- Invitation Status
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- Multiple posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- On fairly regularly, every day. I'll notice a PM almost immediately. Replies come randomly.
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- No Preferences
- Genres
- High fantasy is my personal favorite, followed closely by modern fantasy and post-apocalyptic, but I can happily play in any genre if the plot is good enough.
The small room, little more than a cubicle created by hung curtains and some metal pipe, reeked of stale blood. Despite the fact that there was room for little more than a cheap metal cot in the space, three people had crammed themselves into the room, two of them standing witness over the third. The third was a middle aged man, whose once potentially handsome features were marred behind layers of scars. He lay restlessly on the cot, brows scrunched in pain, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. All the same, not so much as a groan passed his lips, though his fingernails clawed, almost helplessly, at the scabs and fresh wounds that covered his arms. Trickles of blood ran down his forearm, dripping onto the stained fabric of his cot, before joining the puddles on the floor..
The two who watched him did nothing to stop this self-destructive behavior. Their eyes were filled with an abstract sort of sympathy, one that could easily have been mistaken for apathy from a less sensitive observer.
"He's going to die soon." One of the observers finally broke the silence, turning to speak to her companion's shadowy face. Like the man on the cot, both of them were littered with the pale, raised marks of scars, though none of theirs appeared as fresh as the dying man's. "His tainted flesh will kill him. Should we bleed him again?"
The other watcher shook his head. "He has little enough blood left in his body as it is. Bleeding him again will only do the work of the Taint for it. Just wait. The Pure One will be here soon, and his suffering will end, one way or another."
They both fell to silence after that, and the space was filled by nothing but the shallow, huffing breaths of the bleeding man.
Their vigil was interrupted again when the curtain of the room stirred, admitting another man to the room. He seemed to stand in vivid contrast to the other three in the room. His face and skin was clean, and his golden skin seemed to glow with health. The two vigil watchers stirred at the sound of the curtain, before immediately dropping to one knee in reverent awe, stretching out their left forearms in a mockery of a salute. Scant instants later, knives appeared in their other hands. They were cheap tools, one a cheap, plastic-handled switchblade, the other looking like a steak knife which had its serrated teeth ground off. Both knives, however, were easily able to slice into the tops of their arms, sending a shower of crimson blood onto the already stained ground.
The man known as the Pure One, having been called that for so long he'd almost forgotten the name he'd previously chosen for himself, stretched out his own hand in turn, pressing the tip of his thumb into the meat of his forefinger, causing a crimson droplet of blood to appear. He'd already pricked his forefinger on the journey over here, several other Healers having caught a glimpse of him on his journey and greeted him with the same bloody honor. He smeared the drop of blood on the wounded forearms of his followers, one after the other, and studied the ecstacy and pride that crossed their faces at his simple gesture. They stood a moment later, retreating to the edges of the tent, their hands clasped tightly across their forearms as though desperate not to allow that drop of blood to escape. However, anyone who had been watching closely would have seen that the light score mark on their forearm had unexpectedly faded into half-healed skin at the touch of the Pure One's blood.
The Pure One, however, didn't need such levels of observation. He knew full well what even the touch of his blood could do. That was why he was here. It took him two half steps to reach the edge of the man's cot, before he bent forward, casting the man's scarred face into shadow.
Seeming to sense the presence above him, the sick man's eyes fluttered open, seeming to struggle to focus on the face that leaned above him. However, eventually he seemed to manage the effort, and his pupils dilated in some mixture of surprise and relief.
"My Lord…" The words seemed to be forced from his lips in some rasping hiss, and was followed by a faint coughing fit a split second later. The Pure One reached down his hand, running gentle fingers across the man's face, fingertip catching against his lip.
"You've suffered greatly," he murmured softly, the merciful words all but second nature after these years in his new, worshipped role. "Let me bless you, and cleanse your flesh."
The Pure One withdrew his hand then, reaching into his pocket to pull out a wide needle attached to a hose. On the Sabbath he wouldn't use such delicate measures, choosing instead to rip open his forearms or even his neck with a pair of ritual daggers, but such a drastic action was unnecessary right now. Instead, he placed the open end of the tube into the sick man's mouth, before expertly probing his forearm and inserting the needle under his skin. A moment later, and the tube began to fill with his blood, before dribbling between the man's parted lips.
The dying man swallowed desperately, careful not to let a single drop slip out the sides of his lips. The two vigil keepers in the background knelt again, their eyes locked on the sick man with something almost resembling jealousy crossing their face, buried behind a careful mask of pennetant acceptance.
The Pure One ignored them, instead carefully studying the sick man who lay beneath him. He watched with a critical eye as the blackening of his veins and jaundiced shade of his skin and eyes gradually faded. As soon as the last traces of discoloration were gone, he pulled the needle from his arm with a small scrap of fabric, preventing even a drop of his blood from spilling. The man on the bed, however, didn't release the hose from between his lips, continuing to suck at it as though desperate for more.
It wasn't until the Pure One began to turn away to leave the tent that the man suddenly seemed to come back to himself. He hauled himself out of the cot, flinging himself to the floor. "Thank you, My Lord. Thank you." His voice sounded half caught in the back of his throat.
The Pure One turned around again, watching the man on the ground with a half-lidded gaze. "Your flesh has been deeply tainted," he said. "Do not go outside again until the next Sabbath."
"Yes, My Lord," the man mumbled, his tongue unconsciously flicking out to dampen his lips, or perhaps search for any trace of blood he might have missed. "Of course, My Lord."
The Pure One turned away again, this time facing the two watchers who stood at the edge of the tent. "Your vigil has ended," he instructed cooly. "Return to your duties."
The two bowed in response, before holding open one of the curtains so the Pure One could exit in front of them. They parted ways only a few moments later, as the Pure One turned back towards the depths of their underground home.
The two who watched him did nothing to stop this self-destructive behavior. Their eyes were filled with an abstract sort of sympathy, one that could easily have been mistaken for apathy from a less sensitive observer.
"He's going to die soon." One of the observers finally broke the silence, turning to speak to her companion's shadowy face. Like the man on the cot, both of them were littered with the pale, raised marks of scars, though none of theirs appeared as fresh as the dying man's. "His tainted flesh will kill him. Should we bleed him again?"
The other watcher shook his head. "He has little enough blood left in his body as it is. Bleeding him again will only do the work of the Taint for it. Just wait. The Pure One will be here soon, and his suffering will end, one way or another."
They both fell to silence after that, and the space was filled by nothing but the shallow, huffing breaths of the bleeding man.
Their vigil was interrupted again when the curtain of the room stirred, admitting another man to the room. He seemed to stand in vivid contrast to the other three in the room. His face and skin was clean, and his golden skin seemed to glow with health. The two vigil watchers stirred at the sound of the curtain, before immediately dropping to one knee in reverent awe, stretching out their left forearms in a mockery of a salute. Scant instants later, knives appeared in their other hands. They were cheap tools, one a cheap, plastic-handled switchblade, the other looking like a steak knife which had its serrated teeth ground off. Both knives, however, were easily able to slice into the tops of their arms, sending a shower of crimson blood onto the already stained ground.
The man known as the Pure One, having been called that for so long he'd almost forgotten the name he'd previously chosen for himself, stretched out his own hand in turn, pressing the tip of his thumb into the meat of his forefinger, causing a crimson droplet of blood to appear. He'd already pricked his forefinger on the journey over here, several other Healers having caught a glimpse of him on his journey and greeted him with the same bloody honor. He smeared the drop of blood on the wounded forearms of his followers, one after the other, and studied the ecstacy and pride that crossed their faces at his simple gesture. They stood a moment later, retreating to the edges of the tent, their hands clasped tightly across their forearms as though desperate not to allow that drop of blood to escape. However, anyone who had been watching closely would have seen that the light score mark on their forearm had unexpectedly faded into half-healed skin at the touch of the Pure One's blood.
The Pure One, however, didn't need such levels of observation. He knew full well what even the touch of his blood could do. That was why he was here. It took him two half steps to reach the edge of the man's cot, before he bent forward, casting the man's scarred face into shadow.
Seeming to sense the presence above him, the sick man's eyes fluttered open, seeming to struggle to focus on the face that leaned above him. However, eventually he seemed to manage the effort, and his pupils dilated in some mixture of surprise and relief.
"My Lord…" The words seemed to be forced from his lips in some rasping hiss, and was followed by a faint coughing fit a split second later. The Pure One reached down his hand, running gentle fingers across the man's face, fingertip catching against his lip.
"You've suffered greatly," he murmured softly, the merciful words all but second nature after these years in his new, worshipped role. "Let me bless you, and cleanse your flesh."
The Pure One withdrew his hand then, reaching into his pocket to pull out a wide needle attached to a hose. On the Sabbath he wouldn't use such delicate measures, choosing instead to rip open his forearms or even his neck with a pair of ritual daggers, but such a drastic action was unnecessary right now. Instead, he placed the open end of the tube into the sick man's mouth, before expertly probing his forearm and inserting the needle under his skin. A moment later, and the tube began to fill with his blood, before dribbling between the man's parted lips.
The dying man swallowed desperately, careful not to let a single drop slip out the sides of his lips. The two vigil keepers in the background knelt again, their eyes locked on the sick man with something almost resembling jealousy crossing their face, buried behind a careful mask of pennetant acceptance.
The Pure One ignored them, instead carefully studying the sick man who lay beneath him. He watched with a critical eye as the blackening of his veins and jaundiced shade of his skin and eyes gradually faded. As soon as the last traces of discoloration were gone, he pulled the needle from his arm with a small scrap of fabric, preventing even a drop of his blood from spilling. The man on the bed, however, didn't release the hose from between his lips, continuing to suck at it as though desperate for more.
It wasn't until the Pure One began to turn away to leave the tent that the man suddenly seemed to come back to himself. He hauled himself out of the cot, flinging himself to the floor. "Thank you, My Lord. Thank you." His voice sounded half caught in the back of his throat.
The Pure One turned around again, watching the man on the ground with a half-lidded gaze. "Your flesh has been deeply tainted," he said. "Do not go outside again until the next Sabbath."
"Yes, My Lord," the man mumbled, his tongue unconsciously flicking out to dampen his lips, or perhaps search for any trace of blood he might have missed. "Of course, My Lord."
The Pure One turned away again, this time facing the two watchers who stood at the edge of the tent. "Your vigil has ended," he instructed cooly. "Return to your duties."
The two bowed in response, before holding open one of the curtains so the Pure One could exit in front of them. They parted ways only a few moments later, as the Pure One turned back towards the depths of their underground home.
