Elen Galad
New Member
His head was swimming. Moats of black swirled at the edge of his vision. He was assaulted by the sound of gunfire. The pounding of blood in his ears. The smell of smoke, blood, burned dirt and flesh.
The pain was nothing. He and pain were not old friends. They were rivals, locked in bitter hatred. The pain was there, just as it always was, but it occupied it's usual dark, cobwebed corner in the back of his mind. He used to hate pain. He still did, but at this point he couldn't care about it anymore. His huge body was a tapestry of pain, a histroy told in scars and written in rivers of blood.
That same blood that now leaked from his many wounds and missing leg.
When the woman came up with a new rifle, his mind didn't register it. He was still thinking. Pontificating even. All the histories and lifetimes he had lived, would still live. None of them knew. None of them understood. They fought for any number of reasons, the stupidest of them being either power, or immortality. Well, he had both of those things. The power came and went. It was a novelty. The immortality however, was a curse. The constant pain, the lonelyness. The jaded cynicism. The fatalistic inability to care, or worry. And the fighting. The constant, brutal, unrelenting violence. His was a world of brutality and hate. And in it, he who wore the iron crown was doomed to suffer worst of all.
His body moved in it's own. Even crippled and broken, the instinct to survive, to damage, to cause pain to the enemy were so embeded in his essence that he had no choice. He was certain that even if his brain died, what synapses his body had left would be attacks. He shoved himself back, sliding on the dirt and grass as she fired. The big antimatter rounds blew craters and scattered turf in bursts. He felt the sting as one landed close, nearly taking his hand off. Just the force from the shot alone broke two fingers. He slid over the edge of a rise and fell into a depression. The landing was heavy and unpleasant. He coughed, blood staining his teeth. He hung his head, sweat dripping off his face and hair, bloody drool dangling from his mouth and nose.
What had he told the last one?
"If someone is trying to kill you, make it such a horrific ordeal that even after you breath your last, the memory will haunt their dreams the rest of their days."
Pretty words. Tought talk from a bitter, angry old man. But true to himself. If he was going to die, or be beaten, then it made sense to make it as hard as possible to do so.
When he rose, balacing on his severed knee, his eyes had changed. They were no longer icey blue. They were now as grey and cold as tempered steel.
His expression was blank, lifeless, and devoid of any humanity. He fired the round he had reloaded after falling from the edge, aiming for her position. Once they were fired, he scrambled back up the rise, using his arms and intact leg to frog leap across the distance, heading for the treeline.
The pain was nothing. He and pain were not old friends. They were rivals, locked in bitter hatred. The pain was there, just as it always was, but it occupied it's usual dark, cobwebed corner in the back of his mind. He used to hate pain. He still did, but at this point he couldn't care about it anymore. His huge body was a tapestry of pain, a histroy told in scars and written in rivers of blood.
That same blood that now leaked from his many wounds and missing leg.
When the woman came up with a new rifle, his mind didn't register it. He was still thinking. Pontificating even. All the histories and lifetimes he had lived, would still live. None of them knew. None of them understood. They fought for any number of reasons, the stupidest of them being either power, or immortality. Well, he had both of those things. The power came and went. It was a novelty. The immortality however, was a curse. The constant pain, the lonelyness. The jaded cynicism. The fatalistic inability to care, or worry. And the fighting. The constant, brutal, unrelenting violence. His was a world of brutality and hate. And in it, he who wore the iron crown was doomed to suffer worst of all.
His body moved in it's own. Even crippled and broken, the instinct to survive, to damage, to cause pain to the enemy were so embeded in his essence that he had no choice. He was certain that even if his brain died, what synapses his body had left would be attacks. He shoved himself back, sliding on the dirt and grass as she fired. The big antimatter rounds blew craters and scattered turf in bursts. He felt the sting as one landed close, nearly taking his hand off. Just the force from the shot alone broke two fingers. He slid over the edge of a rise and fell into a depression. The landing was heavy and unpleasant. He coughed, blood staining his teeth. He hung his head, sweat dripping off his face and hair, bloody drool dangling from his mouth and nose.
What had he told the last one?
"If someone is trying to kill you, make it such a horrific ordeal that even after you breath your last, the memory will haunt their dreams the rest of their days."
Pretty words. Tought talk from a bitter, angry old man. But true to himself. If he was going to die, or be beaten, then it made sense to make it as hard as possible to do so.
When he rose, balacing on his severed knee, his eyes had changed. They were no longer icey blue. They were now as grey and cold as tempered steel.
His expression was blank, lifeless, and devoid of any humanity. He fired the round he had reloaded after falling from the edge, aiming for her position. Once they were fired, he scrambled back up the rise, using his arms and intact leg to frog leap across the distance, heading for the treeline.
