5th of Frost, 4621
Another hacking cough saw him lean over the sink, white knuckles trembling while he retched and heaved the bile from his guts. Quickly, the familiar tang of the etheric waste met his palette, then poured from his lips in a series of heavy, wet spatters that saw the porcelain sink accumulate the same color in streaks. He held his chest together while he breathed over the mess of his stomach's interior, and tested his throat for breath while strands of corruption dangled from his lips.
When he found a resistant popping in the back of his throat, he prepared to heave again, and found no shortage of vomit as he threw up just about all the filtered corruption that had gathered in his stomach. It burned the back of his throat and left his senses awry. Everything from his palette to his vision was skewed in the moments it took him to recover. His eyes shut tight and gathered tears as he forced the wretched substance from his blighted stomach, and into the sink.
He was left trembling, breathing ragged and quick while he maintained his forward lean over the sink, and still tested his throat for any more bile that was due to leave his system. When he found that he was done, at least for the time being, a shaky hand reached for the sink's handle, turned it, and let the water pour from the faucet to wash away all the gunk. He let it pour for a minute, then took his cupped hands under the flow and swirled out his mouth with the clear water before spitting that violet-tinted water back into the sink. A second handful saw him try to remove the taste and smell from his maw completely, then he turned the faucet closed.
There, the 'guised Rath trembled while he recovered his breath, and exhaled a shaky sigh. The depth of his lungs was still compromised with the injury he'd suffered in the badlands, but he was getting better. A shaky sigh saw him straighten his head to open up his chest, and his eyes met his own in the dark reflection of the sink's mirror.
He stayed there for some time, holding eye contact with himself. His brown eyes, veiled with their misty film stared onward, even somewhat through himself as though he'd peered at some corpse. The sickly paleness of his skin only added to the illusion that he was looking in on someone's coffin. It wasn't until his eyes shifted to glance about his other features that the illusion was broken, and it became undeniable that he still lived.
He drew a deep breath, and watched as the contours of his ribs pushed against his thin skin, the lack of muscle, fat, and meager mass his frame carried spoke volumes of his origins, the lifestyle he led. It reflected the ugly circumstances of his existence in all its depraved malnourishment, a projection of all the evils he'd seen and experienced that showed in the stories of his gnarled scars, the swipes of blades that had only just caught him, and various punctures from where he'd been stabbed or gashed in some incident long gone.
His boney hands took a piece of his skin between his index finger and thumb, and gently pinched as he pulled the organ away from the frame of his bones. He tested just how far it came away from his body before it began to hurt, then let it go. As quickly as it snapped back into place, a small violet mark laid upon his skin from where he'd pinched himself, though he knew it would fade in minutes, it did remind him that he hadn't eaten in days.
Next he pulled down at his lips to inspect his teeth, the sharpened points of yellowed ivory that jutted from his dark gums laid beneath his gaze. They were unmistakably monstrous, cruel in their distribution and application. Arkash had used them to break through bone in the past, and the application to skin and muscle was even more effective.
With his teeth bared to his gaze, he hesitantly lifted his eyes to his own, and again, met that cold, dead stare. It was all so alien, so far from everything he'd ever known. Arkash frowned, and let his lip go as his hand fell to grip the rim of the sink. His bony elbows locked as his body dropped to hang from his shoulders, and all the lean musculature and bones beneath his skin shifted visibly. He didn't know what Taelian had seen in him, why the elf had asked for such a thing when all Arkash saw was filth, scars, and monstrous features.
When he looked closely, he didn't see a human at all, he barely saw Derek Egon, the character he'd created. No, he only saw the botchling, the endless hunger that remained forever unsated. His body wasn't like it was for others, it was a tool, a weapon. He carried no fat to slow him down, just the muscle to propel him and drive his sword arm, the teeth to rend flesh from bone, and the reflexes to evade killing blow after killing blow.
It wasn't his home, or the extension of his consciousness that interacted with the world, an anchor to bind his soul to the mortal plane. No, it felt more like a prison, the machine that guided him down a path of bloodshed, pain, and despair. The ribs that showed under his skin were a cage of their own, and the calloused hands that ended his lean arms knew violence and labor. His teeth were made to destroy and tear asunder anything he could get his jaws around, and his stomach was never full.
Arkash wasn't a person at all, he was a monster that fed on and weaponized the blood of others, the mortals he pretended to blend in with and walk among; a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Sometimes, he didn't care. Sometimes, he even enjoyed the idea that he played thousands every day with the illusion of his false mortality, that he could strike terror in the hearts of the flock at any given second. And recently, he found that he hated it.
For Taelian, the first stranger to treat him with kindness, he didn't want to be that monster. He didn't wish to strike terror in the elf's heart, nor did he wish to pretend in the other man's presence. It was for that reason, for him, that Arkash would try to do better, to look after himself and make his prison presentable.
An exhale as deep as he could manage left his lungs. He wasn't likely to put on any weight or any semblance of muscle in the time he had, but there were plenty of other things he needed to work on. As he leaned forward, he brought his head to rest on the mirror and shut his eyes.
His skin, his scars, his breath, his stink... And likely, the mess of his hair, too. There was only so much he could do with the time he was given, but he had to try, and Arkash was nothing if not driven. What couldn't he accomplish if he put his mind to it- and worked outside the law? So, with a deep sigh, he opened his eyes to look at himself in the reflective glass, drew a breath as deep as he could without straining his chest, then pushed away from the sink with a curl to his features.
Taelian had healed a lot of his surface wounds quite well with his application of necromancy, but his lungs still hadn't fully recovered. He needed to feed to accelerate the healing and with so many wretched people in the city, there were plenty of options to choose from.
Once again, he dressed, then pulled at his hair in the mirror before he looked to the window of Taelian's bathroom. The night was still young, and though the streets were veiled with darkness, Arkash was very familiar with Rien nights and their bountiful Halamire, he imagined no difference in Amoren.
With his mind made up, he brought his eyes to focus on his gaze in the mirror. He gazed only for a moment or two while he imagined the possibilities, how he might appear once he was clean and tidy, then shook his head as a hopeful smile began to pull at his lips. He had a long way to go before such could even be imagined, he realized. But it was the elf had said, there was hope for him, he wasn't a lost cause.
Through the bathroom door, across the brief walk to the front door, and into the long hall of the Inn's upper floor, Arkash steadily made his way through, down the stairs, and into the open night-lit streets. With his stamina still compromised, he had to be quick on finding food, there would have to be some... Logical leaps in his vetting process.
Another hacking cough saw him lean over the sink, white knuckles trembling while he retched and heaved the bile from his guts. Quickly, the familiar tang of the etheric waste met his palette, then poured from his lips in a series of heavy, wet spatters that saw the porcelain sink accumulate the same color in streaks. He held his chest together while he breathed over the mess of his stomach's interior, and tested his throat for breath while strands of corruption dangled from his lips.
When he found a resistant popping in the back of his throat, he prepared to heave again, and found no shortage of vomit as he threw up just about all the filtered corruption that had gathered in his stomach. It burned the back of his throat and left his senses awry. Everything from his palette to his vision was skewed in the moments it took him to recover. His eyes shut tight and gathered tears as he forced the wretched substance from his blighted stomach, and into the sink.
He was left trembling, breathing ragged and quick while he maintained his forward lean over the sink, and still tested his throat for any more bile that was due to leave his system. When he found that he was done, at least for the time being, a shaky hand reached for the sink's handle, turned it, and let the water pour from the faucet to wash away all the gunk. He let it pour for a minute, then took his cupped hands under the flow and swirled out his mouth with the clear water before spitting that violet-tinted water back into the sink. A second handful saw him try to remove the taste and smell from his maw completely, then he turned the faucet closed.
There, the 'guised Rath trembled while he recovered his breath, and exhaled a shaky sigh. The depth of his lungs was still compromised with the injury he'd suffered in the badlands, but he was getting better. A shaky sigh saw him straighten his head to open up his chest, and his eyes met his own in the dark reflection of the sink's mirror.
He stayed there for some time, holding eye contact with himself. His brown eyes, veiled with their misty film stared onward, even somewhat through himself as though he'd peered at some corpse. The sickly paleness of his skin only added to the illusion that he was looking in on someone's coffin. It wasn't until his eyes shifted to glance about his other features that the illusion was broken, and it became undeniable that he still lived.
He drew a deep breath, and watched as the contours of his ribs pushed against his thin skin, the lack of muscle, fat, and meager mass his frame carried spoke volumes of his origins, the lifestyle he led. It reflected the ugly circumstances of his existence in all its depraved malnourishment, a projection of all the evils he'd seen and experienced that showed in the stories of his gnarled scars, the swipes of blades that had only just caught him, and various punctures from where he'd been stabbed or gashed in some incident long gone.
His boney hands took a piece of his skin between his index finger and thumb, and gently pinched as he pulled the organ away from the frame of his bones. He tested just how far it came away from his body before it began to hurt, then let it go. As quickly as it snapped back into place, a small violet mark laid upon his skin from where he'd pinched himself, though he knew it would fade in minutes, it did remind him that he hadn't eaten in days.
Next he pulled down at his lips to inspect his teeth, the sharpened points of yellowed ivory that jutted from his dark gums laid beneath his gaze. They were unmistakably monstrous, cruel in their distribution and application. Arkash had used them to break through bone in the past, and the application to skin and muscle was even more effective.
With his teeth bared to his gaze, he hesitantly lifted his eyes to his own, and again, met that cold, dead stare. It was all so alien, so far from everything he'd ever known. Arkash frowned, and let his lip go as his hand fell to grip the rim of the sink. His bony elbows locked as his body dropped to hang from his shoulders, and all the lean musculature and bones beneath his skin shifted visibly. He didn't know what Taelian had seen in him, why the elf had asked for such a thing when all Arkash saw was filth, scars, and monstrous features.
When he looked closely, he didn't see a human at all, he barely saw Derek Egon, the character he'd created. No, he only saw the botchling, the endless hunger that remained forever unsated. His body wasn't like it was for others, it was a tool, a weapon. He carried no fat to slow him down, just the muscle to propel him and drive his sword arm, the teeth to rend flesh from bone, and the reflexes to evade killing blow after killing blow.
It wasn't his home, or the extension of his consciousness that interacted with the world, an anchor to bind his soul to the mortal plane. No, it felt more like a prison, the machine that guided him down a path of bloodshed, pain, and despair. The ribs that showed under his skin were a cage of their own, and the calloused hands that ended his lean arms knew violence and labor. His teeth were made to destroy and tear asunder anything he could get his jaws around, and his stomach was never full.
Arkash wasn't a person at all, he was a monster that fed on and weaponized the blood of others, the mortals he pretended to blend in with and walk among; a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Sometimes, he didn't care. Sometimes, he even enjoyed the idea that he played thousands every day with the illusion of his false mortality, that he could strike terror in the hearts of the flock at any given second. And recently, he found that he hated it.
For Taelian, the first stranger to treat him with kindness, he didn't want to be that monster. He didn't wish to strike terror in the elf's heart, nor did he wish to pretend in the other man's presence. It was for that reason, for him, that Arkash would try to do better, to look after himself and make his prison presentable.
An exhale as deep as he could manage left his lungs. He wasn't likely to put on any weight or any semblance of muscle in the time he had, but there were plenty of other things he needed to work on. As he leaned forward, he brought his head to rest on the mirror and shut his eyes.
His skin, his scars, his breath, his stink... And likely, the mess of his hair, too. There was only so much he could do with the time he was given, but he had to try, and Arkash was nothing if not driven. What couldn't he accomplish if he put his mind to it- and worked outside the law? So, with a deep sigh, he opened his eyes to look at himself in the reflective glass, drew a breath as deep as he could without straining his chest, then pushed away from the sink with a curl to his features.
Taelian had healed a lot of his surface wounds quite well with his application of necromancy, but his lungs still hadn't fully recovered. He needed to feed to accelerate the healing and with so many wretched people in the city, there were plenty of options to choose from.
Once again, he dressed, then pulled at his hair in the mirror before he looked to the window of Taelian's bathroom. The night was still young, and though the streets were veiled with darkness, Arkash was very familiar with Rien nights and their bountiful Halamire, he imagined no difference in Amoren.
With his mind made up, he brought his eyes to focus on his gaze in the mirror. He gazed only for a moment or two while he imagined the possibilities, how he might appear once he was clean and tidy, then shook his head as a hopeful smile began to pull at his lips. He had a long way to go before such could even be imagined, he realized. But it was the elf had said, there was hope for him, he wasn't a lost cause.
Through the bathroom door, across the brief walk to the front door, and into the long hall of the Inn's upper floor, Arkash steadily made his way through, down the stairs, and into the open night-lit streets. With his stamina still compromised, he had to be quick on finding food, there would have to be some... Logical leaps in his vetting process.
