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Thresh mumbled a curse as for, perhaps the seventh or eighth time today, she reached for her bangs with her left hand. The sensation almost haunting as she could swear there were fingers there, outstretched. The familiarity of the action, right down to her mind even translating the feeling of every strand of her hair, running down a illusory forearm and to a shoulder that shouldn't ache so much, and that same electrical feel filled her with revulsion, as it went straight to her stomach. The anxiety of it returning as the lump beneath a sheet of cloth went still and the elf stopped trying to accomplish the impossible.
Such a mundane thing had been taken from her. The frustration enough to cause her forehead to thrum with pain, as she murmured to herself.
'Let it go. Already. Let it. Go.'
The whisper hardly alleviated the pain surging from her shoulder down, but stroking away the bangs from her eyes with the right hand did much to undo the knot in her stomach. Reassured she'd not been turned into a absolutely worthless lump.
'It's just. One arm. Just one.'
Now this fact was a little better. A little less aggravation in her brow, a coming sigh of acceptance. That was the truly disgusting part of her entire exercise, and she felt it damage her pride once more as she went for a hair-brush. Staring into her mirror at the inn, still hosting a crack running down its face from a fight with her own ego. The casualties clear as day as petite fist and kick marks, and a destroyed pillow from a sleepless night screaming.
Now? All had to be calm. It was getting easier, publicly, to pretend everything was fine. They had to believe so, she couldn't take the crying anymore. Everyone blaming themselves. Everyone suddenly treating her, all at once, as a cripple. A shell of a woman that they once knew, but now for lack of an arm, seemed to forget just who she was.
In privacy. She cried, and she beat the wood flooring. She had littered the thing hanging off of her side with several cuts, wishing to do away with the rest of it right to the shoulder. To end the illusions it was ever going to come back. But how could she show anyone that side of her?
It felt of vanity. She felt shallow, trying not to pay it anymore attention then she would if the limb -did- exist. But it was odd how negative space could be more real then if something was there. Yanking at her robing awkwardly to strip down to the skin, and holding herself as she stared into the mirror.
'It may be. Shallow, but I'll. Never be. Hollow.'
A pained smile took her lips as she stripped the bandages off of her left limb, and begin to rebind it freshly. The small cuts were barely noticeable now, the brief relapse to self-harm had brought a cathartic dawn onto her. It was taking its time to sink in. Or maybe, she was expecting too much of herself too quickly, only enough days to count on her one hand to try and overcome this difficulty. Cinching off her new bandages by teeth and right hand, as the scents of menthol and herbs working into the skin brought a relieved breath, a simple ointment to help ease the constantly twitching, on-fire nerve endings. Amputation would've been far more kind then what she went through. Sitting on the foot of her bed, and glancing to her experiments that still awaited her return to life at the vanity.
She drifted her eyes shut, and spread her remaining arms out as wings. Falling the rest of the distance to collide into the bed and stare at the ceiling, in a sea of black hair and distant yellow eyes, popping open to reflect the night. How sharp and clear everything was, up until that single moment where everything went completely, and utterly blank.
A tide of orcs coming down a hill. Her friends, steeled the best they could. Platoons of Helmites, all behind them, all awaiting to converge, and... did none of them see what Thresh had seen?
Or were they just that dismissive of danger? Was she a coward? Did she really do the right thing? All she could see was death, casualties. Insurmountable odds. At best? Their front-line <i>might</i> break, and be pushed back to the gate. They'd still be walking over dead bodies every step of the way, young Helmite and orc alike. Every step of the way, would be the uncomfortable shifting of viscera under their boots, fighting a battle up-hill. The red-orc, their chieftain, would be long gone before they ever broke inside of the keep.
At worst. The horde would meet them, at the foot of the hill, and crash like a tidal wave. And spill over them, without even stopping to wipe their boots clean for the trouble. And they'd all just die, beneath a superior force. Even Sundren's greatest warriors could fall to this tide. Just endless limbs, axes, and screaming faces...
Thresh bat her eyes open, refocusing on the ceiling of the inn. Her breath hitched, remembering that feeling that she'd done something wrong and terrible. Her one hand reaching to stroke a bandaged reminder of how small, and fragile she was. More then any vampire's teeth or blade could do, this was her gift for taking action.
The first time she'd ever felt the ley-lines force around her had been the happiest day of her life. Understanding, that she was like she always suspected. Part of something so much bigger then herself, so wonderful and beautiful. As the cascade of warriors rained down for them, she reached out to that beauty, and sense of belonging once more. Grasped it. And begged it to carry her.
And it did. The portal was so beautiful to her, she could cry under different circumstance. Just weep, at how she was part of the weave. But there was not time for tears, as River and Byrun led the charge through the glowing, shifting portal. How Zan and Castelyn had exchanged surprised looks, and made to leap through, bravely. How Tyranus how nearly rolled head over heels through still grinning for blood.
And then helmites. And then herself. Still struck with awe, and that single moment of pain. Was the only thing real as they came through the other side.
She could recall fragments at this point, everything was disjointed. There was the chieftain's face, focused wholly on them. Wide-eyed and surprised, like a neanderthal witnessing the power of lighting striking beside him. There was a smell. Burnt copper and flesh. As bone, muscle and blood disintegrated into fine dust. And then there was pain, and white. So much pain, she couldn't see.
There was the ground. She'd fallen right onto her back, and while her pack had taken most of the force, she'd known her head had collided with the stone. Her fingers wrapped helplessly around her twitching, enfeebled limb before another off-set of white. The ringing in her ears nearly drowned the sounds of combat out, and the taste of bile hit her tongue as she entered shock. Everything was white. And silent. Even though she was screaming, and wide-eyed, it was all so... distant.
Another brief spurt of consciousness. She's crying, and screaming for help. There's Castelyn's face, staring at her and his crossbow braced across a lean-to to aim into combat. He's saying something, but she can't make it out. Just his lips motioning that it'd all be okay.
Her vision collapses again, as the muscles in her neck clench and she balls up on the ground. She noticed the vomit across his boots, and she began to apologize like a child to him, never once eluding why she was apologizing. And then, she was apologizing to the gods, and to the ley. To Avara, and to her elders.
The world slowly shifts to a blurry, dazed outline as she's moved. It's Byrun, she can tell from his smell but nothing else. His face is a indistinct mass of blurred edges, and all of his armor only adds to the pain in her abused, tired body. She'd urinated herself. He didn't seem to notice, or perhaps he understood, but she could smell it. Feel the off sensation in her robes. It made her cry even further. It was the most humiliating, and painful experience of her entire life.
((Part 1 continued next post.))
Such a mundane thing had been taken from her. The frustration enough to cause her forehead to thrum with pain, as she murmured to herself.
'Let it go. Already. Let it. Go.'
The whisper hardly alleviated the pain surging from her shoulder down, but stroking away the bangs from her eyes with the right hand did much to undo the knot in her stomach. Reassured she'd not been turned into a absolutely worthless lump.
'It's just. One arm. Just one.'
Now this fact was a little better. A little less aggravation in her brow, a coming sigh of acceptance. That was the truly disgusting part of her entire exercise, and she felt it damage her pride once more as she went for a hair-brush. Staring into her mirror at the inn, still hosting a crack running down its face from a fight with her own ego. The casualties clear as day as petite fist and kick marks, and a destroyed pillow from a sleepless night screaming.
Now? All had to be calm. It was getting easier, publicly, to pretend everything was fine. They had to believe so, she couldn't take the crying anymore. Everyone blaming themselves. Everyone suddenly treating her, all at once, as a cripple. A shell of a woman that they once knew, but now for lack of an arm, seemed to forget just who she was.
In privacy. She cried, and she beat the wood flooring. She had littered the thing hanging off of her side with several cuts, wishing to do away with the rest of it right to the shoulder. To end the illusions it was ever going to come back. But how could she show anyone that side of her?
It felt of vanity. She felt shallow, trying not to pay it anymore attention then she would if the limb -did- exist. But it was odd how negative space could be more real then if something was there. Yanking at her robing awkwardly to strip down to the skin, and holding herself as she stared into the mirror.
'It may be. Shallow, but I'll. Never be. Hollow.'
A pained smile took her lips as she stripped the bandages off of her left limb, and begin to rebind it freshly. The small cuts were barely noticeable now, the brief relapse to self-harm had brought a cathartic dawn onto her. It was taking its time to sink in. Or maybe, she was expecting too much of herself too quickly, only enough days to count on her one hand to try and overcome this difficulty. Cinching off her new bandages by teeth and right hand, as the scents of menthol and herbs working into the skin brought a relieved breath, a simple ointment to help ease the constantly twitching, on-fire nerve endings. Amputation would've been far more kind then what she went through. Sitting on the foot of her bed, and glancing to her experiments that still awaited her return to life at the vanity.
She drifted her eyes shut, and spread her remaining arms out as wings. Falling the rest of the distance to collide into the bed and stare at the ceiling, in a sea of black hair and distant yellow eyes, popping open to reflect the night. How sharp and clear everything was, up until that single moment where everything went completely, and utterly blank.
A tide of orcs coming down a hill. Her friends, steeled the best they could. Platoons of Helmites, all behind them, all awaiting to converge, and... did none of them see what Thresh had seen?
Or were they just that dismissive of danger? Was she a coward? Did she really do the right thing? All she could see was death, casualties. Insurmountable odds. At best? Their front-line <i>might</i> break, and be pushed back to the gate. They'd still be walking over dead bodies every step of the way, young Helmite and orc alike. Every step of the way, would be the uncomfortable shifting of viscera under their boots, fighting a battle up-hill. The red-orc, their chieftain, would be long gone before they ever broke inside of the keep.
At worst. The horde would meet them, at the foot of the hill, and crash like a tidal wave. And spill over them, without even stopping to wipe their boots clean for the trouble. And they'd all just die, beneath a superior force. Even Sundren's greatest warriors could fall to this tide. Just endless limbs, axes, and screaming faces...
Thresh bat her eyes open, refocusing on the ceiling of the inn. Her breath hitched, remembering that feeling that she'd done something wrong and terrible. Her one hand reaching to stroke a bandaged reminder of how small, and fragile she was. More then any vampire's teeth or blade could do, this was her gift for taking action.
The first time she'd ever felt the ley-lines force around her had been the happiest day of her life. Understanding, that she was like she always suspected. Part of something so much bigger then herself, so wonderful and beautiful. As the cascade of warriors rained down for them, she reached out to that beauty, and sense of belonging once more. Grasped it. And begged it to carry her.
And it did. The portal was so beautiful to her, she could cry under different circumstance. Just weep, at how she was part of the weave. But there was not time for tears, as River and Byrun led the charge through the glowing, shifting portal. How Zan and Castelyn had exchanged surprised looks, and made to leap through, bravely. How Tyranus how nearly rolled head over heels through still grinning for blood.
And then helmites. And then herself. Still struck with awe, and that single moment of pain. Was the only thing real as they came through the other side.
She could recall fragments at this point, everything was disjointed. There was the chieftain's face, focused wholly on them. Wide-eyed and surprised, like a neanderthal witnessing the power of lighting striking beside him. There was a smell. Burnt copper and flesh. As bone, muscle and blood disintegrated into fine dust. And then there was pain, and white. So much pain, she couldn't see.
There was the ground. She'd fallen right onto her back, and while her pack had taken most of the force, she'd known her head had collided with the stone. Her fingers wrapped helplessly around her twitching, enfeebled limb before another off-set of white. The ringing in her ears nearly drowned the sounds of combat out, and the taste of bile hit her tongue as she entered shock. Everything was white. And silent. Even though she was screaming, and wide-eyed, it was all so... distant.
Another brief spurt of consciousness. She's crying, and screaming for help. There's Castelyn's face, staring at her and his crossbow braced across a lean-to to aim into combat. He's saying something, but she can't make it out. Just his lips motioning that it'd all be okay.
Her vision collapses again, as the muscles in her neck clench and she balls up on the ground. She noticed the vomit across his boots, and she began to apologize like a child to him, never once eluding why she was apologizing. And then, she was apologizing to the gods, and to the ley. To Avara, and to her elders.
The world slowly shifts to a blurry, dazed outline as she's moved. It's Byrun, she can tell from his smell but nothing else. His face is a indistinct mass of blurred edges, and all of his armor only adds to the pain in her abused, tired body. She'd urinated herself. He didn't seem to notice, or perhaps he understood, but she could smell it. Feel the off sensation in her robes. It made her cry even further. It was the most humiliating, and painful experience of her entire life.
((Part 1 continued next post.))
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