It was cold, and he felt as though he was floating through darkness, drifting quietly along through a world of empty sounds and motions. It must have been the Void, with how wrong it felt. The feeble Shendar couldn't help but note the irony of his position, with what little shreds of consciousness remained. His hatred of the Void seemed not to be enough to save him from It. But no, something was wrong here-- Cecil was not dead yet, had only slipped into unconsciousness from...From what?
The Shendar's eyelids fluttered, opening ever-so-slightly, the quiet din of the world calling him fully awake as some greater motion shook him. He was being lifted, his limp form cradled in the arms of someone as they staggered down a flight of stairs. He heard mumbled oaths and panting, sounds of panic as the figure carried him along. It only took a moment before the Shendar was dropped onto a table, arms splayed to his sides at awkward angles. Dimly, he realized the way they layed should have hurt, but instead they only felt heavy. Cecil tried lifting his arms, but found a familiar feeling of weakness; his blood was missing, again. His arm was lifted, his wrist cut, words said over it, and the wound was closed again-- but with pain. This pain forced him back into the murky blackness, his eyelids fluttering shut once again. Some part of the Shendar's mind was aware of motion, and more panicked voices, but he only wanted to rest now, to be left alone, so he ignored them.
He had been sat somewhere, on a cushion with his back against a wall. His head sagged to the side, dead weight that threatened to bring him to the floor. A fluttering motion finally called his eyes open again, small, green slits that tried to glean some meaning from the cold and the weight and the emptiness. A woman he did not recognize knelt before him, a bowl in her hands. After a moment, she brought the bowl to his lips, and carefully tipped it forward so that its contents dripped into his mouth, down his throat. He didn't know what it was, but it was hot, and he thought he could feel a bit of warmth lingering after he drank it. As the bowl was pulled away, now empty, Cecil spotted several figures in the room, bodies he hadn't noticed before.
As if they were sentinels, Cecil's brothers in blood and oath stood against the walls of the room, watching him silently and standing strong. Duron, Muildaer, Lorenzo, Santiago-- Brothers that had all gone before him, left him to live on and curse the life he lived, the world he lived it in, because it was a world without them. They hadn't left him. They were watching over him, now, always, keeping him safe. The Shendar knew he was safe, then, and the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips-- all he could manage in thanks to his brothers. His eyelids fluttered closed, and with the faint warmth in his belly, he allowed himself to sleep.
Cecil's mind roiled. He still sat where he had the last time his eyes had opened, but it felt as though time had passed. Time? How much time? The warmth was gone again, and he felt cold. Colder than he had before, colder than ever before; it ached, now, even to sit still. He could not see his brothers in the room-- he knew they hadn't left him, now, but he felt fear as their visages vanished. His eyes squinted slowly about, until they settled on a familiar face. It took him a moment to know her again, but it was a woman-- Nlaea, yes. The one who had bitten him, the one he should have blamed but could not even muster the strength to be angry at.
He was so cold. Something itched at the back of his mind, some part of him still aware. He was so weak. His son, Gwen-- who would watch over him? He was so tired. His eyes opened further, as he struggled to find some strength to reach out to Nlaea with. He was so uncertain. He forced his mouth to open, forced himself to draw a breath. He was so afraid. He poured the breath into a single, frail word-- "Gwen".
He was cold. He was weak. He was tired. He was uncertain. He was afraid. He let his brothers take his hands, warm him, give him their strength. He rested against them as they carried him away, showed him the path. Cecil Empolan let go of his fears, and his anger washed away.
The Shendar's eyelids fluttered, opening ever-so-slightly, the quiet din of the world calling him fully awake as some greater motion shook him. He was being lifted, his limp form cradled in the arms of someone as they staggered down a flight of stairs. He heard mumbled oaths and panting, sounds of panic as the figure carried him along. It only took a moment before the Shendar was dropped onto a table, arms splayed to his sides at awkward angles. Dimly, he realized the way they layed should have hurt, but instead they only felt heavy. Cecil tried lifting his arms, but found a familiar feeling of weakness; his blood was missing, again. His arm was lifted, his wrist cut, words said over it, and the wound was closed again-- but with pain. This pain forced him back into the murky blackness, his eyelids fluttering shut once again. Some part of the Shendar's mind was aware of motion, and more panicked voices, but he only wanted to rest now, to be left alone, so he ignored them.
He had been sat somewhere, on a cushion with his back against a wall. His head sagged to the side, dead weight that threatened to bring him to the floor. A fluttering motion finally called his eyes open again, small, green slits that tried to glean some meaning from the cold and the weight and the emptiness. A woman he did not recognize knelt before him, a bowl in her hands. After a moment, she brought the bowl to his lips, and carefully tipped it forward so that its contents dripped into his mouth, down his throat. He didn't know what it was, but it was hot, and he thought he could feel a bit of warmth lingering after he drank it. As the bowl was pulled away, now empty, Cecil spotted several figures in the room, bodies he hadn't noticed before.
As if they were sentinels, Cecil's brothers in blood and oath stood against the walls of the room, watching him silently and standing strong. Duron, Muildaer, Lorenzo, Santiago-- Brothers that had all gone before him, left him to live on and curse the life he lived, the world he lived it in, because it was a world without them. They hadn't left him. They were watching over him, now, always, keeping him safe. The Shendar knew he was safe, then, and the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips-- all he could manage in thanks to his brothers. His eyelids fluttered closed, and with the faint warmth in his belly, he allowed himself to sleep.
Cecil's mind roiled. He still sat where he had the last time his eyes had opened, but it felt as though time had passed. Time? How much time? The warmth was gone again, and he felt cold. Colder than he had before, colder than ever before; it ached, now, even to sit still. He could not see his brothers in the room-- he knew they hadn't left him, now, but he felt fear as their visages vanished. His eyes squinted slowly about, until they settled on a familiar face. It took him a moment to know her again, but it was a woman-- Nlaea, yes. The one who had bitten him, the one he should have blamed but could not even muster the strength to be angry at.
He was so cold. Something itched at the back of his mind, some part of him still aware. He was so weak. His son, Gwen-- who would watch over him? He was so tired. His eyes opened further, as he struggled to find some strength to reach out to Nlaea with. He was so uncertain. He forced his mouth to open, forced himself to draw a breath. He was so afraid. He poured the breath into a single, frail word-- "Gwen".
He was cold. He was weak. He was tired. He was uncertain. He was afraid. He let his brothers take his hands, warm him, give him their strength. He rested against them as they carried him away, showed him the path. Cecil Empolan let go of his fears, and his anger washed away.
I want to thank everyone who played with Cecil and me. I've played him for two years now, and it's been a wild, exciting, terrifying two years. It's been great. I want to take a moment and speak to the strength of bond that I was able to feel through Cecil, not just with him, but with so many other characters and players. It's been an honor and a priveledge to get to know all of you through his eyes and through my eyes. I hope that this passage I wrote to tie up Cecil's story did him justice as I think he deserves, and that you, the reader, felt a strong connection to him as you read it, regardless of whether or not we played together. That kind of connection is what I search for in roleplay, and if a character is so alive that you feel real joy for them-- and real pain-- then that is a strong character. To me, Cecil has been an incredibly strong character, thanks to all the people he met and experiences he had. He was forged through countless conflicts and friendships over the past two years, and this culmination is not just my work, but the work of countless roleplayers, new and old, active and long-gone. I want to say thanks to everyone who helped me create Cecil and get him to this point of catharsis, that I am able to look back and be proud of this character. I want to say that, if you felt pain for Cecil, it is a success not only for me, but for all of us. Lastly, I want to say that I look forward to future characters, future stories, future gains, and future losses. That is what roleplay is about, and I hope to tell countless more stories with every person on Massivecraft that I am able to.
Thank you for taking part in Cecil's story. Now, let's go make a hundred more stories.
Thank you for taking part in Cecil's story. Now, let's go make a hundred more stories.
