A Threnody to the Lost |open|
Jun 16, 2014 8:49:31 GMT -6
Post by General SigmaButt σ on Jun 16, 2014 8:49:31 GMT -6
[smear:19e652]T H A N E[/smear:cef308:3]
“The measure of an individual can be difficult to discern by actions alone.”The dank scent of wet hearth permeated the atmosphere. Humidity clogged the air, giving the chamber a claustrophobic sensation as breathing grew just a bit more difficult. The faint drip-drip-drip of water droplets falling into the puddles on the ground was the only cadence to be heard beyond the low, ragged intakes of breath from the only living being stalking the nearly pitch room. A heavy moment of silence was exchanged between the bronc and the crypt. No words offered would be a great enough sacrifice to the spirits of the departed.
These catacombs, housing the remains of many long since passed, held a peculiar essence, almost as if they lived. The walls seemed to pulsate with the energy of the forgotten souls and the voices of the deceased seemed to whisper in each corridor, begging for rememberance. But who here would remember the faces of all these creatures? What deems them so worthy of such a history? Their bodies have ceased to function and now lay as nothing but decay in these decrepit ruins. Their souls should have passed on to their next life. But some twisted version of vanity drove a few tainted beings to mourn for their disposable form and screech to the mortals, demand respect for the carcass and their name to be passed from lip to lip. Such perversion of self-worth drove them to their own makeshift Hell where they watched that precious vessel rot and their legacy fade. It wouldn't be long now before he joined the sea of the dead. Whether his own hubris would entrap him or if he was free enough to go on to the next life would only be found out when his heart took its last beat.
The bronc made his way to the end of the catacombs. A chamber, slightly larger than the others, laid before him. The lack of lighting made it difficult to discern the exact layout of the room, but observant oculars picked up the outlines of most of the obstacles. Deft footfalls avoided collision and carried the silver roan brute with unnerving grace. Well-defined muscles, cloaked beneath his dappled flesh, rolled with all the enviable prowess of a panther stalking it's prey; all controlled lethality, neatly sheathed claws, and manicured poise. The only thing off with this oddly elegant czar was the rattling coming from his chest with each inhale and the breathy tremble of each exhale. Visionaries of soft blue-green pierced the darkened room intensely. This place went against his body's needs, but he was unconcerned with that matter. His body was just as expendable as the rest of the corpses littering the underground passages. It was his soul that brought him here. The trek in had not been merciful. The small scratches littering his flesh were just testaments to that fact. His heavy breathing only further accentuated the point.
It was not that he was out of shape and the trip wore him down. Oh, no, not by any means! Thane was at peak physical condition. As far as he could be, anyway. It was the stagnant, moist atmosphere here that worked against his diseased lungs that caused him to take in deep, ragged breaths. As days faded by, he found himself growing less and less capable of breathing properly. Taking in such muggy oxygen only exacerbated his condition. Even now, with each breath, he could feel the build up in his lungs and a tickle in his throat. At times, it gotten bad enough that he would hack and hack until blood sprayed from his lips and still he would cough, trying to get rid of the sensation but never quite succeeding. For now, he held back the urge to clear his throat and cough up his lungs, as he felt it would be rather rude to do so in such a sacred place.
He stood before the back wall. In front of him lay an ornate tomb; weathered with time and atmosphere. It was not an ideal place to pray, but it would suffice for now. Truthfully, he could pray anywhere as no temple built, not even the grandest monolith, could stand in for the verity of ones whispered pleas. But, he felt more connected to the celestial plane surrounded by the spirits of the deceased. For once, none of these ghosts gathered here were made by his actions. Today, he came to atone. It was an odd action for his people, as a higher belief left them free from guilt of what their body had done. But his infallible memory wouldn't let him rest without replaying all the lives he took. Even if it was only his body that did the action and not his soul, he still felt the weight of remorse pressing down on his very essence.
Lithely, he dropped to his knees and bent his skull earthward. Seafoam lanterns slid shut. The only sound he picked up was his own laborous breathing and the pitter-patter of water falling. He calmed his body and his mind. Resting his ethereal essence would follow after reaching serenity with his physical form. In this state, Thane could practically feel the divine energy of Kalahira presiding over the crypt. Finally, velvets parted and words saturated the stagnant air. His voice was thick and rasped heavily with illness. [smear:19e68c]"Kalahira. Goddess of the Ocean and Afterlife. Grant me not absolution for the lives taken nor the wrongs done. Stay not your hand from my throat when the time comes. I have come to confess my penitence over the pain caused by this body. I pray, not for forgiveness, but for purpose. My soul feels dissonance with this body. Lead me to the path before illness overcomes this form. And should I not complete the task given to me, then cast me down until it is done."[/smear:cef308:1]
As the words faded from his lips, he let the silence settle in. For a moment, he stayed on bended knee. The echoes of his past rang true in his audits as if it were all happening again. Flashes of faces, now all deceased, danced across his vision in a mockery to his prayer. This incongruity between his flesh and his spirit had unease creeping into his nerves. A heavy, shaky sigh passed his lips at having his moment of peace and reflection shattered by his ghosts. With ease, he rose to his full stance and turned toward the exit. The damp environment of the catacombs was doing nothing well for him and his audience with Kalahira had drawn to a close. Nothing left for him in these ruins but the demons of his own memories.
