Emillion NPCs (emillionnpcs) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-08 21:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !narrative |
You're gonna lose it all and find yourself on your knees....
Who: A cloaked figure.
What: Running from earth and stone.
Where: Outskits, to outlands of Emillion.
When: Tonight.
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
There has to be a cure. A way to control it. A way to… The earth rumbles. No, no, this can’t be it, this can’t be how things go, this can’t be… Tremors begin shaking out from under the person’s feet. Silence, and then the whispers of a hundred souls, the feeling of power overwhelming. Words. There are words, commanding, taunting, teasing, threatening. The cloaked figure draws the edges of their covering up closer, perhaps if it is pulled close enough around their form, if it is tight enough, it will suffocate out these thoughts, these soul crushing press of feelings, and urges. The urges are the hardest part. To give in, to collapse under the weight of it, to allow all pain, sorrow, struggle, challenge, and more be sweapt up and away in the rush of thrill, of the power, the comfort of thoughtlessness, the relief of burdens being lifted from shoulders from... There has to be a cure. The others have been able to control it for so long, longer, why can’t. And another tremor ripples out. No. The only thing that can be done, the only thing that will help dissuade the thoughts, the feelings, the voices, the whispers, the pressure, the power welling up inside is to release it, to let it out, to… The city. The city will be in danger. The city will suffer. More space must be put between the traveler, and Emilion. That is the only way to assure that something like before does not happen again, does not leave holes in the ground that could swallow an army of men and women, to assure that no hume or animal is hurt, to assure… A tremor through the figure’s own body, rippling up through bone, mucsle and skin pulls through them, causing the faintest outcry, the briefest lapse of control, causing the person’s footing to stagger, their pace - fleeing towards the outlands - to slow. No, no, this cannot happen here, this cannot be allowed within such close range of damaged city walls. Emillion has seen too much suffering, too much sorrow. Another blight needs not to be brought upon them. The person stumbles, tripping to their knees and frantically trying to keep moving, to push up as they trip forward and scamper on, to make it further out, to get away from not only the harm they can cause others, but their own struggles, their own burdens. While dreams of earth collapsing around them, leaving them on a pedestal of dirt and rock in dreams is horrifying, it is also transcending in the fantasy world of sleep. The place where the beast speaks in words that can be understood instead of thrown emotions, and bursts of feelings. ‘Would you like to be placed upon a pedestal?’ “No.” The voice is but a hushed gasp, the sides of the hooded cloak grasped so tightly together that knuckles have begun to go white. ‘It is where you belong. Adored. Loved.’ “No!” Another gasped response as the person stumbles forward, almost crashing to the ground, but barely catching their balance at the last second so that they may continue to run. Because, in the end, there is no winning against this monster, this beast trapped inside a skull. There is only fighting against it or… Another trip and the ground hits hard against hands and knees, vision blurs, beginning to fade to black with a heart wrenching whimper as wet earth is felt beginning to rise by both body and soul… Giving in. “No.” |