46th of Summer, 515 AV
Priskil be with me, he would pray, until the end of days and the beginning of the afterlife. He had always reached out to her, beseeched her, always implored that she guide the hand of her faithful follower. And yet there was something entirely else inside of him that had lived within his heart from the day he was born . . . a need, an infatuation with things that were not wholly innocent, and far from normal. Even as someone who wanted to serve 'good', the methods in which he pursued this were never entirely docile. Abolish evil, but by the sword, by beheading the assailants of crimes or causing massive displays of destruction; revolutions, riots, rebellion and rebellion. Violence was the way he had always sought to fight violence, becoming an equal perpetrator in the meantime. And why not? Blood was something he adored - power too, something he always sought to swell. Unlike his surroundings, he didn't wish to become a man of means by using words, ethics or intellects. He always sought money and glory by means of improving his magical capabilities, and even manipulating those around him for his own methods. This was why he picked up hypnotism. It was because . . . a part of him longed for methods of getting what he wanted without the burden of hard work or civility attached, but instead always getting what he wanted with ease and never faltering at the thought of how that might effect another person.
He rested now, in his bed, but he couldn't truly fall asleep. He fell in and out of dream. When his body was waking, he prayed to Priskil, and he chanted her name. In the embrace of sleep, all that he could see and feel was a desire . . . a longing for something malign, a red curtain over a theater of inhumanities. But he didn't want to embrace this evil within himself. He would always pray to Her, that gilded woman, that bringer of light to hold back the shadows from encroaching upon his heart. So he whispered her name, Priskil, over and over until he could no longer remember the longings of the night before. This had always worked for him. It worked for him because he needed it to, because he couldn't go on if he ever accepted for a moment that there was an evil inside of him that he would never be able to fight. That, in truth, the older he got the more difficult the battle became. He had to keep whispering that golden-laced name and keep fighting against the evil that mirrored his fully actualized self.
I don't want to be what I am, he whispered more words. Only when he tittered back and forth between dreams did he ever feel close to the truth of his identity. It was during these times that he acknowledged the battle between good and evil inside of him, and fought it to his best ability. Perhaps Priskil knew of this, perhaps she listened to the words he whispered. Maybe she feared him. Maybe it made her love him more. "...Please," he mumbled. He was turning over and over in his sleep, his face sweating and his breathing increasing. He was almost shivering, shuddering, his arms crossing over his chest to yield warmth to his torso. At the moment, all on the lower part of the ship were asleep, and so no one noticed the sudden change in his behavior. He only barely noticed as well, wanting during his fleeting moments at being conscious that he stop his madness. "Please," he whispered again, before turning over and burying his head into the softer part of the bed. He held his arm out, extended past the frame of the bed, and reached out for something. "Please-" He requested yet again, his arm extending further and further before he pulled it back, turned over, squirmed.
By this point, the person nearest to him had been awoken by his constant jerking and calling. He rubbed his eyes and looked up, seeing Caesarion in his bizarre state and nearly fearing the manifestation of his behavior. The young mage whispered yet again, "Please," and this time he reached upward and grabbed something. Something intangible. He didn't let go. The other sailor stood up and slowly paced to Caesarion's bedside, grabbing him by the shoulder and asking: "Please, what?" At this moment, the mage's eyes opened and he whispered, with fear in his pupils and the greatest hesitation in his voice, "...Rhysol."
The two of them, quite instantaneously, both felt the same shock at the word that came from his lips. He had spent his entire life trying to get away from Ravok, get away from the Voice, the Black Sun, the Ebonstryfe, the Druvin, and from the Dark Lord... but ironically the hesitation vanished once he produced the first syllable. Rhy-sol.
Priskil be with me, he would pray, until the end of days and the beginning of the afterlife. He had always reached out to her, beseeched her, always implored that she guide the hand of her faithful follower. And yet there was something entirely else inside of him that had lived within his heart from the day he was born . . . a need, an infatuation with things that were not wholly innocent, and far from normal. Even as someone who wanted to serve 'good', the methods in which he pursued this were never entirely docile. Abolish evil, but by the sword, by beheading the assailants of crimes or causing massive displays of destruction; revolutions, riots, rebellion and rebellion. Violence was the way he had always sought to fight violence, becoming an equal perpetrator in the meantime. And why not? Blood was something he adored - power too, something he always sought to swell. Unlike his surroundings, he didn't wish to become a man of means by using words, ethics or intellects. He always sought money and glory by means of improving his magical capabilities, and even manipulating those around him for his own methods. This was why he picked up hypnotism. It was because . . . a part of him longed for methods of getting what he wanted without the burden of hard work or civility attached, but instead always getting what he wanted with ease and never faltering at the thought of how that might effect another person.
He rested now, in his bed, but he couldn't truly fall asleep. He fell in and out of dream. When his body was waking, he prayed to Priskil, and he chanted her name. In the embrace of sleep, all that he could see and feel was a desire . . . a longing for something malign, a red curtain over a theater of inhumanities. But he didn't want to embrace this evil within himself. He would always pray to Her, that gilded woman, that bringer of light to hold back the shadows from encroaching upon his heart. So he whispered her name, Priskil, over and over until he could no longer remember the longings of the night before. This had always worked for him. It worked for him because he needed it to, because he couldn't go on if he ever accepted for a moment that there was an evil inside of him that he would never be able to fight. That, in truth, the older he got the more difficult the battle became. He had to keep whispering that golden-laced name and keep fighting against the evil that mirrored his fully actualized self.
I don't want to be what I am, he whispered more words. Only when he tittered back and forth between dreams did he ever feel close to the truth of his identity. It was during these times that he acknowledged the battle between good and evil inside of him, and fought it to his best ability. Perhaps Priskil knew of this, perhaps she listened to the words he whispered. Maybe she feared him. Maybe it made her love him more. "...Please," he mumbled. He was turning over and over in his sleep, his face sweating and his breathing increasing. He was almost shivering, shuddering, his arms crossing over his chest to yield warmth to his torso. At the moment, all on the lower part of the ship were asleep, and so no one noticed the sudden change in his behavior. He only barely noticed as well, wanting during his fleeting moments at being conscious that he stop his madness. "Please," he whispered again, before turning over and burying his head into the softer part of the bed. He held his arm out, extended past the frame of the bed, and reached out for something. "Please-" He requested yet again, his arm extending further and further before he pulled it back, turned over, squirmed.
By this point, the person nearest to him had been awoken by his constant jerking and calling. He rubbed his eyes and looked up, seeing Caesarion in his bizarre state and nearly fearing the manifestation of his behavior. The young mage whispered yet again, "Please," and this time he reached upward and grabbed something. Something intangible. He didn't let go. The other sailor stood up and slowly paced to Caesarion's bedside, grabbing him by the shoulder and asking: "Please, what?" At this moment, the mage's eyes opened and he whispered, with fear in his pupils and the greatest hesitation in his voice, "...Rhysol."
The two of them, quite instantaneously, both felt the same shock at the word that came from his lips. He had spent his entire life trying to get away from Ravok, get away from the Voice, the Black Sun, the Ebonstryfe, the Druvin, and from the Dark Lord... but ironically the hesitation vanished once he produced the first syllable. Rhy-sol.
