10th of Searing Cuvindas, 120th of Steel
Death's Counterfeit had overtaken him now for hours, he considered briefly, a snore catching itself between his throat and his lips. The draw of sleep was so appealing, however, that he hadn't for a moment thought about actually regaining control of himself from his slumber. The way that his bed allowed his head to sink in ever so slightly was exceptionally comfortable, and while his eyelids now whispered conspiratorially that dawn had arisen, he condemned them to force themselves shuttered against the gleaming strength of the fiery star.
The gentle morning breeze was proving to be somewhat chill against his face, however, his right ear starting to feel all the more like it might freeze off of his face and slip off entirely. Furthermore, his stomach was wrought with a light cramp, causing him to grumble even in his rest from time to time, attempting to dispel whatever malignant force had managed to entrap his entrails. These nuisances hadn't been enough to stir the man from his rest, but they had at least roused him from total incoherence.
It had taken the slight motion beneath his tongue to draw his consciousness back into full-swing. The tongue recoiled slightly at the movement, catching onto the loose scrap of food and swishing it to and fro. Taste buds scraped against the intruding morsel, attempting to ascertain the unfamiliar delicacy and place when it had been consumed. Could it be a piece of a pastry that he had managed to eat before he had arrived here? It was not sweet by any means, but there was a certain doughiness to its consistency, the texture soft and weak. He felt certain that with a bit of applied force on the end of his tongue, he would be able to mash the offending meal into a paste and swallow it down.
Another wriggle against his tongue made him rethink his strategy, and with increasing worry, the eyes of the corpse snapped open at last. The light was blinding even fuliginous as it often was in the earliest parts of dawn. Mist still hung low against the ground, gentle droplets of water suddenly making themselves known upon his cheeks as he compelled himself to sit up. With a plucking finger like the beak of a cardinal, he freed the offending wriggler from his mouth, peering for a second at the maggot before the realization caused him to gag, flicking it away like detritus.
The stir of his stomach's ache struck him again, and with an uncanny understanding, he finally recognized what had been causing the stirring in his belly. The realization of a dozen miniature worms stirring about in his intestines was enough to force him to grumble and shake in absolute disgust. Yet, it seemed his body had grown attached to the growing larva, and there was no automatic response to expel them. Taking two fingers, still contaminated from earlier worm-plucking, he stroked at his uvula, the second touch causing him to vomit forth the contents of his guts. The spewing and fetid acid burned as it came up, but as it was painted across the ground, the writhing mass of maggots revealed themselves.
Uncertain that he had gotten them all, the process was repeated once over, covering over the unfortunate larva with another layer of pestilent acid and condemning them to slow dissolution. Even in undeath, the acidity of the liquid held true and covered as they were, it was unlikely they would survive a particularly long time.
On his feet now, the man stared at the field around him, at the trail and the shattered wagon-train and the fallen horses and men about the place. Where complacence had dreamed into being a fanciful bedroom, he now found that his resting place had been little more than a puddle of mud, and the impression his head had made within it was clear, his hair caked in the sooty substance.
Where was he? Who was he? What was going on?
Death's Counterfeit had overtaken him now for hours, he considered briefly, a snore catching itself between his throat and his lips. The draw of sleep was so appealing, however, that he hadn't for a moment thought about actually regaining control of himself from his slumber. The way that his bed allowed his head to sink in ever so slightly was exceptionally comfortable, and while his eyelids now whispered conspiratorially that dawn had arisen, he condemned them to force themselves shuttered against the gleaming strength of the fiery star.
The gentle morning breeze was proving to be somewhat chill against his face, however, his right ear starting to feel all the more like it might freeze off of his face and slip off entirely. Furthermore, his stomach was wrought with a light cramp, causing him to grumble even in his rest from time to time, attempting to dispel whatever malignant force had managed to entrap his entrails. These nuisances hadn't been enough to stir the man from his rest, but they had at least roused him from total incoherence.
It had taken the slight motion beneath his tongue to draw his consciousness back into full-swing. The tongue recoiled slightly at the movement, catching onto the loose scrap of food and swishing it to and fro. Taste buds scraped against the intruding morsel, attempting to ascertain the unfamiliar delicacy and place when it had been consumed. Could it be a piece of a pastry that he had managed to eat before he had arrived here? It was not sweet by any means, but there was a certain doughiness to its consistency, the texture soft and weak. He felt certain that with a bit of applied force on the end of his tongue, he would be able to mash the offending meal into a paste and swallow it down.
Another wriggle against his tongue made him rethink his strategy, and with increasing worry, the eyes of the corpse snapped open at last. The light was blinding even fuliginous as it often was in the earliest parts of dawn. Mist still hung low against the ground, gentle droplets of water suddenly making themselves known upon his cheeks as he compelled himself to sit up. With a plucking finger like the beak of a cardinal, he freed the offending wriggler from his mouth, peering for a second at the maggot before the realization caused him to gag, flicking it away like detritus.
The stir of his stomach's ache struck him again, and with an uncanny understanding, he finally recognized what had been causing the stirring in his belly. The realization of a dozen miniature worms stirring about in his intestines was enough to force him to grumble and shake in absolute disgust. Yet, it seemed his body had grown attached to the growing larva, and there was no automatic response to expel them. Taking two fingers, still contaminated from earlier worm-plucking, he stroked at his uvula, the second touch causing him to vomit forth the contents of his guts. The spewing and fetid acid burned as it came up, but as it was painted across the ground, the writhing mass of maggots revealed themselves.
Uncertain that he had gotten them all, the process was repeated once over, covering over the unfortunate larva with another layer of pestilent acid and condemning them to slow dissolution. Even in undeath, the acidity of the liquid held true and covered as they were, it was unlikely they would survive a particularly long time.
On his feet now, the man stared at the field around him, at the trail and the shattered wagon-train and the fallen horses and men about the place. Where complacence had dreamed into being a fanciful bedroom, he now found that his resting place had been little more than a puddle of mud, and the impression his head had made within it was clear, his hair caked in the sooty substance.
Where was he? Who was he? What was going on?
