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| [P] Second Chance; Amicus | |
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| Topic Started: Sat Apr 10, 2010 4:44 am (128 Views) | |
| Samantha | Sat Apr 10, 2010 4:44 am Post #1 |
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Campfires burned all about the tents, groups of two or three huddled about them, trying to garner the warmth they could, to cook scraps found in the refuse piles left by the guards, to roast small animals found either long dead or, much more rarely, recently killed. Stenches of several kinds permeated the air. From the first moment it was obvious, the level of filth these refugees lived in. Disease was prevalent, many among hundreds infected. Nicodemus wandered through, steadily making his way to a man on his deathbed. Few saw his passing, looking nothing but another homeless. The clothes he wore were stained with age and moth eaten. Each person he passed gave a shiver, an unconscious effect of the magics buzzing around him. The man was lying on his side next to an upturned wagon, lying on a pile of blankets. His skin was withered and leathery, hair sparse on a shining scalp. Liver spots were scattered among the skin exposed to the elements. As if on cue, the dying man rolled on his side, eyes fluttering open to look at Nicodemus. Ragged as he looked, the demon still cut an imposing figure, posture straight, looking down on the man with an assumed authority with staff in hand. Leaning the staff against his shoulder, Nicodemus knelt. Taking a scabbed hand in his own, Nick brought it to his lips. “Your suffering is not your own. Your life was robbed of you in a twist of fate. Though you have squandered what you've been left with. Because of this, I will not give you a life without costs. But the one I propose is minor. I will grant you another three years of life, to use as you please. At the end of that period, you will find me, and I will take care of you as I will.” The man opened his mouth to speak, and fell into a fit of coughing. Attempting to nod his approval, he squeezed Nicodemus' hand desperately. Breathing raggedly, his hand relaxed, slipping to the ground. With a twisting smile, Nick placed a hand on the cloths of the man's chest. The healing was quick and powerful, a muted thrumming that rose and fell once. Immediately, the dying man began to writhe and gag. With one hand, Nicodemus turned him over, leaving him to cough ashes from his lungs. Refugees scurried from the nearby tents to see the man, animated as he was after lying prone for days.  Nicodemus was far off, sitting on the foundations of a ruined building that rose over the camp. In his hands sat a mask of iron and brass, the mouthpiece wrapped in velvety cloth. |
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| Amicus | Sat Apr 10, 2010 5:08 am Post #2 |
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Cascadia… Cascadia was fun, artistic, generally pleasant. This… was, still, sadly better than his life had been. Even through the debris, the sickness, the cold stale air of the night, he could move, even though the haunting memories of his slaver still haunted him, almost seeming to beckoning from behind him in the darkness, Amicus was free. The sleeves of his Straightjacket drooped as he looked into the flickering flames of the warm glowing fire. Thoughts pondered through his mind, why had nobody tried to rebuild this place? It wouldn’t really take much, he thought. A few people simply wanting to clean the place up, take the old pieces of building away and bring some new ones from Cascadia; but for some reason the people sat around fires such as this, generally homeless, surviving on what they could. He was actually beginning to rethink things. At least when he was enslaved by Chom, he had steady supply of food; he had a place to hide from the cold, his accursed metal box. It was the gray fiend which had given him the clothes, taught him to fight to survive. He may have gotten angry and beat Amicus, called him Servus, but he taught him how to speak. The Aasimar sighed unhappily, his head drooping in his long gray sleeves. He wasn’t even sure why he was here, it was miserable, dark, he hadn’t eaten anything in days. He was lost, emotionally and literally. This world was completely strange to him. Servus, Aasimar, things he was called by Chom. He didn’t know what he was, who his true parents were, if he had any family. Alone in a dark and cold world which looked down on any who didn’t have what it wanted. Amicus’ thoughts were interrupted as the people who had let him near their fire spread out, he looked up at them, just now catching the sound of an man’s coughing fit. He stood sharply following suit with the refugees who lived there and gathered around to see a man in tattered clothing stand over an older one, the one who was coughing. The people seemed surprised; the boy was simply confused, perhaps it was because he had not been here nearly as long as anybody else. The younger slipped through the crowd as they gathered around the old man whose coughing fit was subsiding, but Amicus instead followed the one who had been the result of the animated coughing fit. When the man stopped, he was at what was left of an old building, nothing left except the ground it was built on which looked over where the camp had been, Amicus spoke, carefully, not knowing the man’s true intentions. “Wer bist du, was hast du für den alten Mann?” He wasn’t sure if the man would understand what he said, but it was the only language he could speak. |
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5:02 AM May 24
