Post by Bromoflexual on Apr 8, 2015 21:05:27 GMT -5
((Just a really short story I made for one of my alts.))
Moonlight seeped through the sickly violet-teal haze that perpetually shrouded the Tirisfal Glades. From atop the beachside cliffs, a lone Forsaken man surveyed the shore below. The shoreline was serene this evening, as always. Far removed from the bustling Apothecary labs in Brill and the Deathguard regiments marching in and out of Silverpine, it was the perfect place to concentrate.
He donned the crisp uniform of a Tirasian naval chaplain, a robe of bold colors - emerald, gold, and white - with a large golden anchor embroidered on the chest. His name in life was still sewn along the inside of the sleeve: Rafael Gerardus Avante. The uniform’s pristine condition stood in stark contrast to the decaying corpse he had become. Though his death forever severed his ties to the island nation, he wore the uniform as a personal homage to his former life, a talisman of fortitude for what he was preparing to attempt.
“Endure the pain of discipline, or suffer the pain of death” he mumbled to himself, closing his eyes. It was a phrase his father, a decorated Kul’Tiras marine, had instilled in him as a young boy. Ironically, his state of undeath left his body numb, though he was no stranger to pain – especially the kind of pain he was about to inflict upon himself. Though he had attempted this several times before, it became no less harrowing with each attempt. He let his arms fall to his sides, his open palms facing forward. With a clear mind he began to concentrate.
A burning sensation ignited in his heart as if a candle had been lit inside of him. The burning radiated outward towards his limbs and grew more intense with each second. A soft golden light emanated from his palms, but what he was feeling was anything but soft. The sensation quickly escalated from a warm burning to a searing pain. His concentration faltered as his body shuddered and his fingers gnarled into claws. An unbearable stinging coursed through him like razors circulating through his veins. His skin burned as if he had plunged into a sea of molten rock. “The pain…of discipline…” he spit out through gritted teeth. He clenched his fists and cried out in a last effort to maintain his channeling.
“Rrrraaarrrggghhh!”
A flash of holy Light burst forth from his hands and momentarily illuminated the cliff side. Reeling in excruciating pain, he fell to his knees on the verge of unconsciousness. The cliff side fell dark and serene once more. “The pain of…death…” he blurted out as he regained his bearings.
The pain of death was precisely what he felt that evening. But it was more than just the agony that surged through him moments ago. To have fallen so far was the pain of death for Rafael. Only through steadfast mental discipline could he channel the Light. Yet holy magic that filled his heart with comfort and serenity in life now burned and tortured him in death. The pain of discipline and the pain of death were now one in the same.
Moonlight seeped through the sickly violet-teal haze that perpetually shrouded the Tirisfal Glades. From atop the beachside cliffs, a lone Forsaken man surveyed the shore below. The shoreline was serene this evening, as always. Far removed from the bustling Apothecary labs in Brill and the Deathguard regiments marching in and out of Silverpine, it was the perfect place to concentrate.
He donned the crisp uniform of a Tirasian naval chaplain, a robe of bold colors - emerald, gold, and white - with a large golden anchor embroidered on the chest. His name in life was still sewn along the inside of the sleeve: Rafael Gerardus Avante. The uniform’s pristine condition stood in stark contrast to the decaying corpse he had become. Though his death forever severed his ties to the island nation, he wore the uniform as a personal homage to his former life, a talisman of fortitude for what he was preparing to attempt.
“Endure the pain of discipline, or suffer the pain of death” he mumbled to himself, closing his eyes. It was a phrase his father, a decorated Kul’Tiras marine, had instilled in him as a young boy. Ironically, his state of undeath left his body numb, though he was no stranger to pain – especially the kind of pain he was about to inflict upon himself. Though he had attempted this several times before, it became no less harrowing with each attempt. He let his arms fall to his sides, his open palms facing forward. With a clear mind he began to concentrate.
A burning sensation ignited in his heart as if a candle had been lit inside of him. The burning radiated outward towards his limbs and grew more intense with each second. A soft golden light emanated from his palms, but what he was feeling was anything but soft. The sensation quickly escalated from a warm burning to a searing pain. His concentration faltered as his body shuddered and his fingers gnarled into claws. An unbearable stinging coursed through him like razors circulating through his veins. His skin burned as if he had plunged into a sea of molten rock. “The pain…of discipline…” he spit out through gritted teeth. He clenched his fists and cried out in a last effort to maintain his channeling.
“Rrrraaarrrggghhh!”
A flash of holy Light burst forth from his hands and momentarily illuminated the cliff side. Reeling in excruciating pain, he fell to his knees on the verge of unconsciousness. The cliff side fell dark and serene once more. “The pain of…death…” he blurted out as he regained his bearings.
The pain of death was precisely what he felt that evening. But it was more than just the agony that surged through him moments ago. To have fallen so far was the pain of death for Rafael. Only through steadfast mental discipline could he channel the Light. Yet holy magic that filled his heart with comfort and serenity in life now burned and tortured him in death. The pain of discipline and the pain of death were now one in the same.