Post by Skiprazor on May 22, 2004 23:59:47 GMT
[ModNote: Continued from Battle Royale: Knightmare.]
[*The tranquility of Dunfalls is shattered by an immense explosion. A short distance away from the fall basin, bright blue electricity arcs between the trees and boulders, scorching the lush green grass to a deathly black. The sky above the forest canopy is momentarily poisoned with clouds of unparralleled ferocity, as though the elements themselves were white with rage.*]
[*Lying face down in the centre of the storm, convulsing involuntarily, Skiprazor is screaming. His ragged voice tears through the evening air like the sharpest steel. His mind swims, every ounce of his being ripped apart in agony. Death, he had reckoned, was not supposed to be like this - it was supposed to be immediate, swift...black. Darkness and voices. Yet here he was, a helpless ragdoll, tortured by the very energy he had momentarily learned to survive without.*]
[*Centuries pass, or so it seems. His torture recedes, the area surrounding the waterfall becoming peaceful once more. As the light over Dunfalls begins to fade , Skiprazor regains enough presence of mind to realise that death has not yet come for him. His very soul - or rather, what mortals would refer to as his soul - feels scarred and ashen, yet he can feel his senses returning. He can still taste and smell his own lifeblood, still feel it caked into every orifice. He can still remember the involuntary terror he felt as he watched his own blood become one with the earth at his feet. Most of all, though, he can still feel the bitter disappointment - with his performance, with his abilities, with his greed, with his very self - deeper than any battle wound.*]
[*Moonlight has broken through the clouded night sky above. He thinks about getting up, to see if he really is still in this world, but finds that he can not make his mind will his body into motion. So he continues to lie, prone on the scorched grassland, as the distant rush of the waterfalls slowly caresses him into unconsciousness.*]
[*The tranquility of Dunfalls is shattered by an immense explosion. A short distance away from the fall basin, bright blue electricity arcs between the trees and boulders, scorching the lush green grass to a deathly black. The sky above the forest canopy is momentarily poisoned with clouds of unparralleled ferocity, as though the elements themselves were white with rage.*]
[*Lying face down in the centre of the storm, convulsing involuntarily, Skiprazor is screaming. His ragged voice tears through the evening air like the sharpest steel. His mind swims, every ounce of his being ripped apart in agony. Death, he had reckoned, was not supposed to be like this - it was supposed to be immediate, swift...black. Darkness and voices. Yet here he was, a helpless ragdoll, tortured by the very energy he had momentarily learned to survive without.*]
[*Centuries pass, or so it seems. His torture recedes, the area surrounding the waterfall becoming peaceful once more. As the light over Dunfalls begins to fade , Skiprazor regains enough presence of mind to realise that death has not yet come for him. His very soul - or rather, what mortals would refer to as his soul - feels scarred and ashen, yet he can feel his senses returning. He can still taste and smell his own lifeblood, still feel it caked into every orifice. He can still remember the involuntary terror he felt as he watched his own blood become one with the earth at his feet. Most of all, though, he can still feel the bitter disappointment - with his performance, with his abilities, with his greed, with his very self - deeper than any battle wound.*]
[*Moonlight has broken through the clouded night sky above. He thinks about getting up, to see if he really is still in this world, but finds that he can not make his mind will his body into motion. So he continues to lie, prone on the scorched grassland, as the distant rush of the waterfalls slowly caresses him into unconsciousness.*]