Sevrel’s eyes grew dim and cold; he was now steadier than before. With his complications snuffed out, he walked up a stairwell directly in front of the door and proceeded inside a cramped room facing the road. Within the room was broken and rotted furniture strewn about. At the centre was a table with flimsy boxes circling around it, there were scraps of decaying food and burnt cigarettes littered across it. Sevrel walked towards a sofa adjacent to a large open window. He picked up the sofa a threw it on its back, revealing a loose pallet nailed to the bottom. Picking up a small dagger from his waist, he plied the pallet loose revealing a long barrelled rife. Sevrel placed it within his hands, feeling the wear of the weapon, checking whether it was ready to be fired. He readied the weapon, up to the window ledge, facing out.
Sevrel had plenty of experience with such weapons. There were more powerful weapons than this one, but they were strictly controlled for select military groups, and were no longer manufactured due to limited demand and supply already existing. While this weapon, a Jantlof Type 2 bolt rife, was controlled, it was easier to get hold of due to its continued, yet limited, manufacturing for supplying Imperial Guard units throughout the continent. Such weapons were invented thousands of years ago, but due to limited creation, and strict methods of controlling creation, they were becoming rarer as time went on. The weapon that Sevrel held was likely created hundreds of years ago, but likely maintained by previous users, as was the terms of use. Sevrel had to have experience with weapons like these, as Culler was more familiar with close and personal combat.
Peering down the sights he looked across the street, peeking into a small window. Where stood the disgustingly pleasant sight of a desirous and fire figure. He was familiar with her, her jests and flirts had continuously shook him, for his urges wiled for her, but left a sickening feeling inwards whenever such urges were present. Her back was towards the window, a sign that she was ready for their snare. The sickening feeling bubbled within his gut as he continued to watch the window; an unrelenting heat that boiled from within.
He slowly shut his eyes, in order to restore the frigidity of his sight. Continuing to aim the rife, he felt the shivering trigger, he looked directly at her. A bead of sweat swept down his cold forehead, as he continued to look directly at the girl. His finger moved closer to the trigger as he continued to look directly at the woman. His finger shook with repulsion to his beating heart. Struggling not to avert his bulging gaze from her beautiful figure encompassing the window. He fiercely inhaled.
The girl moved, sending a shock through his hands, making his fingers gently wrap the trigger. He watched the window opened up to reveal a tall yet bulging man. The woman gently took the man’s hand and brought him over to stand directly in front of the window. From where Sevrel was, he could make out the devious grin on the man’s face. A flush of repulsion and envy sprung jolted throughout his cold body like a fever. He rapidly repositioned the rife, aiming it lower down, towards the mans crotch. With glorified disgust he pulled heavily on the trigger.
A rupture flew throughout the room, shocking Sevrel out of his revolting and jealous masculinity. The heat within his body subsided leaving only cold shame. He pulled back on the bolt, rechambering another round. He once again looked down the sights, to see the window smashed and the man he held in contempt against the back wall writhing in pain. The sly grin, wiped off his face and replaced with agonising distraught, distraught brought by the hand of Sevrel’s contemptuous heat. Sevrel placed his now brittle finger over the trigger and aimed directly for the mans chest, like attempting for a sense of redemption from both the agoniser and agonised.
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Another bullet flew loose, sending another deafening explosion through the stale air. Watching it soar, he watched it drill into the man’s chest, shock evident in his eyes. Like a drought after a flood, his body slumped down, devoid of the energy to sustain his movement. The rifle fell from his hands and clattered against the floorboard.
Pulling himself up, he walked over to the table, dragging the rifle with him, and flung himself onto one of the boxes. From one of the pockets he pulled out a carton and a matchbox. Opening the carton he clumsily placed a cigarette in his mouth and then struggled to light a match before bringing it up to the cigarette. Inhaling deep. Deep. Deeper. He exhaled. Once more he brought the cigarette to his mouth and pulled hard. Inhaling the burning smoke, something to flush away the disgusting heat that had built up within him. The shadowed lines were beginning to reappear now, however the Kreshkar within the cigarette were repelling them along with the heat.
Shame. Sevrel felt a complete and utter shame. He had steeled himself for his job, but when It came down to it he had become overcome with emotion, resulting in him causing unnecessary damage, something which could complicate their discretion in this matter. While Sevrel despised the indecision the cold shadows gifted him, the uncontrollable masculine burn of that virile heat made him even more uncomfortable. As he grew into adulthood, he experienced those male urges differently from those around him, for the lust that entered his gaze also brought a repulsion from the depths of his soul. He was being burnt by a torrent of lust that swirled within him nervously. Sevrel always felt sick whenever confronted with his ‘natural urges’. A cigarette had always been an a remedy for it allowed him to toe the line between the feral heat and the bitter cold.
Keeping the cigarette in his mouth, he stabilised his hands. Placing the rifle on his lap, Sevrel proceeded to quickly disassemble the gun into its core pieces, and then placed those in different pockets on the inside of his coat. Standing up, he put out his cigarette on the table and walked out of the room.
Once exiting the house, Sevrel proceeded south down the street, away from where he first came in, towards the riverbank. He walked towards the riverbank, crossing westwards all the while heading away from the residential and bureaucratic sections of the city, and towards older Mines District. Along the way, he dropped the different sections of the rife into various storm drains, each one connected to a different section of sewers. Finally, once he reached the river, walked further westwards along the promenade, until he reached a set of stairs which directed him down towards a small section of shore, located under a bridge. It was there where he threw the last, largest sections of the rifle into the river, losing the weapon forever. A rarity of a weapon would be missed, but most of its previous owners are not alive to miss it.
Gazing at the river rushing past him, Sevrel attempted to ignore the shadowy paths reaching out towards him. Throughout the time he was plagued with these, he had always attempted to look forwards, to ignore them all. But the hands continually clawed at the edges of his eyes, unignorable, always there mocking him. He looked down at his feet, watched himself kick the pebbles on the shore into the rushing river. Despair at his situation had overwhelmed him, to a point where he endured idly. There is nothing that he could do, and so the best he could do was to keep steady. His job, his heat, his cold, his shadow. They all culminated in a singular despairing point of fear at what awaited him. He feared the future, yet he awaited it with a brittle heart.