There's No Rest For The Wicked. No Time For Sleep When You Are Cursed.
Fall 1, 517 A.V.
A cold and shallow realization loomed over Xen: for him, it seemed better to work unfettered and unaccompanied by another.
He sat beside a large stone with two weapons while he remained idle and devoid of thought: a tulwar which reclined on his right shoulder and a machete tucked in a sheath on his side. Additionally, there was a small shield strapped to his right arm; it too like the other weapons sat in silence with him.
Here, Xen observed the waves and all the little things that moved on the beach such as the red crabs that scuttled across the sand and the seagulls which preyed upon them and the small fish of the waves. He listened to the wind; the sound of rustling branches and their leaves, and the distant cries of peacocks: birds of paradise.
“ It's so peaceful, ” Xen uttered to no one in particular besides an open world he enjoyed during downtime. However, surprisingly, nothing disturbed him which was odd since sand flies usually nipped his legs and toes at this hour. But Xen disregarded their absence and shrugged, deeming it unnecessary to think deeply upon the lack of biting, flying insects when they were, in essence, a nuisance. So, he stretched out his legs, placed his tulwar onto his chest and rested his back on the sand, letting its pleasant warmth cradle him without hesitation. Such luxuriation afforded Xen—though momentary and inconclusive—respite from ever intensifying instabilities he possessed since he was just a mere snakeling who sought adventure in the streets of Alvadas. Bitterly, so long ago in a time when happiness, companions, and unconditional love were abundant and Xen in humble safekeeping suffered no lack of these things.
Eventually, Xen felt his eyelids become heavy: a sign that sleep was immenent, forewarning he would become another thrall to slumber, yet one undoubtedly free from the harshness of reality which tormented then coddled him like a possessive, abusive spouse. Naturally, the surrounding world progressed without him as he slowly closed his eyes to the sound of peacocks, self-possessed waves on the shore, and growing disembodied whispers within the breeze; seemingly harmless things he indulged in without understanding or noticing their significance while engulfed by darkness and obmutescence. But ultimately even the things he listened to fade into oblivion, leaving him alone; formless in the void which was his mind and freed from foolish sentimentalities he began to hate.
“ Usually, I'm at peace when things are silent, so why do I feel itchy and fretful? ” It happened quickly without him noticing; its masterful intrusion soundless, reminiscent to a knifing cloaked by a corrupt detectives indecorous secrets, guilt, and lies. A bane had slipped into Xen's mind: one imperceptible to all his mental faculties, except his subconsciousness that alerted him to danger in the most primitive way it could devise. Xen writhed in response to his subconscious as ravenous thoughts and imageries flickered rapidly in his mind like subliminal messages within a static-filled television screen.
Shortly, horrid things manifested within: voices belonging to the dead possibly called out to him from within a swirling black and dark red vortex that smelled of wet garbage and decay. They whispered vile things to him—wickedness that suited madmen and reprobates—and pulled at him with dried, long, cold appendages he could not call hands from inside the darkness he created within his mind.
Xen recoiled and screamed in horror until he awakened from his harrowing nightmare with his tulwar unsheathed, ready to combat each thing or creature that spoke to him. A battle never occurred because nothing opposed Xen, only a world he closed his eyes to welcomed him without compassion.
“ A bedeviling dream...” Xen uttered as he looked around: he saw nothing besides the all so real loneliness fate bestowed onto him. Afterward, he decided to leave Treasure Point and walk back to Syka but not before he recomposed himself by fixing his attire, brushing off the sand and blood. Xen raised his hands he noticed were laced in chilling blood and despaired. “A bedeviling dream without end, ” Then he heard innumerable things whisper to him once more, compelling him to cover his ears in a futile attempt to stifle their voices he knew originated from within him.
“A blade that’s tasted blood will always long for more, ” Xen heard his voice—the druvin, Lazerin—amidst the others so clearly he was certain he could almost feel the presence of the priest of Rhysol standing beside him, coaxing him to hold up the cursed blade he possessed. So he did, and in the tulwar's reflective surface he noticed white, pupilless, seemingly all-knowing eyes—so like his own soulless, crazed eyes—looking back at him. They filled Xen with an intense almost animalistic desire to kill and destroy, driving him deeper into a dark state where madness beckoned him.
A cold and shallow realization loomed over Xen: for him, it seemed better to work unfettered and unaccompanied by another.
He sat beside a large stone with two weapons while he remained idle and devoid of thought: a tulwar which reclined on his right shoulder and a machete tucked in a sheath on his side. Additionally, there was a small shield strapped to his right arm; it too like the other weapons sat in silence with him.
Here, Xen observed the waves and all the little things that moved on the beach such as the red crabs that scuttled across the sand and the seagulls which preyed upon them and the small fish of the waves. He listened to the wind; the sound of rustling branches and their leaves, and the distant cries of peacocks: birds of paradise.
“ It's so peaceful, ” Xen uttered to no one in particular besides an open world he enjoyed during downtime. However, surprisingly, nothing disturbed him which was odd since sand flies usually nipped his legs and toes at this hour. But Xen disregarded their absence and shrugged, deeming it unnecessary to think deeply upon the lack of biting, flying insects when they were, in essence, a nuisance. So, he stretched out his legs, placed his tulwar onto his chest and rested his back on the sand, letting its pleasant warmth cradle him without hesitation. Such luxuriation afforded Xen—though momentary and inconclusive—respite from ever intensifying instabilities he possessed since he was just a mere snakeling who sought adventure in the streets of Alvadas. Bitterly, so long ago in a time when happiness, companions, and unconditional love were abundant and Xen in humble safekeeping suffered no lack of these things.
Eventually, Xen felt his eyelids become heavy: a sign that sleep was immenent, forewarning he would become another thrall to slumber, yet one undoubtedly free from the harshness of reality which tormented then coddled him like a possessive, abusive spouse. Naturally, the surrounding world progressed without him as he slowly closed his eyes to the sound of peacocks, self-possessed waves on the shore, and growing disembodied whispers within the breeze; seemingly harmless things he indulged in without understanding or noticing their significance while engulfed by darkness and obmutescence. But ultimately even the things he listened to fade into oblivion, leaving him alone; formless in the void which was his mind and freed from foolish sentimentalities he began to hate.
“ Usually, I'm at peace when things are silent, so why do I feel itchy and fretful? ” It happened quickly without him noticing; its masterful intrusion soundless, reminiscent to a knifing cloaked by a corrupt detectives indecorous secrets, guilt, and lies. A bane had slipped into Xen's mind: one imperceptible to all his mental faculties, except his subconsciousness that alerted him to danger in the most primitive way it could devise. Xen writhed in response to his subconscious as ravenous thoughts and imageries flickered rapidly in his mind like subliminal messages within a static-filled television screen.
Shortly, horrid things manifested within: voices belonging to the dead possibly called out to him from within a swirling black and dark red vortex that smelled of wet garbage and decay. They whispered vile things to him—wickedness that suited madmen and reprobates—and pulled at him with dried, long, cold appendages he could not call hands from inside the darkness he created within his mind.
Xen recoiled and screamed in horror until he awakened from his harrowing nightmare with his tulwar unsheathed, ready to combat each thing or creature that spoke to him. A battle never occurred because nothing opposed Xen, only a world he closed his eyes to welcomed him without compassion.
“ A bedeviling dream...” Xen uttered as he looked around: he saw nothing besides the all so real loneliness fate bestowed onto him. Afterward, he decided to leave Treasure Point and walk back to Syka but not before he recomposed himself by fixing his attire, brushing off the sand and blood. Xen raised his hands he noticed were laced in chilling blood and despaired. “A bedeviling dream without end, ” Then he heard innumerable things whisper to him once more, compelling him to cover his ears in a futile attempt to stifle their voices he knew originated from within him.
“A blade that’s tasted blood will always long for more, ” Xen heard his voice—the druvin, Lazerin—amidst the others so clearly he was certain he could almost feel the presence of the priest of Rhysol standing beside him, coaxing him to hold up the cursed blade he possessed. So he did, and in the tulwar's reflective surface he noticed white, pupilless, seemingly all-knowing eyes—so like his own soulless, crazed eyes—looking back at him. They filled Xen with an intense almost animalistic desire to kill and destroy, driving him deeper into a dark state where madness beckoned him.
