6th of Frost, 4621
With all the acquired goods in hand and a congenial taste of copper on his tongue, Arkash let himself into the Inn and proceeded quickly up the stairs toward Taelian's room. Early in the morning, he let himself in and went straight to the bathroom with all his gathered supplies. His limp, and the limit to his breathing, had mostly cleared up after his feast, but there was still some pain in the movements that were made too sharply, and he had to take a long time to wind up before he changed direction.
His brisk pace to the bathroom was the product of multiple factors; the nature of the goods he carried, and the uncomfortable churning of his guts. The moment he stepped through the threshold of the bathroom door, Arkash set the bag down on the wooden floor, stumbled to the sink, clutched the sides, and lurched forward with a powerful heave. His guts contracted and squeezed in a desperate effort to eject all the accumulated corruption that sat in the pit of his stomach... And then, with a few hacking coughs, he vomited the black bile into the porcelain bowl.
Quietly, he allowed the thick, viscous tar to fall from his throat, despite the tears that welled and the tremors that wrought his form. Soon enough, the reaction came to an end, and Arkash was left panting and heaving over the sink. Strings of spit, gastral fluid, and congealed corruption bridged the gap between his lips and the sink, at least until he wiped away the mess with a swipe of his hand, then turned the handle of the faucet to wash the gunk away.
He stayed there for a moment, then cupped his hands beneath the running water to swirl out his mouth, and spat the remainder of the foul taste into the basin before he returned his white-knuckle clutch of the sink. There he stayed, catching his breath in the nigh-pitch-black bathroom, so early in the morning.
As the water continued to flow, he lifted his gaze to the eyes in the mirror, and watched his own visage with some degree of anger, even an underlying rage woven in his glare. As his features curled, he flared his nostrils with a deep breath, then parted his lips to exhale. Finally, he broke his own stare, and moved to the burlap sack he'd discard.
Sifting through its contents, Arkash collected the toothbrush and the glass jar of toothpaste within. After removing the cork seal, arkash dipped the bristles of the brush on the interior of the pot, brought it to his lips, and sniffed once before he curled his nose in revolt.
He hadn't brushed his teeth before, but he'd heard of how it was done from stories of migrants that passed through lower Nivenhain, and those that wound up trapped. So, he put the bristles in his mouth, pulled back his lips, and began to move the bristles up and down against his teeth, as though he was brushing them.
As the bitter material became foamy in his mouth, Arkash resolved to hold his breath as he reached around for his back teeth, and fetched the brushing of the insides, too. When he was done, he spat into the basin, ran the wooden toothbrush under the sink, then set it at the edge before he washed off his face with the running water.
Finally, he twisted the handle to turn off the flow, then returned his gaze to the mirror while his features dripped in the bowl. The foul taste of the paste remained attached to his palette while he re-sealed the jar, then returned it to the burlap bag.
Next, from its contents, Arkash retrieved the severed arm he'd stowed earlier in the night, the last remaining remnant of his previous meal. It was weighty in his hands, as the donor carried quite a bit of muscle. He lugged it across the room, and set it on the stand across from him with a straightening of his back.
From Taelian's Necromancy kit, Arkash began to rummage for the mortar and pestle, and the Sinew Gun, both. When he found them, he brought them to the sink, and snapped the band of hardened blood that wrapped his bicep before he formed a knife, and began to cut through a portion of the severed arm. With a big enough piece, he threw it in the mortar, and began to grind it into the milky white paste known as Sinew Foam with a few brisk strokes, then carefully scraped it into the Sinew Gun.
Arkash sighed, then collected the implement to test the weight of the foam present, and decided it was enough... At least until he needed more.
A shaky breath filled his lungs as he peeled his gaze from the device to look upon himself once more. Holding that stare, he began to peel away his clothes and lifted his burlap shirt over his head before tossing it on the floor without regard.
His misty eyes fell over his body in the dark of the mirror, and he looked upon the imperfections in his skin, the marks of blades that trailed the stretches of his body, the gnarled, warped flesh that surrounded stabbings long healed. Arkash shivered as he reached for his arm, and pressed a thumb at the groove there, laid deep in his bicep, surrounded by a crater of warped flesh. It was harder than the rest of his skin, still pliant, but leathery and rubbery to the touch.
More than that, it was hideous. It was a small wound, a place where he'd cut his arm while fleeing Raphael... Now a permanent reminder of his failure, forever bound to haunt him. That was if he wasn't at all familiar with Necromancy.
He let the wound go, and collected the blood knife from the edge of the bathroom sink. He hesitated there, took a deep breath through his nose, then carefully moved the knife to the scar. His heart began to race, his breathing turned ragged. His muscles felt like iron, tense and unmoving.
He'd opened his wrists hundreds of times for the use of Blood Magic, but this was different. Arkash had never operated on himself before. Doubt clouded his mind. What if he did it wrong and it came out looking even worse? But then, could it be worse than he currently appeared?
Despite his reasoning, it still felt like an impossible weight held back his hand, even when the cold of the hardened, black blood met his skin. He held his breath for some time while he tried to force himself, to no avail. Finally, he pulled the blade away and let out a shaky sigh. He breathed quickly, trying to catch up on everything he'd missed while his heart rang loud in his ears.
Recognition flashed in his eyes for a moment, and he set the knife down before he moved back to the bag, reached inside, and collected a small stretch of rope and some wooden pegs. With tense fists, he brought it back to the sink and lifted his gaze to the reflection in the mirror. As though his own visage stirred something within him, he began to tie the space above the wound with the hemp rope, just tight enough to limit blood loss. next, he placed a wooden peg in his mouth to cushion his teeth from one another.
Again, he collected the knife, and stole himself the hesitation, and brought it to his gnarled wound. He swallowed, his mouth ran dry, his hands shook and his breathing picked up again while he watched the blade's position on his skin. He felt the edge dig into him, ready to break through and reunite with the blood in his veins. This time, he couldn't even will himself to try. Arkash didn't want to cut himself, not for something as trivial as looks. Weaponizing his blood was much easier than something so cosmetic.
But when his eyes met his own in the dark mirror's reflection, the wind changed. He drank all his features, all his torn-up and wrought skin, then pressed the blade a little harder against himself.
The pain startled him, but he didn't focus on it. Instead, he set his focus on all his imperfections, the warped, twisted reflection of the life he'd lived. The blade began to glide down the length of the scar, and Arkash trembled as he bit down hard onto the peg.
Thick, sappy fluid began to run in streaks down his arm, and Arkash held his breath as he felt the warmth spill over his skin. Even so, he didn't pause. Even as tears welled in his eyes, he focused on the larger picture and split the second cut in his skin. Then came the third, and the fourth and final cut.
His skill with a knife had served him well, as he'd managed a few clean cuts despite the tremors that ran through his arm. While the spot burned and throbbed with pain, bleeding all down himself, Arkash set the knife down with a shaky hand and rang a clatter against the porcelain of the sink.
The easy part was done, next was the hard part. Carefully, he removed the peg from his mouth with a pull and yanked it from the points of his sharp teeth. He found he'd almost bitten through it completely, so he replaced the peg and returned to the procedure.
His eyes fixed on his own again, and he followed the pain with his free hand to feel about the corner. Again, he brought attention to the revolting nature of his body, and pushed his thumb into the wound as tears began to run down his cheeks. A pained whine left his throat as he felt about with the nail of his thumb, and slipped under his skin with a squeeze, like driving a wedge between a length of lumber, and peeled just the corner away from his body before he took a pinch of the gnarled, warped, bloodied meat.
He breathed quickly, he began to drool in addition to his watery eyes and snotty nose. His vision wavered a little while he looked all about his body in search of inspiration, something to drive him just that little bit further, something to force his hand. When he found his eyes again in the haze of his tears, and the throb of pain, he pulled hard with his free hand.
In a flash of blinding pain, it all came loose. The square of skin he'd cut out was ripped from the lower tissues that guarded his muscle and bone, and left in its wake was a deep, black mark, oozing his tar-like blood. Arkash began to cry, a pitiful whimper that rumbled in the back of his throat as he composed himself of the pain that came with skinning himself.
Finally, he let the scrap of skin fall to the sink basin, and cast sway to pull all the wasted blood back into his body. He pressed hard on the surface while his racing heart continued to push through his veins and circulate his lifeblood. Again, he opened the faucet, and washed his hands of all the gunk before he collected the sinew gun.
Wavering at the end of his adrenal high, he pressed the nozzle of the gun into the crater and began to fill in the empty space with Sinew Foam. Rapidly, the material converted into several layers of skin, and gradually covered more and more of his open wound as Arkash went. Though it hardened in a fashion he found satisfying, it was still lumpy and bumpy, as was the nature of Sinew Foam.
After setting the gun down, Arkash collected the carving sickle from the bag, and began to shave away the excess flesh. The entire area burned with pain in wake of the flaying, he barely noticed the subtle shavings of a razor on his skin.
Finally, it was flat. The space left in wake of the procedure was smooth, contoured perfectly, and completely flawless, devoid of any blemishes, scars, and hair. Shakily, he set the sickle down, and sighed with relief. His one hand untied the knot above the site with the aid of his teeth once he'd removed the bitten-through pegs, and he brought himself to sit at the edge of the bath.
As he took his arm in his hand, and felt over the site with his thumb, Arkash couldn't help but smile. Even if it still hurt deep beneath his skin, he at least knew he could fix himself, and be rid of all the things that disgusted him.
One scar down, maybe a dozen left to go?
With all the acquired goods in hand and a congenial taste of copper on his tongue, Arkash let himself into the Inn and proceeded quickly up the stairs toward Taelian's room. Early in the morning, he let himself in and went straight to the bathroom with all his gathered supplies. His limp, and the limit to his breathing, had mostly cleared up after his feast, but there was still some pain in the movements that were made too sharply, and he had to take a long time to wind up before he changed direction.
His brisk pace to the bathroom was the product of multiple factors; the nature of the goods he carried, and the uncomfortable churning of his guts. The moment he stepped through the threshold of the bathroom door, Arkash set the bag down on the wooden floor, stumbled to the sink, clutched the sides, and lurched forward with a powerful heave. His guts contracted and squeezed in a desperate effort to eject all the accumulated corruption that sat in the pit of his stomach... And then, with a few hacking coughs, he vomited the black bile into the porcelain bowl.
Quietly, he allowed the thick, viscous tar to fall from his throat, despite the tears that welled and the tremors that wrought his form. Soon enough, the reaction came to an end, and Arkash was left panting and heaving over the sink. Strings of spit, gastral fluid, and congealed corruption bridged the gap between his lips and the sink, at least until he wiped away the mess with a swipe of his hand, then turned the handle of the faucet to wash the gunk away.
He stayed there for a moment, then cupped his hands beneath the running water to swirl out his mouth, and spat the remainder of the foul taste into the basin before he returned his white-knuckle clutch of the sink. There he stayed, catching his breath in the nigh-pitch-black bathroom, so early in the morning.
As the water continued to flow, he lifted his gaze to the eyes in the mirror, and watched his own visage with some degree of anger, even an underlying rage woven in his glare. As his features curled, he flared his nostrils with a deep breath, then parted his lips to exhale. Finally, he broke his own stare, and moved to the burlap sack he'd discard.
Sifting through its contents, Arkash collected the toothbrush and the glass jar of toothpaste within. After removing the cork seal, arkash dipped the bristles of the brush on the interior of the pot, brought it to his lips, and sniffed once before he curled his nose in revolt.
He hadn't brushed his teeth before, but he'd heard of how it was done from stories of migrants that passed through lower Nivenhain, and those that wound up trapped. So, he put the bristles in his mouth, pulled back his lips, and began to move the bristles up and down against his teeth, as though he was brushing them.
As the bitter material became foamy in his mouth, Arkash resolved to hold his breath as he reached around for his back teeth, and fetched the brushing of the insides, too. When he was done, he spat into the basin, ran the wooden toothbrush under the sink, then set it at the edge before he washed off his face with the running water.
Finally, he twisted the handle to turn off the flow, then returned his gaze to the mirror while his features dripped in the bowl. The foul taste of the paste remained attached to his palette while he re-sealed the jar, then returned it to the burlap bag.
Next, from its contents, Arkash retrieved the severed arm he'd stowed earlier in the night, the last remaining remnant of his previous meal. It was weighty in his hands, as the donor carried quite a bit of muscle. He lugged it across the room, and set it on the stand across from him with a straightening of his back.
From Taelian's Necromancy kit, Arkash began to rummage for the mortar and pestle, and the Sinew Gun, both. When he found them, he brought them to the sink, and snapped the band of hardened blood that wrapped his bicep before he formed a knife, and began to cut through a portion of the severed arm. With a big enough piece, he threw it in the mortar, and began to grind it into the milky white paste known as Sinew Foam with a few brisk strokes, then carefully scraped it into the Sinew Gun.
Arkash sighed, then collected the implement to test the weight of the foam present, and decided it was enough... At least until he needed more.
A shaky breath filled his lungs as he peeled his gaze from the device to look upon himself once more. Holding that stare, he began to peel away his clothes and lifted his burlap shirt over his head before tossing it on the floor without regard.
His misty eyes fell over his body in the dark of the mirror, and he looked upon the imperfections in his skin, the marks of blades that trailed the stretches of his body, the gnarled, warped flesh that surrounded stabbings long healed. Arkash shivered as he reached for his arm, and pressed a thumb at the groove there, laid deep in his bicep, surrounded by a crater of warped flesh. It was harder than the rest of his skin, still pliant, but leathery and rubbery to the touch.
More than that, it was hideous. It was a small wound, a place where he'd cut his arm while fleeing Raphael... Now a permanent reminder of his failure, forever bound to haunt him. That was if he wasn't at all familiar with Necromancy.
He let the wound go, and collected the blood knife from the edge of the bathroom sink. He hesitated there, took a deep breath through his nose, then carefully moved the knife to the scar. His heart began to race, his breathing turned ragged. His muscles felt like iron, tense and unmoving.
He'd opened his wrists hundreds of times for the use of Blood Magic, but this was different. Arkash had never operated on himself before. Doubt clouded his mind. What if he did it wrong and it came out looking even worse? But then, could it be worse than he currently appeared?
Despite his reasoning, it still felt like an impossible weight held back his hand, even when the cold of the hardened, black blood met his skin. He held his breath for some time while he tried to force himself, to no avail. Finally, he pulled the blade away and let out a shaky sigh. He breathed quickly, trying to catch up on everything he'd missed while his heart rang loud in his ears.
Recognition flashed in his eyes for a moment, and he set the knife down before he moved back to the bag, reached inside, and collected a small stretch of rope and some wooden pegs. With tense fists, he brought it back to the sink and lifted his gaze to the reflection in the mirror. As though his own visage stirred something within him, he began to tie the space above the wound with the hemp rope, just tight enough to limit blood loss. next, he placed a wooden peg in his mouth to cushion his teeth from one another.
Again, he collected the knife, and stole himself the hesitation, and brought it to his gnarled wound. He swallowed, his mouth ran dry, his hands shook and his breathing picked up again while he watched the blade's position on his skin. He felt the edge dig into him, ready to break through and reunite with the blood in his veins. This time, he couldn't even will himself to try. Arkash didn't want to cut himself, not for something as trivial as looks. Weaponizing his blood was much easier than something so cosmetic.
But when his eyes met his own in the dark mirror's reflection, the wind changed. He drank all his features, all his torn-up and wrought skin, then pressed the blade a little harder against himself.
The pain startled him, but he didn't focus on it. Instead, he set his focus on all his imperfections, the warped, twisted reflection of the life he'd lived. The blade began to glide down the length of the scar, and Arkash trembled as he bit down hard onto the peg.
Thick, sappy fluid began to run in streaks down his arm, and Arkash held his breath as he felt the warmth spill over his skin. Even so, he didn't pause. Even as tears welled in his eyes, he focused on the larger picture and split the second cut in his skin. Then came the third, and the fourth and final cut.
His skill with a knife had served him well, as he'd managed a few clean cuts despite the tremors that ran through his arm. While the spot burned and throbbed with pain, bleeding all down himself, Arkash set the knife down with a shaky hand and rang a clatter against the porcelain of the sink.
The easy part was done, next was the hard part. Carefully, he removed the peg from his mouth with a pull and yanked it from the points of his sharp teeth. He found he'd almost bitten through it completely, so he replaced the peg and returned to the procedure.
His eyes fixed on his own again, and he followed the pain with his free hand to feel about the corner. Again, he brought attention to the revolting nature of his body, and pushed his thumb into the wound as tears began to run down his cheeks. A pained whine left his throat as he felt about with the nail of his thumb, and slipped under his skin with a squeeze, like driving a wedge between a length of lumber, and peeled just the corner away from his body before he took a pinch of the gnarled, warped, bloodied meat.
He breathed quickly, he began to drool in addition to his watery eyes and snotty nose. His vision wavered a little while he looked all about his body in search of inspiration, something to drive him just that little bit further, something to force his hand. When he found his eyes again in the haze of his tears, and the throb of pain, he pulled hard with his free hand.
In a flash of blinding pain, it all came loose. The square of skin he'd cut out was ripped from the lower tissues that guarded his muscle and bone, and left in its wake was a deep, black mark, oozing his tar-like blood. Arkash began to cry, a pitiful whimper that rumbled in the back of his throat as he composed himself of the pain that came with skinning himself.
Finally, he let the scrap of skin fall to the sink basin, and cast sway to pull all the wasted blood back into his body. He pressed hard on the surface while his racing heart continued to push through his veins and circulate his lifeblood. Again, he opened the faucet, and washed his hands of all the gunk before he collected the sinew gun.
Wavering at the end of his adrenal high, he pressed the nozzle of the gun into the crater and began to fill in the empty space with Sinew Foam. Rapidly, the material converted into several layers of skin, and gradually covered more and more of his open wound as Arkash went. Though it hardened in a fashion he found satisfying, it was still lumpy and bumpy, as was the nature of Sinew Foam.
After setting the gun down, Arkash collected the carving sickle from the bag, and began to shave away the excess flesh. The entire area burned with pain in wake of the flaying, he barely noticed the subtle shavings of a razor on his skin.
Finally, it was flat. The space left in wake of the procedure was smooth, contoured perfectly, and completely flawless, devoid of any blemishes, scars, and hair. Shakily, he set the sickle down, and sighed with relief. His one hand untied the knot above the site with the aid of his teeth once he'd removed the bitten-through pegs, and he brought himself to sit at the edge of the bath.
As he took his arm in his hand, and felt over the site with his thumb, Arkash couldn't help but smile. Even if it still hurt deep beneath his skin, he at least knew he could fix himself, and be rid of all the things that disgusted him.
One scar down, maybe a dozen left to go?
