My story begins in the year 79 A.D. If you're a history buff, that date will sound familiar. That was when Vesuvius blew it's top and buried Pompeii and Herculaneum. I was there.
In my selfishness, I made a pact with the Dark Gods to save my own skin. They made me a deal: For every life I take, they will grant me another. With the sky raining fire and ash, and the magma growing steadily closer, I did not have the luxury of thinking it over for long. The Dark Gods are cruel though.....the only lives close enough to take before I lost my own were those of my own family. I set my conscience aside and did the unthinkable......after telling them it was better to die swiftly by a blade than to burn to death in the hot ash. They believed me.
The cruelty of the gods was even more apparent moments later when the magma reached me. They agreed to grant me another life for each life I took.....but they never promised me I wouldn't die. It was excruciating. I felt my flesh melt under the heat of the molten rock, and my lungs charring with the heat of the air I was inhaling. You'd think it would be a quick death, but I can assure you it was not. I took some small comfort in knowing that my loved ones' deaths actually were merciful compared to my own.
My first resurrection was disorienting. I awoke miles away with the memory of dying still fresh in my mind. Thinking on what I had done, I came to the conclusion that I was well and truly damned for my sins. I knew what awaited me should I die without having taken a life to replace my own, for the gods had shown me upon my first death. I resolved to put that off as long as possible.
Now, I'm not completely without morals. Aside from my initial selfishness, I am a fairly just man. I decided that if I must take lives to prolong my own, I would do so as righteously as I could. To that end I became a professional soldier.
Years passed and turned to decades. Decades in turn became centuries. I lost count of the number of wars, both great and petty, that I took part in. Also impossible to count was the number of lives I had taken. It was entirely possible that I might never truly die. It was not without it's price, however. I also bore with me the memories of hundreds of my own deaths. It seems a part of the curse was to be that I would never forget each and every time I lost my life and was brought back.
(to be continued in Part II, please send any comments to me via PM to avoid interrupting the flow of the story)
Quote:
Originally Posted by Dechs Kaison
See, it's gems like these that make me check Claws' post history every once in a while to make sure I haven't missed anything good lately.
Part I - The Dark Gods
Never trust the Dark Gods.
My story begins in the year 79 A.D. If you're a history buff, that date will sound familiar. That was when Vesuvius blew it's top and buried Pompeii and Herculaneum. I was there.
In my selfishness, I made a pact with the Dark Gods to save my own skin. They made me a deal: For every life I take, they will grant me another. With the sky raining fire and ash, and the magma growing steadily closer, I did not have the luxury of thinking it over for long. The Dark Gods are cruel though.....the only lives close enough to take before I lost my own were those of my own family. I set my conscience aside and did the unthinkable......after telling them it was better to die swiftly by a blade than to burn to death in the hot ash. They believed me.
The cruelty of the gods was even more apparent moments later when the magma reached me. They agreed to grant me another life for each life I took.....but they never promised me I wouldn't die. It was excruciating. I felt my flesh melt under the heat of the molten rock, and my lungs charring with the heat of the air I was inhaling. You'd think it would be a quick death, but I can assure you it was not. I took some small comfort in knowing that my loved ones' deaths actually were merciful compared to my own.
My first resurrection was disorienting. I awoke miles away with the memory of dying still fresh in my mind. Thinking on what I had done, I came to the conclusion that I was well and truly damned for my sins. I knew what awaited me should I die without having taken a life to replace my own, for the gods had shown me upon my first death. I resolved to put that off as long as possible.
Now, I'm not completely without morals. Aside from my initial selfishness, I am a fairly just man. I decided that if I must take lives to prolong my own, I would do so as righteously as I could. To that end I became a professional soldier.
Years passed and turned to decades. Decades in turn became centuries. I lost count of the number of wars, both great and petty, that I took part in. Also impossible to count was the number of lives I had taken. It was entirely possible that I might never truly die. It was not without it's price, however. I also bore with me the memories of hundreds of my own deaths. It seems a part of the curse was to be that I would never forget each and every time I lost my life and was brought back.
(to be continued in Part II, please send any comments to me via PM to avoid interrupting the flow of the story)
See, it's gems like these that make me check Claws' post history every once in a while to make sure I haven't missed anything good lately.