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LaRPS : Legacies Role Play System » [IC] Character Chronicles

1. 

   Keighvin Silvansky | November 20, 2011 - 05:12 PM

   Reputation:375

   He stepped out of the pathway between here and there, and he stumbled, first. Going to his kneels. He hissed as the soft carpet met his skin, his hands came down, a primal movement. He inhaled, breaths he didn't need, didn't want, the thing inside him built, tortured in a blank male storm of pain and fury and hatred. His back arched up and he screamed. It was the kind of scream that one made when they could not hold in everything. It was a drum of war, inside his voice. It was a name. An ending, and a beginning. His fingers outstretched as he screamed, unending. A name.

   "MIKHAILLL!!!!"

   His fingertips had little eddies, shadow escaping him, and a jolt of power escaped him as every gift he had, every bit of magic, every bit of shadow, went rogue. The fury swarmed him, took him, it pulsed like a wicked thing around him, shadowy things swirling at the edge of his vision, which pulsed, his glamour fell, and he ignored it.

   His vision tunneled, narrowed, a growl, such a primal growl, not something done for show, escaped his lips. It was not a normal thing, it started in the lowest part of his chest and forced itself out. The chess table in the corner exploded. Shards of wood and chess piece flying and slingshotting around the room. His hands shook, trembled, as he howled his pain.

   The bookcase farthest from him tumbled over, the couch exploded on one end..stuffing flying everywhere, the expenditure of power flared, his hurt, his rage, his pain.

   And then he broke. Everything drew back inside him, like a void, and he collapsed forward, curling up. A piece of fluttering stuffing from the couch floated across the room, and he curled away, mourning his dead.

   He let memories take him as he grieved.

   A little boy, so white haired that he appeared too pale, offering a slim, narrow hand to the other. "Hi, I's Miki, woo you?"
   Two boys laughing, chasing each other around the hallways, running from the nurse-made and teachers.
   Older, curled up in the private rooms, listening to his brother's wonderful voice...
   His brother's tears...wet like silver..
   He strode forward, and his brother's face caught oddly in the light. Tears that looked like silver leaking from his eyes.
   "Oi don't want ter be a kin' Luc...Oi don't want ter, oi want it..I want de music. Oi don't want it..." the desperation of those silver eyes spoke to him,
   and both the heads, both in memory and out, bowed beneath that desperation.
   "Mik, Ah've been knowin' it...Ah've known it al' along, yer want de crown naw more than oi do lad." his voice held a tone of almost mourning. "We 'owever, 'av never been given a choice.."

   He curled up in the dark, accepted it at his very core. The pain lashing at him, unable to do more than simply lay there and grieve, his choking sobs, the tears that he had not been able to unbend with his Sire, with his Sister, now he let them free.

   He placed that breaking to Sanctuary, giving it the age old thing that all must. That people die. That pain existed. That even the darkness could mourn.
   Finally as the hours passed, his dark gaze clinging to the picture upon the wall, did he feel himself starting to calm.

   The aching hurt was still there, but it existed now. It no longer consumed him. It was like a blade, old and aged, reforged into the thing that it must be.
   He laid there, unmoving for the longest time, spent, finally his eyes close.

   The smallest whisper escapes his lips, the sound still choked from a throat that had mourned, it sounded like it was raw, like everything else about him, but not consumed..

   His voice started, an aching whisper, then in song, the only true way that he could mourn this particular dead, it started as a whisper, then sank into the walls, for they where the only one to hear him..The last song he
   had heard Mikhail ever sing...

   "De stars are pure bonny, above de palace walls, they shine wi' equal splendor still above far 'umbler 'alls..
   I watch dem from de windy, but their bright entrancin' glow, reminds me av' de freedom, dat de kin' tuk so long ago..."
   "De royal av rank rests lightly on me brow..I once tart ter run from waat dis tin' on me brow had said..
   I foun' it 'eavy on de 'eart, an' light upon de nog.
   "De true so 'tis prince knows 'is people fed before yer man sits ter feast.
   "The gran' prince knows 'is people safe before yer man takes 'is kip.
   Thinks twice an' thrice an' again before they make request.

   "They are al' me people, al' dat oi 'had sworn ter defend.
   It is me duty ter be both prince an' trusted friend.
   To love me laddies 'igh and low
   De dearest is me brah'der..who returns me care wi' love.."

   De dearest is me brah'der, swift ter sprin' ter me command
   Who give me aid an' fellowship, who alwus understands.
   That lan' an' people 'ave needs dat Oi cannot deny..
   Oi cannae send me dearest brah'der, ter danger an' ter die.."

   He adds new words to the end of Mikhail's song, making it his own, putting everything he had ever made of himself into it...

   "Dee's tears dat burn me eyes are al' de tears dat de prince cuid not shed..
   Tears dat Oi weep in silence, as I mourn me brah'der dead..
   Oh gods, above de stars, if yer 'ill 'ear me cry...
   an' if yer 'ave compassion..

   Let me say me last goodbye...."

   The words came from him, pouring out, all the things he felt, but could never express, whispered, sang, aching into the darkness. He made sure that they where clear,
   His goodbye to his brother.

   "A hand along tha road, a laugh ta lighten any load.
   A place ta bring a burderened 'eart, and heal the ache of sorrows dart.
   Who willin share in joy n' tears, and help ta ease the darkest fears..
   Or my soul like his own defend, all because he wer my friend..

   Nae grave cuid hold so free a soul, I can see him in the friskin foal
   I can hear him laughin' on tha breeze, tha' stirs the very tops of trees
   He soars with falcons on de wing, he is de song tha' nightbirds sing.
   Death can never dare him captive keep, he lies not thar, he does not sleep..

   But there be silence in me mind..that haunts the place he used ta be..
   And my family cannot allay..the loss I have sustained this day
   How bleak tha future now has grown, since I must face er' without him, but nae alone.
   Me road be wear, dark an steep, and it be..fer me brud'har I weep.."

   He crawled to his knees, forcing his aching body upwards, and inhaled, exhaled, breaths he never needed but wanted in that moment, the sound harsh in the room.
   He made the traditional movements of his people, the place of his hand upon his heart, the bow of his head, the touch upon the forehead, and the press of lips to air.

   "Goodbye me brud'har, Mikhail Averion Crechte. I will nae forget ye', I will keep ye here.." he taps his heart, then his head.
   "An here', I keep the memories ye give me. The song. I keep tha' for ya lad. I will miss ye me brud'har. Ye taught me tha one had ta fallow his own heart, nae the words of another."

   The words escaped the pitch black lips, and finally he allowed his body to be forced into the darkness of slumber..
   Yet even there he grieved. Swallowed into the darkness, and finally..finally he accepted it.............

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