WARNING! This is a
Sequence Complete: Kylerryth thread. There may be any and all of the following involved: physical, mental/psychological, emotional, and/or landscape/widespread violence; mutilation; threats; nightmares; sundry illnesses; and general strangeness.
ATTENTION: All
A Level characters should contact me via message or IRC.
* * * * *
Within the renewed vigor of spring there are a few certainties. One of these is, of course, the blooming of flora: a cornucopia of flowery sights and smells, vivacious colors and earthy perfumes, accompanied by the verdant vibrancy of growing grasses and talkative trees, their bladed sibilance and leafy whispers audible even beyond their borders but eventually, inevitably drowned in the morass of town-oriented conversation; and -- in this season only -- the perpetually pilloried maw of winter, whose icy teeth are by this time half-melted stumps that gnaw and gum in lieu of piercing flesh and crystallizing marrow, unable to do more than spawn gooseflesh on exposed skin or deliver a shiver to the address of every light-clothed person's spine.
Another certainty is the return and revitalization of fauna. Most people, however, notice the petaled mosaic ere the first robin, and although the slight could be forgiven in the majority of cases -- after all, the avid avian has considerable distance to traverse -- in this particular case it cannot. And will not.
* * * * *
When a large flying insect around midday stung a patrolling Order of Straka guardsman by the name of Cheswick Valladay, no one noticed. No one, of course, except Cheswick, who upon being stung spat enough verbal venom to shame a viper into retiring permanently -- and afterward, pulled a half-inch stinger out of the meat of his forearm. His assailant lay on the ground next to his foot: a pitch-black, winged bug slightly longer and wider than his thumb. It looked like an oversized -- and overzealous -- wasp, but ...
something about it bothered him. In an inexplicable fit of rage -- inexplicable because the thing was obviously dead; inexplicable because he had already been stung, what could be done about it? -- he crushed the insect with a harsh, grinding stomp.
When Cheswick lifted his boot to observe the result, his hackles rose. The creature wasn't there. All that remained was the stinger, which had been a few inches away from the creature's body, thus escaping his retribution; which glistened wetly -- like an eye filled to the brim with tears, a sweat-soaked body in the throes of passion -- with the scarlet of his blood; and a diminutive cloud of black dust that, the moment Cheswick's boot was raised, vanished as though consumed by the chill wind.
* * * * *
When Cheswick, on patrol again the very next afternoon, first began coughing and then, mere moments later, vomiting a staggering amount of blood,
everyone noticed.
* * * * *
Cheswick Valladay, an undistinguished guardsman in service to the Order of Straka, died twelve days later from blood loss. The hospice attributed the cause of the blood loss to disease. Cheswick's body was carefully transported to a faraway field where it was burned and its ashes were scattered to the wind, like flecks of black dust the air seized and held just out of view.