From Ashes I [Memory]
Posted: Sun Feb 27, 2022 6:02 pm
TIMESTAMP: 15th Cinderfall - Ash - 4572 / 20:58
NOTES:
NOTES:
► Show Spoiler
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The stone walls of the funeral home’s basement were cold, dimly lit by the soft glow of candles. The room wasn’t exceptionally large, but it was big enough to carry out the various rituals involved in performing ferriment. There was a sizable stone altar in the center of the room, carved with beautiful depictions of botanicals around bones, as if symbolizing regrowth from death. It sat atop a lovely, ornate red rug. A Ferrier’s various paraphernalia adorned shelves around the room, along with some solemn artwork and other assorted decoration on the walls. Despite the melancholic and often depressing nature of the work that would be held here, the room was oddly calming, serene in a strange way. It would be silent aside from the flickering of the candle’s flames, if it were empty– but not today.
Atop the altar sat a man, skin pale enough to show myriad colors, with a pearlescent sheen to it. As the flames of the candles continued their gentle dance, one would be able to see the soft, silvery filigree adorning his visible skin, on his face and neck, along his long elven ears, concentrating heavily around his shoulder blades and flowing down both sides of his bare torso. He was tall, with long limbs and a lithe build, yet in this setting, so waifish he’d easily be mistaken for a ghost himself. Soft, white curls with the same labyrinthine mix of subtle colors fell gently upon the man’s shoulders as the hand of another gripped the back of his head. In front of him, nearly on him, rather, was another– hair a shade of raven black, dark as their ebon wings. Skin pale, but olive undertones made him look infinitely darker than the man he embraced. This man, however, was smaller than the faded one by some several inches, their heads being at similar level only because the pale elf was sitting. The raven haired man’s other arm snaked around the elven one’s lower back, a firm grasp on his hip. All the while, the elven man’s arms were laced lightly around the shoulders of his companion. The two of them were locked in this embrace, bound together in a tangle of limbs.
The raven haired one’s hand on the other’s lower back drifted from its previous position; now, it rests atop the other’s sternum, gentle against his chest. He could feel his partner’s heart pound alongside every rise and fall of his breast with each breath. Parting their liplock, he plants a gentle kiss against his lover’s forehead and speaks, “I can feel your fear,” words said in a soft, hushed whisper; concern being the primary emotion present in his tone. “You do want this, right? I’m confident you’ll be fine,” spoken with a reassuring voice that was as sweet and smooth as honey with a sultry depth to it. The other man keeps his eyes closed and sighs, “I did– no, I do…I just didn’t realize how…how much I feared death until we got here,” his own voice soft and deep like velvet, but now possessing ripples of nerves and fear. His face twists in embarrassment, head tilting downwards and away from his partner. In response, the other man opens bright, golden eyes and sighs. He lifts the hand off the elven man’s chest and gently pushes his chin back up such that his own eyes meet with the other’s deep, reddened amber ones, “You’ll be fine.” His words were matter of fact in their confidence.
Knowing his lover well, the Ferrier secreted pathos onto his palm wordlessly as he moved his head to kiss the other’s jaw. Bringing the now tainted palm back to hovering over his partner’s chest, he swiftly draws the symbol he held so dear; remembering it well enough to draw even without directly looking. He was acutely aware that Degare would do his best to delay the inevitable, so he placed the mark of power without the other man noticing. Sometimes, pain is easier when you’re not actively dreading or anticipating it. The pathos quickly absorbed into his skin– the lines shifting into an oddly clean rendition of the mark, sitting right at the top of the elven man’s sternum, directly below his throat.
The mark now having been placed, the pale one is embraced by his Ferrier, arms tightening around him as his vision blurs immediately and it suddenly becomes harder to breathe. The air thickens as his lover lets go and steps back, a cold, silken blanket of ethos now wrapping around him like a tight cocoon glowing eerily blue. In sharp contrast to the heat of the other’s embrace, the air around him was heavy and cold. Each subsequent breath was more of a struggle than the last; his vision struggling too, shifting wildly as it had become obscured by both ash and ethos. In theory, he knew exactly what he had to do– practice, however, was a very different beast. Though he could feel panic begin to rise within him with each ever shorter breath, he steeled his mind as he prepared for the voices of the dead. At first, it was wailing, incoherent words he couldn’t understand. After some moments, he realized he was hearing myriad voices in an infinite amount of languages form a cacophony around him, booming in his ears. The noise was overwhelming and only added to the terror that was building in his chest. He could see images in flashes before him; death in all its forms and colors. Some brutal, some somber, some gruesome, some peaceful; all depicting the very same end all would one day meet.
Each story unraveling before him was enthralling and beautiful on its own; Degare found his mind drifting between the varying pages, watching them flit by before his eyes in a mosaic of color and sound. Suddenly, as if hit by something, a realization causes his mind to snap back to the painful reality of what was happening around him, now also burdened by the fact that his time was running out. His will to live reignites his focus with a fervor he didn’t initially have as he now forces himself to create the necessary reagent for his salvation: his own pathos. It was warm and sticky, like the blood that flowed through him, though he knew in reality it was a sickly, iridescent black. He felt like he was drowning. He didn’t understand how he was supposed to get anything into his mouth with all of the ashes clogging everything. As his pathos began to flow forth and ooze between his fingers, he brought both hands up to his face in a desperate attempt to swallow at least some small amount of it.
He must’ve succeeded to some degree, as in the following moments, he felt the violent urge to vomit well within him. Lunging forward, he stabilized himself by tightly grasping the altar he was sitting on with both hands. Wheezing out ashes, he dry heaves for some few moments before thick, black bile spews forth from his mouth. He was still nearly blind to everything happening around him. Deprived of oxygen and dizzy as he was, he decided to close his eyes tightly to avoid the distractions. He continued to throw up, violently vomiting more of the black bile onto the floor, onto his legs, all over himself. He felt cold but hot at the same time, a thin film of sweat having now veiled his skin. Shaking, he wraps his arms around himself, trying to calm down as the slow realization of his success begins to dawn on him.
When he finally opens tightly clenched eyes, he can make out the other man in front of him again. The raven haired man clad in robes of shadow stood before Degare with tightly crossed arms and a bright, cheery smile on his face as the last bits of apparent concern seem to fade away. “See? I told you– your success was inevitable.” The elven man blinks languidly, his haggard appearance now marred with black stains from the ritual; it was even still dripping down his face and jaw. “Averre, shut up,” he manages to choke out. The Ferrier’s face twists into laughter as he steps forward, lifting up the exhausted one’s chin with a fairly dainty finger. Their eyelines now connected, “Congratulations, you’ve now joined the ranks of the Ferriers yourself, love,” his upbeat tone not wavering a single bit.
“How do you feel? Have you any energy left?” eager questions asked by Averre in rapid succession. The elf gives an exaggerated sigh, loud and long. “How do you think I feel?” he snaps back, “I think I’ve at least some, though, why?” words said as his eyes narrowed in the direction of the other man. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he responds playfully, giggling as he steps forward, caressing the new Ferrier’s face with both of his hands. They share eye contact for a few brief moments before Averre’s hands drift down his lover’s neck, around his shoulders, and pull him into a kiss. For whatever reason, neither Ferrier appeared perturbed by the black bile now coating the newest initiate. Though one would imagine it to be disgusting, the raven haired man seemed to revel in the taste as he deepens their already impassioned kiss. Though the more veteran Ferrier was much smaller than height, he was arguably bigger as he weighed more; he was physically stronger, as well. With apparent ease, he lifts his partner to move him farther back on the altar before climbing up atop both it and him.
- - -
The stone walls of the funeral home’s basement were cold, dimly lit by the soft glow of candles. The room wasn’t exceptionally large, but it was big enough to carry out the various rituals involved in performing ferriment. There was a sizable stone altar in the center of the room, carved with beautiful depictions of botanicals around bones, as if symbolizing regrowth from death. It sat atop a lovely, ornate red rug. A Ferrier’s various paraphernalia adorned shelves around the room, along with some solemn artwork and other assorted decoration on the walls. Despite the melancholic and often depressing nature of the work that would be held here, the room was oddly calming, serene in a strange way. It would be silent aside from the flickering of the candle’s flames, if it were empty– but not today.
Atop the altar sat a man, skin pale enough to show myriad colors, with a pearlescent sheen to it. As the flames of the candles continued their gentle dance, one would be able to see the soft, silvery filigree adorning his visible skin, on his face and neck, along his long elven ears, concentrating heavily around his shoulder blades and flowing down both sides of his bare torso. He was tall, with long limbs and a lithe build, yet in this setting, so waifish he’d easily be mistaken for a ghost himself. Soft, white curls with the same labyrinthine mix of subtle colors fell gently upon the man’s shoulders as the hand of another gripped the back of his head. In front of him, nearly on him, rather, was another– hair a shade of raven black, dark as their ebon wings. Skin pale, but olive undertones made him look infinitely darker than the man he embraced. This man, however, was smaller than the faded one by some several inches, their heads being at similar level only because the pale elf was sitting. The raven haired man’s other arm snaked around the elven one’s lower back, a firm grasp on his hip. All the while, the elven man’s arms were laced lightly around the shoulders of his companion. The two of them were locked in this embrace, bound together in a tangle of limbs.
The raven haired one’s hand on the other’s lower back drifted from its previous position; now, it rests atop the other’s sternum, gentle against his chest. He could feel his partner’s heart pound alongside every rise and fall of his breast with each breath. Parting their liplock, he plants a gentle kiss against his lover’s forehead and speaks, “I can feel your fear,” words said in a soft, hushed whisper; concern being the primary emotion present in his tone. “You do want this, right? I’m confident you’ll be fine,” spoken with a reassuring voice that was as sweet and smooth as honey with a sultry depth to it. The other man keeps his eyes closed and sighs, “I did– no, I do…I just didn’t realize how…how much I feared death until we got here,” his own voice soft and deep like velvet, but now possessing ripples of nerves and fear. His face twists in embarrassment, head tilting downwards and away from his partner. In response, the other man opens bright, golden eyes and sighs. He lifts the hand off the elven man’s chest and gently pushes his chin back up such that his own eyes meet with the other’s deep, reddened amber ones, “You’ll be fine.” His words were matter of fact in their confidence.
Knowing his lover well, the Ferrier secreted pathos onto his palm wordlessly as he moved his head to kiss the other’s jaw. Bringing the now tainted palm back to hovering over his partner’s chest, he swiftly draws the symbol he held so dear; remembering it well enough to draw even without directly looking. He was acutely aware that Degare would do his best to delay the inevitable, so he placed the mark of power without the other man noticing. Sometimes, pain is easier when you’re not actively dreading or anticipating it. The pathos quickly absorbed into his skin– the lines shifting into an oddly clean rendition of the mark, sitting right at the top of the elven man’s sternum, directly below his throat.
The mark now having been placed, the pale one is embraced by his Ferrier, arms tightening around him as his vision blurs immediately and it suddenly becomes harder to breathe. The air thickens as his lover lets go and steps back, a cold, silken blanket of ethos now wrapping around him like a tight cocoon glowing eerily blue. In sharp contrast to the heat of the other’s embrace, the air around him was heavy and cold. Each subsequent breath was more of a struggle than the last; his vision struggling too, shifting wildly as it had become obscured by both ash and ethos. In theory, he knew exactly what he had to do– practice, however, was a very different beast. Though he could feel panic begin to rise within him with each ever shorter breath, he steeled his mind as he prepared for the voices of the dead. At first, it was wailing, incoherent words he couldn’t understand. After some moments, he realized he was hearing myriad voices in an infinite amount of languages form a cacophony around him, booming in his ears. The noise was overwhelming and only added to the terror that was building in his chest. He could see images in flashes before him; death in all its forms and colors. Some brutal, some somber, some gruesome, some peaceful; all depicting the very same end all would one day meet.
Each story unraveling before him was enthralling and beautiful on its own; Degare found his mind drifting between the varying pages, watching them flit by before his eyes in a mosaic of color and sound. Suddenly, as if hit by something, a realization causes his mind to snap back to the painful reality of what was happening around him, now also burdened by the fact that his time was running out. His will to live reignites his focus with a fervor he didn’t initially have as he now forces himself to create the necessary reagent for his salvation: his own pathos. It was warm and sticky, like the blood that flowed through him, though he knew in reality it was a sickly, iridescent black. He felt like he was drowning. He didn’t understand how he was supposed to get anything into his mouth with all of the ashes clogging everything. As his pathos began to flow forth and ooze between his fingers, he brought both hands up to his face in a desperate attempt to swallow at least some small amount of it.
He must’ve succeeded to some degree, as in the following moments, he felt the violent urge to vomit well within him. Lunging forward, he stabilized himself by tightly grasping the altar he was sitting on with both hands. Wheezing out ashes, he dry heaves for some few moments before thick, black bile spews forth from his mouth. He was still nearly blind to everything happening around him. Deprived of oxygen and dizzy as he was, he decided to close his eyes tightly to avoid the distractions. He continued to throw up, violently vomiting more of the black bile onto the floor, onto his legs, all over himself. He felt cold but hot at the same time, a thin film of sweat having now veiled his skin. Shaking, he wraps his arms around himself, trying to calm down as the slow realization of his success begins to dawn on him.
When he finally opens tightly clenched eyes, he can make out the other man in front of him again. The raven haired man clad in robes of shadow stood before Degare with tightly crossed arms and a bright, cheery smile on his face as the last bits of apparent concern seem to fade away. “See? I told you– your success was inevitable.” The elven man blinks languidly, his haggard appearance now marred with black stains from the ritual; it was even still dripping down his face and jaw. “Averre, shut up,” he manages to choke out. The Ferrier’s face twists into laughter as he steps forward, lifting up the exhausted one’s chin with a fairly dainty finger. Their eyelines now connected, “Congratulations, you’ve now joined the ranks of the Ferriers yourself, love,” his upbeat tone not wavering a single bit.
“How do you feel? Have you any energy left?” eager questions asked by Averre in rapid succession. The elf gives an exaggerated sigh, loud and long. “How do you think I feel?” he snaps back, “I think I’ve at least some, though, why?” words said as his eyes narrowed in the direction of the other man. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he responds playfully, giggling as he steps forward, caressing the new Ferrier’s face with both of his hands. They share eye contact for a few brief moments before Averre’s hands drift down his lover’s neck, around his shoulders, and pull him into a kiss. For whatever reason, neither Ferrier appeared perturbed by the black bile now coating the newest initiate. Though one would imagine it to be disgusting, the raven haired man seemed to revel in the taste as he deepens their already impassioned kiss. Though the more veteran Ferrier was much smaller than height, he was arguably bigger as he weighed more; he was physically stronger, as well. With apparent ease, he lifts his partner to move him farther back on the altar before climbing up atop both it and him.
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'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
