Ganz interessant, ja es macht Sinn dass nicht jeder des Quartetts sofort den selben Rang hätte, außer vielleicht wenn es sich um eine alte Militäralliant gehandelt hätte.
Wir wissen ja, dass Lenore jünger sein muss, als die anderen. Sie sagt, vor 200 Jahren sind Leute als sie ein Mensch war in das Schloss, in dem sie aufgewachsen ist eingedrungen. Logisch gesehen war sie wahrscheinlich Schottisch, dass heißt nicht mal ganz 200 Jahre (weil da sie von Englischen Soldaten redet, war es wahrscheinlich im ersten Schottischen Unabhängigkeitskrieg der von 1296 bis 1303 ging, was ihr geburtsdatum auf frühestens 1291 setzen würde, Das heißt... Ich mein, wie alt war sie, als sie verwandelt wurde? Optisch sieht sie wie ein Teenager aus. Habe sie für meinen headcanon auf 17 gesetzt, was heißt, sie wäre dann so 1308 verwandelt worden). Und wir wissen, Carmilla ist mindestens 400 Jahre alt und Morana ist über 1000 Jahre. Striga wissen wir nicht, aber ich gehe auch bei ihr davon aus, dass sie mindestens 400 Jahre alt ist.
Entsprechend ist Lenore halt deutlich später hinzugekommen.
Und sie hat ihren eigenen Raum, obwohl sie eine Frau hat, das ist gut dass dus ansprichst, man müsste meinen sie schliefen zusammen und da es ein Schloss ist, gäbe es ab da genug Raum für Privatnutzung, wie Studienräume und Büchereien.
Ich habe ihren Raum auch in dieser Geschichte (vorsicht, explizit) genauer beschrieben, falls Interesse besteht.
Na ja, sie können noch verhungern, schätze ich.
Was so gesehen halt auch kein natürlicher Tod ist.
Es ist einfach über den Tod zu schreiben wenn man eine Unsterbliche beschreibt, aber realistisch gesehen verliert jede Person geliebte Personen. Haustiere, Eltern, Freunde.
Was eine unsterbliche Person eher belastet wäre die Einsamkeit allein zu sein als die einzige Person ihrer Zeit und die Unfähigkeit über diese alten Zeiten mit jemand anderem zu reden der da war. Und wie es nach und nach schwerer wird sich an neue Zeiten zu gewöhnen und anzupassen.
Nur logisch, dass sie sich Stabilität wünscht, Stillstand. Stillstand ist vorhersehbar und einfach, unkompliziert.
Vor allem musst du halt sehen, wie alt Morana ist. Word of God sagt, sie ist über 1200 und die älteste tatsächliche Vampira, die wir sehen (Varney ist in der Theorie älter, aber wie wir wissen war Varney ja nicht Varney). Cho wäre wohl die zweitälteste, sagt Word of God. Ich habe Morana nun im headcanon auf 1700 Jahre gesetzt und du musst dir halt vorstellen, wie es ist so lange zu leben. Weil es scheint - auch wenn das niemand so sagt - dass ein großer Cut-Off Punkt bei Vampiren halt die 500 Jahre sind, die die wenigstens überstehen. :/
Sie wurde als jemand bezeichnet welche gerne Foltert, aber ihre Erinnerungswürdigste Szene war mit ihrer Partnerin wenn sie Mitleid mit den Farmern hatten, weil sie verstanden was diese motivierte und das ist ein starker Kontrast.
Sie sagt aber auch, dass sie kein Mitleid mit den Bauern hat, sie nur verstehen kann. Und dass sie letzten Endes versteht, dass Carmillas Plan dauerhafter Krieg bedeuten würde - und sie das von Striga trennen würde.
Muss sich sehr seltsam anfühlen wenn man dagewesen ist, wenn etwas geschehen ist, was als heute historisch bezeichnet wird.
Nun ja, ich war am Leben als 9.11 stattfand und viele kids heutzutage nicht, vielleicht sogar manche Erwachsene.
Ich habe ja immer noch die seichte Meinung, dass sie bei der Kreuzigung dabei war. Just for the lols.
Okay. Aber wie ich es Il Dottore versprochen habe, hier kommen die ersten fünf Geschichten aus meiner Whumpuary Reihe. :D Diese sind auch größtenteils sehr fandom-blind friendly, da sie mit einer Ausnahme Pre-Canon spielen :)
Alle fünf genau 1000 Wörter lang!
The Chained Goddess
1064
Nightmares.
They were just another thing that bound them together. Nightmares, that were equal parts fear and memory. The exact flavor between them might differ, but they all had them.
Morana did not even know what it was like to sleep without them. Without nightmares. She did not even know whether there once had been a time in her life in which she had not been haunted by them. After all those things that lay more than 500 years in the past were blurry in her memory, getting only blurrier as time went on.
She could only wonder if those things she saw in her own nightmares were things that had happened or ways of her mind to fill the blanks. It was not even the blood and death that disturbed her most about it. It was more the knowledge that the same thing would happen over and over again. That people would expect her to do it over and over. To be the harbinger of death. To be the harbinger of justice. To be so many other things to so many at that.
While she barely did remember the kingdom she had once come from, she knew of the many roles she had inhabited in it. She knew of the many obligations she had. Towards the people. Towards men as well. Because it seemed there was no world in which women did not have obligations towards men.
She had tried to sleep. In fact there had been a time where she had not slept for a whole decade. Vampires did not need to sleep after all. They could go on without it. But it had turned out that without the sleep, the nights would bleed into one another, would become less real to her mind. Without the sleep strange specters started to haunt her waking life. And thus, she gave in. Thus, she slept again – only to be woken up every other day, sweat covering her body, as if in those nightmares it still remembered humanity.
Now she was here again. Sitting upright in the bed she shared with the other woman. She knew outside the sun was still high in the sky, forbidding her to leave the room. Because life had cursed her in more than one way, it seemed.
She was over a millennium old by now. She was ancient, even by vampire standards. And most ancient vampires… they did not become immune to the sun, but would no longer burn. Rather get the worst of all sunburn. She was not it. Just as her powers did not allow her to fight, she never had gained the ability to walk in the sun again. She was different.
Instead, she was confined inside during those sunlight hours. Sitting here, unable to find sleep again.
She had been a goddess in her dream. A goddess bringing death and destruction down to the world. And yet a goddess chained by her obligations, by everyone who wanted her to be something she really was not. A goddess at the same time powerful and powerless. A goddess, who had been alone for centuries. A goddess, who was expected to serve the same civilization, that in the end crumbled to dust, now nothing more than ruins buried under desert sands.
The last part she knew to be true. She knew that the city, she had once ruled, was long gone and forgotten. She even remembered the name – being maybe the only being to remember it. It had burned, but she did not remember who had been the one burning it. It might well have been herself.
And now she was here. In a place so completely different from it. In a place that might one day burn as well. In a place…
“Love?” The voice of the other woman cut through the buzzing filling her mind. There was a strong hand on her shoulder, gripping her firmly, reassuringly, pulling her back into the here and now. Away from the past. Away from the possible future as well.
She looked at the other woman, who had sat up now as well. Those eyes looking surprisingly tired for a vampire. “It's alright,” she whispered. “Just another nightmare.”
“Which one was it?” Striga asked. She pulled Morana close, held her in those ridiculously strong arms in a way nobody had done before they had met. At least not for centuries.
“I was a chained goddess,” she whispered. “Chained.” Chained and enslaved, really.
It was the one thing she was rather certain of: She had been turned into a vampire to rule. Because vampires were better rulers, as they no longer were bound by those silly, little mortal desires. She remembered that all the rulers of her city had been like her. Vampires. Turned by one other vampire. But she did remember nothing of him but blood-red eyes.
“Maybe we should travel there at some point,” Striga whispered, her hand so carefully caressing Morana's shoulder. “We could travel there and… See the ruins.” She already knew how much it haunted Morana, that she only remembered bits and pieces.
“No.” Morana shook her head. “No. I'd rather stay here with you.” Here, where her life had been stable for the first time in centuries. Stable… Well, it had only been three years now, hadn't it? Three years since she had decided to stay.
“I am not talking now. I am talking in a few decades time.” There was a smile so clearly audible from Striga's voice. “We have eternity, after all.”
This, at least, made Morana smile. “We do, Love.” And maybe, over the centuries, she would find a way to unlock those memories she had lost. To figure out which part of the nightmares were real and which imagined. To remember what had happened when her kingdom fell.
“Shall I hold you?” Striga asked softly, making Morana nod.
She lifted her head to kiss the other woman softly, smile at her. “That would be wonderful, my Love.”
The Last Belmont
1468
Those people… They had told him the creature attacking their village was a demon, a night creature of some sort. This wasn't. It clearly wasn't. It was a Bes and Trevor did not even have a proper sword on him.
The creature had once been a pig, no doubt, a boar, now possessed by the Bes, grown to the size of a small fucking tree, howling with a voice that was so clearly from another time. Raging red eyes watched him, as he held the long knife he had close.
The bloody whip was no good at all, as it did to squat against fucking beasts of nature. He already was bleeding, was already bruised from the fight and was somewhat sure he was about to die.
Ha. He should've stayed in fucking Targoviste. Because at least working the streets there did not get him killed. But, well, it was not much of a life either, was it?
Now the boar was running towards him again, those massive hooves just trampling the ground, crushing bushes in the way. And Trevor did the one thing his mind was going to offer. He jumped, trying to land on the stupid creature's head, to get a proper angle to attack. Somehow his jump was even high enough to lang him on the snout, able to push himself further up. He almost slipped and the bloody beast wanted to make sure he did. All it probably wanted to do was to trample him to dead and be done with it.
“Fuck you,” he growled, as he struck his knife into the creature's eye, enticing another otherworldly scream from it. He pulled his knife out again, just to go for another attack. Then another one. His own blood mixed with the black blood of the creature, as it finally managed to throw him off.
He was not even able to think properly, before his back already hit one of the trees. He groaned in pain, his vision going black for just a moment. It was instinct, nothing else, that made him roll to the side, before the now blind creature crashed into the very same tree. It was roaring in anger and pain.
Slowly his vision returned, as he tried so hard to get back up onto his feet.
Fucking family legacy. He had thought this was gonna come easy to him. Be a monster hunter. Finally fulfill his destiny. Finally do something fucking good with his life. But he might as well have thrown himself off the stupid city walls.
He tasted blood in his mouth, spat and was at the same time quite certain at least half of his body was by now covered in bruises. He bet, here were a couple of broken bones in there as well. Maybe some broken ribs or something. But at least the beast could not see him.
Maybe he should just leave it at that. With the black blood gushing out of where the monster's eyes have been, the thing would probably die within a few hours. Not a pretty kill, but a kill no less. He did not have a proper sword, nothing to pierce that thick skull.
So he just…
The creature turned its head around, apparently having heard the underbrush beneath his feet crackle. Another roar, as it was galloping towards him and this time he just was not quick enough. There were hooves beating down on him, trampling him, ready to kill. He was going to fucking die - and with him the bloody family legacy.
Because, hell, it turned out a kid did not make for a great monster hunter after all.
Only that there was some hunter instincts left in him still. It was not rational decision. Just a sudden hit of inspiration, as he brought his sword between himself and the creature's underside, that was so much less protected than anything else.
Cold steel cut into dark flesh, more of the black blood gushing forward, as the creature screeched – and then collapsed. On top of him. It was still twitching, still trying to get up, but then… He was not even certain. All he knew that it suddenly stopped, with the fucking beast on top of him.
He would've laughed, if he had been able to breath. He was still fairly certain he was gonna die now. Of… something. Anything. Trevor Belmont, the last of the Belmonts, dead. Slain by a single stupid bloody Bes.
What other end had ever awaited him, really? It had been five years, since his family had been murdered. And he was still only but a kid. A very human, very mortal kid at that. Not fully grown and rather scrunchy, given that he had not had a good fucking meal in quite a while.
He had been supposed to die with his family, God darn it.
And yet, he somehow was still straining, still trying to get his limbs beneath himself, just for enough that he could push himself out from underneath the cursed creature.
It hurt. It hurt so much.
Pathetic.
He groaned and pushed and pulled, somehow trying to get a grip on the marshy forest floor.
He should have died that day with his family. He really should've. If anyone had been supposed to life, why not his brother, who at least would've been able to continue the bloody family legacy? Why not his father? His aunt or uncle? Why not his cousin for that matter? All of them had at least learned how to fight by that day. All of them had at least been hunters.
He wasn't. He just was a bloody kid, who strained to get out from underneath the Bes, fighting down a scream of pain, as he realized at least some of his ribs were broken. And yet he struggled, until he finally managed to move, until he finally got free.
He was no bloody hunter. But he was the only thing left of his family.
The Dying Child
1471
“Ynes,” Sypha whispered, holding the young girl's hand. “Ynes?”
But the girl did not reply. She was lying there, feverish, her breath so heavy. Sypha could not even tell, if she was still conscious.
In the end she was supposed to get better, not worse. But somehow… Somehow it was not happening and Sypha hated it. Because all she could do was sit here and hold her hand, as it was her turn to stay by the sickbed. Only that it was not a bed, of course, just as sleeping place made from hay and fabric in the corner of an old barn. Just another place to stay until…
She looked at the girl. Ynes was just twelve years old of course. Her hair was dark like her mother's, who had fallen sick with the coughs as well, even though it was only autumn and the time for coughs should not yet be here.
Their caravan had even made it to the city, had even managed to get enough money to buy some medicine. Some herbs. Lime, chamomile and thyme. It should help the fever, the infection and the coughs. Only that it did not seem to be working for Ynes.
It had worked for her mother, somehow. Therese was still weak and her fever still there, but her breathing had improved. She was not strong enough to stay by her daughter’s side, but she would make it. She had to make it. But Ynes?
The girl had had the fever for six days now and no matter how many teas they would make from the blossom of lime, the fever was not going down. She was not coughing anymore for sure, but Sypha was rather certain, that it was because she was too weak to cough now. Her breath was so heavy, rattling in her lungs and respiratory system, while sweat was pearling on the girl's forehead. And all Sypha knew how to do, was to summon bits of ice in a feeble attempt to cool the girl down.
“Ynes,” she whispered, pressing the girl's hand. “Ynes…”
There were tears burning in Sypha's eyes. She hated this. She hated all of this. Feeling so helpless, so useless most of all. It was the same thing every year. Someone would die of the coughs. If not in their caravan, they would hear about it when they met up with another one. But someone would die. Someone would be killed by the coughs.
There it was again. The low whines the girl would make from time to time, squirming while her eyes were moving behind closed lids. Nightmares, maybe, or hallucinations introduced by the fever. Yet another thing Sypha could not do anything about.
What would she not give to learn healing magic. But even between speakers there were only mumblings about it. Some said it was not possible at all. Some said it was a skill only to be learned by creatures from other worlds. Nobody knew how they could learn it – how simple humans could learn it. But it should be possible, right? After all magic was nothing but forcing one's own will upon the world, so why should it's power end at the bodies of other humans? How could it be that necromancers and forgemasters were able to revive the dead and Sypha was powerless to beat the infection in the little girl's body?
It was not fair. It was simply not fair. And Sypha could not do anything.
Then the girl drew in an especially deep breath, followed by a weak cough. Sypha had not expected for Ynes to open her eyes again and yet here she was, green eyes staring at Sypha, who could not say if the girl even recognized her.
There was fear in the girl's eyes. A fear that Sypha could not even begin to describe. The eyes were wandering now, flashing from one corner of the barn to the next.
“Ynes,” Sypha whispered. “Ynes.” She pressed the hand once more. The little, sweaty hand, leading to the girl to look at her. Pale lips formed silent words, a whisper too quiet for Sypha to understand.
“What is it?” She whispered. “What is it?”
“Ma…” That was all the girl managed, looking around. There were tears pooling in her eyes, as she tried to sit up. “Ma.”
“Your mother is still sick, but she is getting better, I promise,” Sypha whispered. “So you have to get better as well, do you understand?”
The tears were running down the girl's cheeks, as she pushed herself up only to fall down into the hay again. “Ma…” she rasped, the breath once more rattling in her throat. The green eyes closed again, as Sypha shook the thin shoulders.
“Ynes,” she whispered. “Ynes, stay with me. You have to stay with me, do you hear me?”
Only a raspy breath was her reply. Even now the eyes were moving behind the lids again, but if she little girl tried to open her eyes again, she failed.
Fear was gripping Sypha now. She had been at enough death beds to know what this meant. She was not even thinking as she was turning around. “Tata,” she asked. “Tata, please!”
Her grandfather woke, looking at her questioningly. “Sypha?”
“Tata, I think she is dying. I think…” Even Sypha was holding back the tears now. It was bad enough when an older person died, but Ynes? She was still a child. Still had a whole life ahead of her.
Now her grandfather moved over to her, taking the child's other hand. He bowed down to listen to those raspy breath, each of them weaker than the last. Then he looked at her, shook his head.
“No,” Sypha whispered, as she pressed the little hand. “No. Ynes. Please. You can make it. You can…” Her voice was getting louder, more desperate now. Others were waking as well. “Ynes. Ynes, please,” she whispered, looking at the girl. But Ynes had stopped breathing.
The Broken Prince
1476
Das ist die einzige Geschichte die während der Serie spielt und hierzu ein wenig Kontext: Adrian (Alucard) ist der Sohn von Dracula. Zusammen mit Trevor und Sypha besiegt (= tötet) er seinen Vater um die Welt zu retten. Woraufhin Trevor und Sypha sich halt auf weitere Abenteuer aufmachen. Er bleibt allein zurück und das ist nicht so die beste sache für die Psyche. Dann tauchen zwei Japanische Jäger auf, Taka und Sumi, die einer japanischen Vampirherrscherin entkommen sind und nach Methoden suchen Vampire zu töten. Adrian bietet ihnen an, sie zu unterrichten, aber die beiden haben keinerlei Vertrauen... Was darin endet, dass sie ihn vergewaltigen und danach zu ermorden versuchen. Er tötet sie in selbstverteidigung. Diese Geschichte setzt etwa ein, zwei Stunden später an.
He did not even know why out of all places in the castle he had come here. He was not really thinking. He just…
He did not even know. He did not know anything. The one thing he knew was that he was alone. Again. And maybe it was for the best. Maybe...
He was alone.
He did not even manage to get to that bed, collapsing only at the point on the floor where his father had died. How long? Two months ago? Or was it weeks? What difference did it make? His father was dead. So was his mother. Everyone was dead. He was alone.
He had killed his father.
He had killed them.
What was he even supposed to do now?
What could he do?
Why was nobody here he could ask?
But who was even supposed to be here? His father? His father had tried to kill the world. The literal world! He had tried to kill everyone. He had to be stopped. Right?
Right.
But why?
Why was he dead? Why was he not here? Why was his mother not here?
He needed them. He needed them now. He needed to be held, to be hugged. He wanted it. He wanted his mother back, who would run her finger though his hair and sing him songs of old. Who had once read him stories.
It had been long ago. But he needed it now. He just needed somebody.
What was he supposed to do?
They were dead.
Everyone was dead.
What had he done wrong?
He had wanted to help them. Taka. Sumi. He had wanted to help them become proper hunters. He would have taught them. To fight. To do magic. He had the knowledge. If nothing else he had knowledge. The things his father had once taught him. The things he had learned himself from those thousands upon thousands of books in the castle. He knew so much. He should teach others. He had wanted to teach them.
But they had not trusted him. They had…
Why?
What had he done wrong?
Because it had to have been something he had done. There had to have been something he could have done to change things. To make things different. He had not wanted to kill them. He had not wanted them dead. He had never wanted anyone dead. Not them. Not his father. And yet they had died.
He had killed them.
What had he done wrong?
There must have been something he could have done different. Something he could have said, something he could have done. They were not evil, after all. They had not been. They had just been… wronged. Wronged by a world. By a whole world.
But so had Trevor. The stupid Belmont. He had been wronged as well. And he had not tried to kill him.
And yet he had left. Hadn't he? Trevor had left. Like everybody always left.
Maybe it was his fault after all. Maybe he was doing something wrong. Because people always left. His parents had left him, too. They had left him, once he had been old enough to stay by himself. So maybe it was him after all. Maybe he just was someone people did not want to be around. Maybe he was just…
But what was it? What was he doing wrong?
He had not wanted them to die. Not his father. Not Taka and Sumi. He had not wanted any of them to die.
If they did not trust him, they should've just left. Why didn't they just leave? Why had they done this to him? Why had they tried to kill him? Why did they… He did not even understand. He understood nothing any longer. What had even happened? Why had it happened? Why…?
Where had everything gone so wrong?
Maybe he was the one who should have left. Just leave the castle to them. What did he even care? Sure, the castle held some ancient magics, but most people would not even understand them. And the castle held some good knowledge, too. Stuff that could be used to help…
Why didn't he just leave?
But he couldn't, could he? Because he did not know the world out there. He did not know anything but this castle and those bits and pieces he remembered from the journey to and from Gresit. He did not know the world. He did not understand it.
Maybe that was his mistake. Maybe that was, where he had gone wrong. He had not understood them, had he? And because of that they had done this to him. Because he had not understood them and he had done something wrong. Only that he did not know what.
Maybe that was the reason why they had left him, too. Trevor and Sypha.
No. No. They just wanted… Sypha had a family. At least she did have a family. And Trevor… Trevor was just an idiot in the end. And idiot, who had left as well.
Why?
Why had he even defended himself? Why had he done it? Why had he not allowed them to kill him? After all there was nothing left for him in this world. He had no family any longer. He had no friends. He had no goals in his life, nothing he could reach. They had. They had wanted to defend their people. They had had a people.
So why had he even defended himself? What was there about him to defend? Why did he even want to live anymore? What for?
He did not know. He did not know anything. All he knew was, that he could not take it any longer. Any of this. The pain. The fear. The sadness. He did not want to feel it any longer. But what else was there? The world was not going to change. They would not come back to life. His mother. His father. Taka. Sumi. He would forever be alone.
The Circling Vultures
1471
It was a small knife. A tiny one, in fact. Just tiny enough not to be noticed. Tiny enough to somehow slide through between Isaac's ribs. Thankfully also tiny enough to not reach his lungs. He was rather certain of it. As such, he hissed, he groaned, but then managed to land a blow against his attacker's head.
The man was not doing this professionally. He was just a small-time bandit. All three of them were. Trying to get by, probably. But Isaac did not care. He did not care at all.
He landed another blow, this time getting the man to the ground, while Isaac was already opening his belt. He saw the other man coming for him and he was prepared. He caught that arm holding the longer knife within the leather, knowing fully well how the bolts were ripping off the skin. He did not care about that either. Ignoring the man's scream, his attention already shifting to the third bandit, who had kept his distance. He was holding a crossbow and was standing on the other end of the alleyway.
Why?
Why were humans like this?
So egoistical. So stupid. Isaac would not have cared about any of them. Would not have cared about their existence. They could all have lived out their lives apart from one another. But no, they had to attack him. Just like every human had to attack him, it seemed.
How had the Lord's great creation turned into this? Cruel. Pathetic. Evil.
The guy with the tiny knife got up and Isaac had enough of this. He kicked the men in the ribs, feeling the satisfying break of the rather thin bones. When the man was pushed against the alley wall, Isaac landed a second kick against the man's hand holding the knife.
There was a scream of pain, but Isaac did not care.
He did care, however, about the bolt hissing for him, somehow managing to duck. The wooden bolt splintered at the old wall behind him, while he was running. He was quick. Because he never could have afforded not to be. He had reached the third man, before the guy was able to reload the crossbow. Isaac's belt looped around the man's throat, ripping it open, blood spluttering all over the already dirty ground.
Leaving him alone, here.
Well, not entirely alone. The guy with the tiny knife was still wailing in pain. As was the friend with the larger knife. It did not matter. They did not matter. They were just like all the other humans he had ever met. Petty. Greedy. Not once did they think about not attacking him. About not taking from him. Like everyone else already had. No more. He would not allow it to happen any longer. He had come to that decision years ago.
He wrapped the belt around his fist, looking around once more, before shaking his head. Maybe he should kill them. It would only be fair. Because they most certainly had been planning on killing him. But in the end, they did not matter enough. Just some stupid, pathetic humans.
He had more important things to care about.
And so, he left. The stab wound between his ribs was maybe an inch deep. He could feel it with every breath. But he had long learned to not show it. Holding himself upright he walked down the mostly empty street. He had to hide the pain, because if he did not do it, the vultures would descent.
It was a cruel world and even these days he was struggling to understand it. Because he knew for a fact that God was good. And yet his entire creation was long rotten to the core. It deserved to be expunged from the face of the world. It deserved to be annihilated.
Isaac knew, that this included him. He was cruel as well. Because the world had not allowed him to be anything but. It was a cruel world in which only the cruel would survive. So, cruel he had become. Because he would not be eaten alive. He would not show the weakness the others were looking for.
So, he made his way with a slow, but steady pace out of the small town, keeping up that pace, until he was sure to be alone. Only then did he allow himself to hiss in pain once more, one hand covering the wound now.
It would not kill him. He was rather sure of it. It would not kill him, just as the other things had not killed him before. The Lord knew, how the world had tried to kill Isaac. Without success. He would live. Another day and then another one. Until the end. Until the end of the world, which could not come too soon.
He drew in another breath, before starting the four miles walk back to the ruins he was inhabiting now. Not home, but a place to stay.
Because he did not have a home. He never once had. But he did not need one. Just shelter from the world. From that open and cruel world trying to swallow him. Until that day would come…
He had thought about it. About ending the world by himself. He had found that book a while ago. A book by a renegade mage, speaking of a practice that would draw souls from hell to create monsters from them. An army of monsters, to end the world, to end the creation that had long gone wrong. A part of him liked the idea. A part of him did. But there was also this other part, that did not want to be the one swinging the sword so to speak. He was not a leader. And as such he was not the one to enact God's will.
Maybe he was just waiting for the right person. The warrior with the righteous fury to finally expunge the cruel creation and create true paradise.