Ymiden 78, 718
He could still see them.
Of course, he had always been able to see them. Ever since he had taken his first life, he had had dreams and visions of those faces at night whenever he lay down to sleep. He had been wracked with guilt and revulsion at first, because the very first life he had taken had belonged to his beloved father. After he had taken on the mantle of Prince of Eternal Mercies, and turned to more violent past-times, however, he had become visited each and every night with the faces of his many victims, all of them swirling about his consciousness like agitated ghouls seeking reparations for the trauma he had inflicted upon them in life.
He had swallowed down so much of the guilt with words of duty, a testament to the devotion that he had given to his ultimate task. He had carried on in the dreadful work that he had engaged in with his cruel minions, and had continued to shed blood in extraordinary quantities. Even the bandits and vile thieves who often hung around the city and preyed upon the innocent had not managed to quell as many lives as the twilight hybrid had in only a pair of arcs, and he could feel the stains of crimson leaking into his hands like a parasitic organism. How could he ever manage to wipe away the stain? How could he ever be free of the blood guilt that wracked across him?
He had shuddered his eyes from the world breaks ago. The night had begun to pass on, and he had listened from the safety of his room, hearing assorted soldiers under his dominion begin to finish up with their assorted goals and desires, the gambling and drinking having long been dispelled by the spell of darkness that fell across the world when the trial grew late. There was only the occasional scuffle of shoes as people went outside of the cavernous establishment to relieve themselves, or to patrol the area, assisting the guardsmen on duty.
The night would have dragged on forever, each of the Avriel’s sins replaying in his mind if he had not decided sometime past midnight to do something about it. He wearily dragged himself from his crude bed, stretching out his back with a crack, and latched the mace he often used to carry out his killing to his side. He could tell that the guards were somewhat surprised to see him exiting the cave, especially at such a late break and without the protection of either security forces or the metallic carapace that he nearly always wore… but he was far too focused to allow such inconveniences to delay him from his goal.
Without a word of report or explanation, he set out from the cave, trekking through the darkness by torchlight until he had finally come to his destination. The home of his beloved was, admittedly, not altogether much better in appearance than his own home, but he didn’t doubt for an instant that it was far less crowded, and far less associated with such brutality as his mind conjured.
He had never been particularly talented at any method of mobile stealth, nor did he really wish to be given the presence of the woman’s beast. If it thought he was sneaking around, it might act with a more malicious action than if it thought he was merely approaching… Storm was its name, wasn’t it?
He whispered the name to the void in an attempt at conjuring the beast into existence so that they could acknowledge one another’s presence, but nothing seemed to come. He sighed dejectedly at the absence, and planted the torch into the ground with a stabbing motion, keeping it out of the vegetation and the mire of the dirt as he approached.
“Nightshade?” He spoke softly to the world, his voice low and wounded, all of the power that he wielded having gone out of him. “Nightshade?” He repeated, listening to the soundless silence of the night and the loneliness it brought.
Of course, he had always been able to see them. Ever since he had taken his first life, he had had dreams and visions of those faces at night whenever he lay down to sleep. He had been wracked with guilt and revulsion at first, because the very first life he had taken had belonged to his beloved father. After he had taken on the mantle of Prince of Eternal Mercies, and turned to more violent past-times, however, he had become visited each and every night with the faces of his many victims, all of them swirling about his consciousness like agitated ghouls seeking reparations for the trauma he had inflicted upon them in life.
He had swallowed down so much of the guilt with words of duty, a testament to the devotion that he had given to his ultimate task. He had carried on in the dreadful work that he had engaged in with his cruel minions, and had continued to shed blood in extraordinary quantities. Even the bandits and vile thieves who often hung around the city and preyed upon the innocent had not managed to quell as many lives as the twilight hybrid had in only a pair of arcs, and he could feel the stains of crimson leaking into his hands like a parasitic organism. How could he ever manage to wipe away the stain? How could he ever be free of the blood guilt that wracked across him?
He had shuddered his eyes from the world breaks ago. The night had begun to pass on, and he had listened from the safety of his room, hearing assorted soldiers under his dominion begin to finish up with their assorted goals and desires, the gambling and drinking having long been dispelled by the spell of darkness that fell across the world when the trial grew late. There was only the occasional scuffle of shoes as people went outside of the cavernous establishment to relieve themselves, or to patrol the area, assisting the guardsmen on duty.
The night would have dragged on forever, each of the Avriel’s sins replaying in his mind if he had not decided sometime past midnight to do something about it. He wearily dragged himself from his crude bed, stretching out his back with a crack, and latched the mace he often used to carry out his killing to his side. He could tell that the guards were somewhat surprised to see him exiting the cave, especially at such a late break and without the protection of either security forces or the metallic carapace that he nearly always wore… but he was far too focused to allow such inconveniences to delay him from his goal.
Without a word of report or explanation, he set out from the cave, trekking through the darkness by torchlight until he had finally come to his destination. The home of his beloved was, admittedly, not altogether much better in appearance than his own home, but he didn’t doubt for an instant that it was far less crowded, and far less associated with such brutality as his mind conjured.
He had never been particularly talented at any method of mobile stealth, nor did he really wish to be given the presence of the woman’s beast. If it thought he was sneaking around, it might act with a more malicious action than if it thought he was merely approaching… Storm was its name, wasn’t it?
He whispered the name to the void in an attempt at conjuring the beast into existence so that they could acknowledge one another’s presence, but nothing seemed to come. He sighed dejectedly at the absence, and planted the torch into the ground with a stabbing motion, keeping it out of the vegetation and the mire of the dirt as he approached.
“Nightshade?” He spoke softly to the world, his voice low and wounded, all of the power that he wielded having gone out of him. “Nightshade?” He repeated, listening to the soundless silence of the night and the loneliness it brought.
