10-22-2016, 10:43 PM
The anger from her companion was palpable, the hunger to cut him down something he could almost taste. The moment seemed to stretch, time seemed to slow. Armande swallowed, felt the bead of sweat slowly dribble from his temple down his cheek. His fingers flexed on his hilt, his eyes focused out and in, drawn to the girl, then pulling back to use his peripherals to see her companions, to fix their positions in his mind, readying himself. His single breath seemed to take hours.
His focus again drew to the girl, her face shadowed in the light, the tilt of her head inquisitive. A snap of her hands and another moved to bring her a fallen torch that burned blue fire, adding new dancing shadows.
The blue fire reflected in her eyes as she drew closer, danced over the silvery greenish azure of her eyes. But what he was there was questioning. Searching. Hunger.
She stepped closer, the light from her lantern filling his eyes. Part of him wanted to draw back, to keep the low-light vision he had. He readied himself for a stealth attack, a knife to the ribs, despite the lightweight armor he wore.
Her silver eyes widened in shock and she dropped to her knees, declaiming words he both understood and did not comprehend. He felt stunned and then the feel of her hands around his ankles, gripping tightly as she bent herself double. He immediately held his sword at the ready for the rush of the others.
They stood still, frozen, as if in shock at her actions. And then she said a name that electrified him. "Rasputin."
He knew the name. Of course he did. What educated person didn't. Even more, he knew the true histories. The stories. The legends. His eyes narrowed. Until now, they were discounted by most as legends. Or the work of a man more mad than sane, no matter his ability.
Could this...? No. The feel of her hands around his ankles were like weights holding on to him, gripping him as if stone, iron bands. He felt rooted in the floor and only wanted to run away from whatever this was.
And yet....and yet...his heart was now racing, the same powerful thunder, the same gallop from the dream, the taste of....something, the memory of something unknowable behind his mind. More than his desire to leave, his determination to get away from whatever he faced for reasons that he was unable to discern even in himself, deeper than all of that was the hunger that was the core of his existence.
Hunger. And the desire to control. To see the uncertainty flee before him, burned to nothingness in the fire of his eyes. Beyond any fear, any desire, there was this one thing, the driving purpose of his soul.
To bring order to the chaos. To banish and and destroy and eliminate the unknowable. And to do that, he needed every tool at his disposal.
He looked down at the girl, the mass of dark hair both braided and loose a halo around her head and neck, looked over the others now on their knees. And felt the galloping of horses, the snort and sinewy muscle taut beneath his legs...he felt life and power course through him, from his forehead to his groin to his toes, felt taught with possibility and potential.
And he felt alive. He felt fire and energy fill him. "Rise. I am Armande Nicodemus. The Regus of the Atharim. The Vicar of Iscariot." Words, he knew, that would mean nothing to them. But they were who he was. Who he had always been.
And now....now what? Now what did he ask? What did he do? Where did he begin? He cast about, seeking inspiration in the void, searching the histories, the myths for something appropriate. He quested into the nothingness...and the darkness seemed to respond, a memory drifted forward, offering itself in obeisance.
A smile. Armande Nicodemus himself smiled, his first smile since Lissandra- a terrifying smile. "I am home."
Edited by Regus, Oct 23 2016, 02:07 AM.
His focus again drew to the girl, her face shadowed in the light, the tilt of her head inquisitive. A snap of her hands and another moved to bring her a fallen torch that burned blue fire, adding new dancing shadows.
The blue fire reflected in her eyes as she drew closer, danced over the silvery greenish azure of her eyes. But what he was there was questioning. Searching. Hunger.
She stepped closer, the light from her lantern filling his eyes. Part of him wanted to draw back, to keep the low-light vision he had. He readied himself for a stealth attack, a knife to the ribs, despite the lightweight armor he wore.
Her silver eyes widened in shock and she dropped to her knees, declaiming words he both understood and did not comprehend. He felt stunned and then the feel of her hands around his ankles, gripping tightly as she bent herself double. He immediately held his sword at the ready for the rush of the others.
They stood still, frozen, as if in shock at her actions. And then she said a name that electrified him. "Rasputin."
He knew the name. Of course he did. What educated person didn't. Even more, he knew the true histories. The stories. The legends. His eyes narrowed. Until now, they were discounted by most as legends. Or the work of a man more mad than sane, no matter his ability.
Could this...? No. The feel of her hands around his ankles were like weights holding on to him, gripping him as if stone, iron bands. He felt rooted in the floor and only wanted to run away from whatever this was.
And yet....and yet...his heart was now racing, the same powerful thunder, the same gallop from the dream, the taste of....something, the memory of something unknowable behind his mind. More than his desire to leave, his determination to get away from whatever he faced for reasons that he was unable to discern even in himself, deeper than all of that was the hunger that was the core of his existence.
Hunger. And the desire to control. To see the uncertainty flee before him, burned to nothingness in the fire of his eyes. Beyond any fear, any desire, there was this one thing, the driving purpose of his soul.
To bring order to the chaos. To banish and and destroy and eliminate the unknowable. And to do that, he needed every tool at his disposal.
He looked down at the girl, the mass of dark hair both braided and loose a halo around her head and neck, looked over the others now on their knees. And felt the galloping of horses, the snort and sinewy muscle taut beneath his legs...he felt life and power course through him, from his forehead to his groin to his toes, felt taught with possibility and potential.
And he felt alive. He felt fire and energy fill him. "Rise. I am Armande Nicodemus. The Regus of the Atharim. The Vicar of Iscariot." Words, he knew, that would mean nothing to them. But they were who he was. Who he had always been.
And now....now what? Now what did he ask? What did he do? Where did he begin? He cast about, seeking inspiration in the void, searching the histories, the myths for something appropriate. He quested into the nothingness...and the darkness seemed to respond, a memory drifted forward, offering itself in obeisance.
A smile. Armande Nicodemus himself smiled, his first smile since Lissandra- a terrifying smile. "I am home."
Edited by Regus, Oct 23 2016, 02:07 AM.