Cecil Empolan staggered through the sewers, his breaths coming in pained-but-determined hitches. To any observer from afar, it appeared that the Shendar knew exactly where he was headed, and why. The truth could not be farther from this.
Closer inspection revealed tattered, torn, and bloodied clothes. His face was swollen and cut, and blood soaked through a makeshift bandage wrapped around a gash from a thrown knife that now resided inside his boot. Its pain had not compared to what he had known, but it still gave him rage, shattered his focus; worse still, the wound was throbbing and hot-- his directionless rage only grew. Cecil floated in a sea of confusion and half-formed thoughts that scattered like a flock of birds every time he saw another and his desire for pain returned. He could feel thoughts trying to form themselves in the back of his head; their inability only caused him worry and confusion, which further thrust the Shendar into rage. So he wandered, unable to think on where he was going and why.
He stopped. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move-- Cecil stumbled to a wall, pressing his shoulder to it and sliding to the ground. He could feel the fire burning in him-- to strike, to rend, to feel the tearing of flesh and sinews beneath his hands. He wanted to-- No, needed to press on. But he couldn't-- his breaths were failing him, his body refusing to move. The boiling in his blood grew. He needed things to bleed, needed to make them bleed. He vaguely wondered why but was a far cry from stopping. All he could remember was pain, so the Shendar would inflict it on others. The scores in his flesh, the lashes on his back, the bruises that coated him. Faces floated in his mind-- faces that appeared where new faces should have been. Faces he hated, that he needed to kill. One such loomed through the darkness at him. He reached weakly towards the face, mumbling as it approached cautiously. It drew near, listening; the fire in his veins forced him to his feet, the same dagger that had wounded him finding its home in the face's eye. The Beast's voice could be heard now in the silence:
"Bleed, bleed, bleed..."
As the face faded, falling, Cecil continued to stab it until his breath failed him again. Eventually, he rose to wander aimlessly again. He felt the weight of his hatred on his own shoulders; it was gloriously heavy.
Closer inspection revealed tattered, torn, and bloodied clothes. His face was swollen and cut, and blood soaked through a makeshift bandage wrapped around a gash from a thrown knife that now resided inside his boot. Its pain had not compared to what he had known, but it still gave him rage, shattered his focus; worse still, the wound was throbbing and hot-- his directionless rage only grew. Cecil floated in a sea of confusion and half-formed thoughts that scattered like a flock of birds every time he saw another and his desire for pain returned. He could feel thoughts trying to form themselves in the back of his head; their inability only caused him worry and confusion, which further thrust the Shendar into rage. So he wandered, unable to think on where he was going and why.
He stopped. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move-- Cecil stumbled to a wall, pressing his shoulder to it and sliding to the ground. He could feel the fire burning in him-- to strike, to rend, to feel the tearing of flesh and sinews beneath his hands. He wanted to-- No, needed to press on. But he couldn't-- his breaths were failing him, his body refusing to move. The boiling in his blood grew. He needed things to bleed, needed to make them bleed. He vaguely wondered why but was a far cry from stopping. All he could remember was pain, so the Shendar would inflict it on others. The scores in his flesh, the lashes on his back, the bruises that coated him. Faces floated in his mind-- faces that appeared where new faces should have been. Faces he hated, that he needed to kill. One such loomed through the darkness at him. He reached weakly towards the face, mumbling as it approached cautiously. It drew near, listening; the fire in his veins forced him to his feet, the same dagger that had wounded him finding its home in the face's eye. The Beast's voice could be heard now in the silence:
"Bleed, bleed, bleed..."
As the face faded, falling, Cecil continued to stab it until his breath failed him again. Eventually, he rose to wander aimlessly again. He felt the weight of his hatred on his own shoulders; it was gloriously heavy.
