mutual company faired? This time…” His voice fading to a whisper of guilt. His hazel brown eyes levelled to glaze to the feet of the shadow.
No distinct movement was conveyed or hinted. Just a slight mock eco as the night strolled across the paved wooden path. Each step thundering under the shadows' weight.
The beast gently pulls back his tight leather overcoat to produce a hung file of poorly stitched leather of a makeshift pocket. Revealing a cube. This easy light blue box: faintly glowing with pale embers of life, as his black gloved hand grasp the object. Before being placed in front of the man standing before the shadow.
Instinctually, the tanned hand of the man steadily pokes the top square of the cube. Slightly pressing a mere fraction of weight before the embers merged with threatening speed into a pulsing living aura. His hand gracefully dancing within its light. Before slowly withdrawing.
However, as he does. A parchment (born from the embers itself) materialized though the collective gathering of aura. Weaving together to paint a new picture of material life. Birth from this unnatural paper steaming from the seed of nothing. Yet the eyes of the beholder do not glance to the magical art before him. He dutifully stares with fixed glaze to the crisp paper.
“Names? Do we need more?” His gaze does not rise to meet the being in front of him. The man's voice betrays his words. No sign of a longing question could be heard over the sound of his resigned tone. No true thoughts of doubt lingered longer than a single moment after his eyes fell to the parchment.
Turning away from the shadow, he quickly turns his body to face the back wall, forcing his body away from the bar counter as he hauls a small notebook from an overhanging shelf. Carefully, pulling open the book to a fresh page; before cleanly sliding the note into its cage. Pressing his fingers to frictionlessly press down the boards of the paper. Before closing the book entirely with a moment of delay.
“Stars have sealed the fate of more doom souls again I see.” His back turned away from the creature standing behind him. Evenly turning his head over his shoulder to talk.
Yet no sound ever came back in response.
Yet the silhouette does clamper and shrugs off the two straps around its torso: a loud thud as the bag on its back smacks against the wooden boards. The black cloth, which was held by a single threat, loops though a hole which kept the top closed broke off. The bag losing complete grip as it spills and gushes over the floor.
Lost attachments and armour pieces (of all sizes and materials) scatter within the immediate surrounding. Loudly clanging and chiming with a ruckus of lifelike wonder. Before halting in a paralysed fear of reality as their chorus dies down.
The man previously behind the bar. moves around with haste before carefully (yet with an almost greed filled desire) scopes and hoards it from the floor. Places it for a temporary rest over the counter. The main eyes addictively consume each particle and seized every bit of detail of every piece available. Each one with a set of incoherent muttering. His eyes set to an empty stand in the far opposite corner of the bar. Quickly pacing his way over. He rest the clothing onto it. Strapping a broken and cracked helmet to the head; a caved chest-plate of a rusted bronze to the chest. To leather gloves of sizes which dangerously would not cover a single finger of a regularly sized human. Yet each one mysteriously fits onto this body.
The man's eyes steadily move away to the umbra outline. Moving away from his obscure creation of a lifeless initiation of a poorly suited warrior. The man's eyes now resting with a hindered raise of his mouth, which could not ever count as a true smile. His hazel eyes hid within the man's face.
“I was never one to doubt odds. Truly, my life has taught me many things. But possibility was always the most exciting. Even the greatest strengths could falter to a lucky shot. The most intelligent minds could not imagine every scenario in which the human mind conjures to successfully escape anything. Yet I do believe the most important lesson probability has ever taught me, was knowing when something could truly be impossible.” His voice steadily completes.
He continues
“True sometimes probability could give hope to anyone. The single chance to overcome any obstacle. My life has seen these odds happen, while quite rare, my love for this moment stands strong. I truly believed so strongly in the fact that the impossible can always be possible. And I know a part of me still does. Yet, everyone knows the rules. The house always wins. And we have never been the house for anyone to play a fair game.”
The shadow makes no noise nor statement of intent. No self-deliberation to determine the correct path for his actions to take; no hint to even suggest taking notice to anything the stranger spoke. Merely maintaining their stance, before completely turning around to face the man in the centre. The beam of light now overcomes the darkness beneath his hood.
The man's eyes gently open, taking in the full view of the silhouette dressed in leather. From the covering which remained hidden beneath the confines of his hood exposes a bird like beak. A long smooth beak protruding from the outline. The contour shadow beings to be forced back by the joyless beams of light from the single window, which rest slightly above the man's head, being slightly raised on the inclined circle.
“Yet it is also a good thing, that possibilities always do mean there is a correction to something unlikely and impossible. And isn’t that why your here? To turn the impossible possible.” The man finally grinned a skirmish smile of sincerity.