It’s cold. Llewyn’s mind defaulted to that as soon as he felt the needle pierce & soon, the sedative pulse through his system; the warm & tingling sensation definitely being an invader in the midst of a crisis. It weighed him down. The embers of his Arkensire’s blood pulsated through him - the lone feeling he held onto - though it was snuffed out in an instant. It was that easy. His whole world spun, and he tried desperately to combat the overpowering burden that was the drug. Fight. He dared to slowly stand, though he had the weight of the entirety of Aloria on his body. It didn’t help that his left arm’s nerves screamed in agony whenever he tried to brace his weight on it; the limb having marks of teeth & chunks of flesh torn from it. Everything was so loud. He remembers hearing his brother’s voice in the mix of it all; and Llewyn’s vulnerable mind instinctively held onto that for comfort - for protection. The daemon finally manages to heave himself upright. A slow inhale is taken in, but it’s not long before his vision fogs. When he comes to his hazy state of awareness; he’s on the floorboards again. He briefly remembers glancing upwards to the other captives, a woman with lilac eyes, and another Kathar who was an old ally. He tries. And he tries. And he tries - But as he gets to his knees, a sack forged of fabrics is promptly forced over his head, and his wrists are snatched -- And one limb at a time, shackles are clicked around his wrists. He knew, then: It was time. He remembers feeling the cold biting wind as he’s led outside, and the sounds of armor clinking together & boots hitting the pavement. They did walk quite a ways. What time was it? The Kathar briefly wondered, and another series of thoughts passed through his mind. Would anyone come for him? Would he live? Would this, in fact, be his deathbed? Llewyn tugs on his chains. Not that it would do anything, other than emit a somewhat loud rattling noise. Finally, though - The assembled party, including his captors, seem to halt. He recognizes the faint ambience - waves of waters, and the icy wind that seemed to dreadfully howl. Where was he? Where was -- And just like that, the Silven’s infernal eyes shone through the sack of fabrics; glowing brighter than any sun. It allowed him to see clearly, and his eyes instinctively searched the faces of each individual present. Faces blurred; but the ones that stuck out to him most, other than the prisoners, were: A half-Maquixtl, with lively silver eyes that shined brighter than any moon, yet were clouded over by confliction. She looked like a priestess, with round features & pointed ears - And in better circumstances, Llewyn would have stopped to chat. However, the Kathar seemed to know her role as a supportive bystander in an instant. Anger, and hurt, fills his heart. He tears his gaze away, perhaps thankful for the bag over his visage that hid his expression. Onto the next face. Ah. A Maraya, with soft peach-colored hair, and flowers delicately weaved into her locks. From what Llewyn could see, she had skeletal tattoos that darkened into her leaf-hued skin, and dim gray eyes. She could easily be mistaken as a Yanar at first glance, and that’s exactly what Llewyn did. He flicked his gaze away, just in time for the executioner - & who Llewyn presumed to be the leader of this little group - to state something, and beckon for the first individual to be offered. A chill creeps up the demi-fiend’s spine, despite his state of drowsiness. It was him. Of course. Llewyn’s first instinct as both of his arms are taken is to fight, to absolutely thrash & resist. His body doesn’t cooperate whatsoever, and as he tries to wring his way out of both of the figures’ grasps -- It comes out feeble, as weak punches and shoves. Pathetic. Llewyn’s voice comes out so shrill as he demanded to be freed - he doesn’t even recognize it. He’s easily moved. Before he could step back as he was released, the executioner seized Llewyn by the collar, and proceeded to slam his upper body down onto the anvil. His breathing gradually accelerated, everything else drowning out in the deadly mixture of anger & paralyzing fear of what was to come. He squirmed, he writhed, he tried his damn best to get out of that grip. The executioner’s speech falls on deaf ears in the midst of panic, and his eyes instinctively find another captive. His brother, who also had a cloth bag on his head, tied down by full-body restraints. An expression of utter fear and helplessness overcame the Kathar’s expression. The same look he gave his brother, all those years ago, when Llewyn was but a child being tormented. A memory instinctively replays in the Furyling’s mind. One he would cherish, and that brought him some form of comfort. “You’re like- Like a Knight in those stories, you saved me from those really mean bullies!” A much, much smaller, more different-appearing Llewyn excitedly spoke in a tongue he was steadily forgetting, yet would always be home to him, lingering beside his brother’s side. Llewyn seemed to be examining the Avantl’s hand, the knuckles of it split open. “.. A Knight?” His brother’s head cants, dull brown eyes glancing down towards the lively golden ones of Llewyn’s. He beams, clearly bright. “Yeah, my ma’ tells me these awesome stories about how they save people! They go--” The then-halfling’s free hand curls, before it swings upwards vertically! “WOOSH! And then--” Llewyn’s other hand releases the Avantl’s hand from the confines of examination, and he throws a very untrained fist towards the air! “POW!” His brother didn’t move. Llewyn’s heart ached with worry for him, rather than the imminent fate for himself. His struggle persisted. He had to live another day. He had to see the sun again. “Hey, someday I want to be a Knight, too. Not like those gross Regalian Knights - I want to help people, and to protect them.” The blade raises. Llewyn’s eyes sharpen towards the blur of motion from his executioner, and his breathing picks up. “Teach me how to fight, okay?! And-- If those bullies come back, before then, you’ll protect me again, right?” The blade swung downwards in a brutal cleave, right for Llewyn’s neck. .. What? Who’s screaming? Is it someone I didn’t see? As soon as the blade graced into the Kathar’s neck, he realized too late that he was the one shrieking. He didn’t even recognize his own voice. Blood sprays the flooring & leaks into the crevices as his head is separated from his body with an indescribable, grotesque sound. Llewyn feels a familiar, chilling embrace, as his world shifts & darkness claws at his vision. … And he leans into it, as if seeing an old friend again. As his consciousness slips away from him; his last thoughts were of remorse. .. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my word. Perhaps it was related to his current replay of memories. Perhaps not.
