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"Hear a few words, girl, an' that becomes all you focus on," the voice that emanated from the cat said in reply to her questions. She focused on her crew. Not one bit of consideration for herself. The cat, whom had just told her that her friends would have to face their fates all on their own, found itself somewhat annoyed by the fact that Runali had not consider she also had to face her fate alone. She would have to. She couldn't get out of this test nor pass this trial with anything less than her own personal strength and passion, and focusing on the rest of her crew wasn't going to cut it. In the land of tbhe living, one might preach about the strength of friendship, but here? In this world? In a world numb to feelings of friendship and warmth? In this world, that wouldn't cut it.
"You best be for worryin' 'bout yourself, Runali. You're not a captain here. You're nothing here but a lost soul until you prove otherwise, so stop pretending your considerations will change things," the cat told her before it leaped off the marble statue it was on to pounce at Runali as if it were her prey. Although, much like one might except from a magical cat in the world of the dead, its black body became little more than a spectral haze as it floated through the air and began circling around Runali, circling her entire body in the same haze and saying little else. It was changing her. The cat had all intentions on showing her what she could be if she focused on herself more instead of her crew.
It was only a few brief moments, but once the haze cleared, Runali was different. She was taller, stronger, her dress was more regale in a formal captain's uniform. What she felt, however, was the numbness of this world go away. She felt the lives of thousands upon thousands of lost, captured souls. She felt their sorrow. Her covered eye tingled, as if it was granting her this insight, as if she saw without seeing. She saw the weaknesses in all those other people. She saw why they were here, why they were dead. It was as if being told ten thousand stories at once with a single common denominator: their weakness.
Runali was in fact taller. She was more muscular, too. On her side, the small blade broken by Shouta, had turned into a magnificent cutlass of gold-ordained steel. Her hat was a thick, black-leather brimmed moniker of a pirate queen. She felt in touch with this world, sure, but she also felt in touch with everything she once took for granted. The Coral Pearl, its sailing spirit. Her crew, how she relied on their strengths with leadership seemingly her only one. She, aside from her presence, gave nothing to her crew. In combat, she was arguably the weakest. In tradeskills, she had the fewest. In fact, if not for making decisions, she was pointless to her crew, but now. Now as this strong, tall version of herself, she could understand the stars and the currents. She somehow understood the energy Shouta used, if only briefly. Her mind whirled at million miles per hour reviewing more minds and memories than her imagination had to offer. If she had lived like this, she might not have died as she did.
"Do you understand, girl, what you could be? Why you died?" the cat asked as it floated in front of her, breaking the trance of her new found capabilities.
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"You may be the most annoying excuse for a mortal I have met in centuries," the voice replied to Luro before manifesting as a storm of black fog in front of him. The figure in a long, black cloak that seemed to blend fabric into fog siezed Luro's throat in an instant, rendering him speechless, and forcing his body limp. In this world, these spirits were gods, and no amount of struggling could stop that. "You like the poison, do ye?" the voice said after letting out a light chuckle.
In moments, Luro's mind began to haze. Far more than he ever did with any booze. This was taking it further. This was the line most men blacked out on after a night of drinking, but Luro was being forced through it. There was no pain or suffering, though. In fact, there was a drunken sense of euphoria that clouded his mind. This was almost pure pleasure. Ecstasy in the form of faux intoxication. If his heart could pump golden streams of jubilee through his veins instead of blood, then that would only begin to describe this state. Time slowed, maybe it didn't even exist. In this state, ten years could have been a second. A second could have been a lfie time. What this spirit showed Luro is that his mortal efforts at drinking were pointless to the dead and damned.
Then, he took it all away. Not just the euphoria he granted for a few moments, but the buzz from his flask, too. He left Luro painfully sober. So sober that no amount of alcohol might ever appease him again; at least, not nearly the way the hand of death could. Luro was more aware of the world than ever. He was no longer numb or cold, he could feel. And, that was good. The spirit tossed Luro onto the ground like a ragdoll, then slammed a cane into his right hand's index finger, snapping it in half. He allowed this pain to pour through Luro before pulling a blade of out his cane and using it to pin Luro to the sandy ground by stabbing it through the left side of his chest, right below his heart. The spirit did not stop here. He wanted to see the pain. He enjoyed it. He slammed his cane into the finger beside the one he had just broke, only grinning more. A malice this pure had to be masculine, even if the figure was androgynous at best.
"You're a pathetic drunk, mortal. Your crew will be best off without you," the voice told him as he leaned over his helpless body. "Maybe, if they get their second chance, they'll live a bit longer without a useless excuse for a sailor like yourself holding them back. You might not be afraid to die, but you're definitely afraid to live."
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The gentlemen holding the flower waved his hand over towards a set of statues. As he did, life returned to them, and they dropped to the ground panting. Mumbling and murmurs escape from them before they glazed back over as marble, and the marble statues creaked and cracked as they stood up tot heir original positions. He allowed them a few brief moments at life again. Different people, too. A couple men, a young boy, and what looked like a mother holding her daughter closely. The fact was, they were all dead regardless. All those here from all walks of life were. Ten thousand untold stories. Ten thousand souls damned.
"If I want color, Alicia, I can have it. Those trapped here are not trapped by me, but by themselves. After they fail to leave... they just become more pieces of art in my marble courtyard," the voice told her. These spirits were, of course, gods within this realm. This world. This transition between life and death. Was this the bottom of the ocean floor? The watery gravy? Was the silver, silken sky nothing more than a metaphor for being below the ocean itself? Was every wave of light just a beam of sun filtered by thousands of feet of water? Was there no light in the bottom of the ocean? Was there no escape?
The man sighed, then dropped his flower, allowing it to float gently through the air. Its petals, white as they were, fell from its red inner bloom. As the flower hit the ground, the man disappeared, reappearing in front of Alicia. Just as the others had been rendered helpless, so was Alicia. She could only stand still as the warm hand of this individual, as poetic as he was cold, caressed her cheek with the only source of warmth that had ever emanated from this place. He smirked, his gentle face almost as smooth was the marble around him. "In my life, they called me Antoine. You are far more beautiful up close, if I may add..." he told her. Here, he seemed human. He seemed, if not for a bit of an Adonis, mortal.
"You have spent your entire life training, honing your body and your spirit to fight others. I can even see inside your eyes," he told her, "a hate for a man named Shouta. We know of him here, but you have such an intense drive to avenge yourself. Yet, you appreciate him as he has pushed you further in your goal." He said to her, holding her cheek as if she were his and his alone. "I stand here to tell you that there is more. You have overlooked so much of life that you are wasting it... Alicia, I cannot grant you a second chance if you will dwindled it away, holding back this beauty of yours, all over again."
Unlike the other spirits, Antoine did not end his retort to her with a powerful quip. Instead, he pressed his gentle lips to Alicia's and allowed her to feel the warmth of his body erase the cold numbness that this world had set in. He held her close, as if she were his and this was life, and he showed her an aspect of life the warrior of a woman had seemed to never even consider. Into her mind, through their lips, he showed her the love of a mother as she held her scared daughter. He showed her the men whom had lost their lover, and how that feeling could easily overwhelm a warrior spirit. Maybe most of all, he showed her how a single kiss could feel, even it was only because she was rendered powerless to stop it.
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"Monsieur Fischer, seek no security for what you ought not know. If I am here to give you, an' only you, a opportunity for redemption, then so be it. You, sir, are the pirate - if that is what you think you are - that broke down an' cried," the childlike voice replied. In fact, it was somewhat irritated - as most of the spirits obviously were - that this small crew were more focused on its others than themselves. It was become more and more impossible to assess them as individuals. "You're a dead man, Monsieur Fischer, an' so are your friends. You can't help them, but you can yourself," the voice added to its speech.
"Each of us here are spirits, selected to represent an aspect of life," the voice told Nolan. The voice had been darting around the marble statues, changing between them as if the voice were theirs. "I asked you once to make sense of it, an' you couldn't e'en make sense of yourself. Now you ask such petty questions, such as if your friends get this same chance. I shall tell you, but only because I want not another word from you about them, Nolan," the voice said. It was as if it had changed its mind mid-sentence. In fact, it did. The spirit refused to deal with Nolan in such a frantic state, and it had no choice but to deal with him regardless.
"One is lost forever to the abyss. Their spirit was for naught; too weak to even make here. One was shown what she could be, and how if she fulfilled her potential could have saved you all. The other has kissed death himself to understand what she lacked in life. One was thrown into a drunken haze, then beaten and broken to be taught a lesson. The last, I believe, lives in delusions of grandeur regarding where he believes he is. As I said, you are all such odd creatures... so inconsistent," the spirit explained to Nolan. It's tone had changed. It had forfeited its childlike tone for a more masculine one, as if one could hear the frustration within it.
"Now, I'll you again, Monsieur Fischer. Why would a frantic man like yourself be paired with the Spirit of Purity?"
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Shaw only sighed when he heard the lamenting of Ray. He might not have taken death like a bitch, but he sure had a lot to bitch about in general. Shaw lifted his hands and out from a brown, stale smoke materialized a hunk of wood and a small knife. Shaw meant no harm with it, in a few moments it was obvious what he was doing. He was whittling away at the piece of wood, sculpting it into something. The wood was dark, almost purple, unlike anything Raw had seen before. Coming from the aristocracy of Skalter Manor, too, he likely could tell the difference in the grain of cedar, oak, spruce, etc., not to mention its color. This was raw, as well, no stain. Then again, nothing in this world was as expected to be.
"Boy, lemme jus' tell you somethin' that I don't believe ya'll undahstan'. All yo friends done the same damn thing when we talked to them. They drone on and on and on about you other guys, all worried an' shit. But lemme tell you what our jobs are, as spirits. Ray, my job is tell what kind'a person you are and if youz deserve a second chance up topside. Now, bein' concerned for yo friends is fine an' dandy, but you eat our time by jus' goin' on about. Lemme tell ya, I'm only responsible for you. I don't give two shits about Runali, I don't give a damn about Luro, Danny's fuckin' gone, and aside from a little bit'a envy over that there Antoine mackin' up on Alicia, I'm not the slightest bit interested in dem either. I'm here fer you an' you alone," Shaw said. He didn't make eye contact with Ray, he only peered as his carving as he continued with it.
"I am Shaw, they dubbed the Spirit of the Woods. We got paired 'cause somethin' about yer soul drew in mine. That means right now, ain't no one in this worl' as important to you as I am. I choose whether I give you a portion of my spirit an' you go right back home, or whether you stay here ten thousand years 'til you shed your marble skin and ascend to that place sailors do," Shaw added after reintroducing himself. Among the spirits, Shaw was the most forward. A moment later, Shaw sliced his finger on the carving, letting a few drops of his blood stain it. "God dammit! It's hard to concentrate when I hear the voices of all you fuckwits. Go on, Ray, tell me why you ought'a go back, I'm gettin' tired of hearin' all those moanin' and groanin' here," Shaw said, nursing his cut as he healed over unnaturally.
