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[The Hunter | Aryn]
- Thread starter Lannis
- Start date
Lannis
You've yeed your last haw
Staff member
Admin
Events Staff
In-Game Tech Staff
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Shadow Owner
Added Uriel
BoredBrit
Bored Brit
BoredBritishGuy
Legend
You are safe. For now.
AbsentUser
Hero
Weapons in the relations section? I love it.
Lannis
You've yeed your last haw
Staff member
Admin
Events Staff
In-Game Tech Staff
Lore Staff
Server Outreach
Server Owner
Shadow Owner
Vignette time:
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The face he sees is familiar, but it is not his own. It has not been for some time.
He does not remember when this change occurred; another oddity, for he has not forgotten anything for the past two decades. Regardless, it is so. It is familiar to him, but it is wrong. He finds it hard to pinpoint exactly why, for it is exactly how he remembers it looking. It is an exactly correct depiction of how he should look. But it is not his face.
For one, it does not have enough eyes, and half of those present are not his own. His real eye is long gone, and something else was grown in its place. It functions exactly as his eye should, but it is not his eye. It is beneath scars that should not have healed as they did. He does not know if his nose is still his own; it smells more than it should. He wonders the same of his mouth for the same reason.
He feels his pulse rise, but it too is driven by a heart that is not his. His heart was ruined by a titan long ago, and his death refused again and again and again as the same titan replaced it. It beats beneath ribs that are not his own, for his ribs do not heal in a day after being shattered. It beats beneath skin that is not his own, for his skin can't turn a blade. He remembers each moment of it all in memories curated by something that is not him, for his mind could not trap them so.
He feels an urge to scream follow his rising pulse, the primal cry of an animal trapped in an absence that it does not comprehend. He kills it before it takes breath. It is too close to fear, and fear is too close to regret, and regret can not be countenanced. There is no point to regret; too many choices have been made, and there is no time now for useless things. There is only to live with them, to endure, to bear it through as he has since the first time he took up a blade. Briefly, he wonders what was trying to scream, but he finds no apparent answer and so files it away as another novelty.
He regards himself again. Everything is correct, but it is still wrong. It is a mask of what he should look like, but it is not him. It does not have enough eyes.
He does not remember when this change occurred; another oddity, for he has not forgotten anything for the past two decades. Regardless, it is so. It is familiar to him, but it is wrong. He finds it hard to pinpoint exactly why, for it is exactly how he remembers it looking. It is an exactly correct depiction of how he should look. But it is not his face.
For one, it does not have enough eyes, and half of those present are not his own. His real eye is long gone, and something else was grown in its place. It functions exactly as his eye should, but it is not his eye. It is beneath scars that should not have healed as they did. He does not know if his nose is still his own; it smells more than it should. He wonders the same of his mouth for the same reason.
He feels his pulse rise, but it too is driven by a heart that is not his. His heart was ruined by a titan long ago, and his death refused again and again and again as the same titan replaced it. It beats beneath ribs that are not his own, for his ribs do not heal in a day after being shattered. It beats beneath skin that is not his own, for his skin can't turn a blade. He remembers each moment of it all in memories curated by something that is not him, for his mind could not trap them so.
He feels an urge to scream follow his rising pulse, the primal cry of an animal trapped in an absence that it does not comprehend. He kills it before it takes breath. It is too close to fear, and fear is too close to regret, and regret can not be countenanced. There is no point to regret; too many choices have been made, and there is no time now for useless things. There is only to live with them, to endure, to bear it through as he has since the first time he took up a blade. Briefly, he wonders what was trying to scream, but he finds no apparent answer and so files it away as another novelty.
He regards himself again. Everything is correct, but it is still wrong. It is a mask of what he should look like, but it is not him. It does not have enough eyes.