Death was a lot like sleeping, Xiah had long ago concluded. If you died under plaguing and painful circumstances you were wrought with those feelings upon your journey into the afterlife and wherever that led—be it as a wandering ghost with unfinished business, or, in some confounding purgatory. He couldn’t remember what came after, but he could recall the unending bout of emotions that had not ceased in his short period there. Sleep, in much the same way, became festered with the same repeating nightmares you held dear just before succumbing—willingly or unwillingly.
For him, there was nothing but the darkness—black, unending, and uninteresting. And if not darkness, every so often a terror of slumber would plague him; the same repeating memories laden with paranoia, betrayal, and faces he had forever burned into his mind. He’d grown accustomed to this; grown accustomed to what would feel like mere minutes when he awoke finally—if at all. Because surely, if one were awake for centuries of silence, one would have simply gone mad. Xiah was not the maddening sort; calculating, perhaps, but madness had never suited him despite claims to the contrary.
Unlike his siblings he could not see the world outside of his book; he could not hear it or learn from it. He would not be able to even glean the scent of an argument from the men in the resting chamber Cedric had chosen for him so many ages ago.
That is, not until all those barely bubbling burning desires became rekindled with the stench of… freedom.
As the two men watched on, final rites stained along the pedestal, a metaphorical finger within the tome twitched; a jaw clenched; eyes moved behind a curtain of black lashes and skin. Inside the pages, a man on a throne draped in black Asian silk and sashes—adorned in silver and gold jewelry—lifted his head as if it had been lulled to one side too long. At the same time, the blood writ on the stone began to sink into the crevices, the cracks where one piece of stone block pressed against another; it moved up the podium in trails. When the tendrils reached the flat top from varying ends they all twisted just so before moving up along the book itself—sinking into the pages, the ouroboros, and the cover itself. None of it remained.
As his eyes snapped open, black laced with brown and pupils dilating before becoming smaller, so did the book snap open. The stiff leather-skin cover smacked against stone and pages fluttered—three or four—revealing an pen-sketched image of the very man waking up. Lines moved like badly running ink for brief moments as Xiah finally got a view of the world before him—looking out at the man above him. His eyes narrowed noticeably before he stood up, colorless image walking towards Elliot while everything cleared. It was fuzzy and his limbs felt anguished with disuse; being contained in such an ill-fitting prison didn’t help with that. Which is likely why it was no surprise when the book became covered in an over-pouring of black smoke—something akin to thick smog from a one of those machines at a club. It spewed out and swept the room. If someone reached out to touch the book then nothing would be felt—gone. But the thick smoke that looked more like liquid than smoke would coil to one side of the room after it covered it in a three foot height—Elliot’s left and good five or so feet away from the elevated podium. It became solid slowly, appearing more like thickening blood and tar as it took on a sheen. The form of a man, sweeping black and red silk of a long coat that left his chest bare, and billowing black pants with leather boots remained. A soft thick curtain of straight black-brown hair fell just under his chest—tickled the hard plane of flesh there that was hairless and unblemished aside from a circular and jagged scar. The latter was slightly pinkened against his olive-pale skin.
Eye remained shut as he inhaled deeply and made a fist with one hand. Distinctly Asian features appeared almost peaceful for a moment—gratified and even sated; like one looked before waking up after a too long rest. And then he reached up, cracking his neck and flexing his jaw widely--making jewelry on his ears and wrists clank together; jemmed rings blinked in the reflective firelight on his long fingers. As he was finished with this his eyes opened slowly, focusing first on the one on the podium dressed in…. strange things.
It was impossible not feel Cedric’s dying magic all around him, withering like a tree being suffocated by parasite—unwilling to go and reaching for survival.
How long has it been…? he wondered as his lips twisted into a grim scowl. This he did not direct at the man on the podium, but rather at the room—at the etched runes he knew all too well even if this was the first time he’d seen this place with his own eyes.
At the same time he felt the tug of limited time—limited time before he was returned to a book once more. He didn’t have the luxury of focusing on his goals, not when he was free and could—possibly—accomplish them easily enough.
The one in the dark clothes that seemed to fit him too well to actually move in appeared European—a bit Anglo-Saxon; though, with far less hair on his face than he was accustomed to from those with facial hair in the English Kingdoms. Was this some new style? He didn't quite imagine how it was functional; then again, many of the adornemnts kings wore were far from functional.
As such, he decided to try speaking to him in one of two tongues he knew and what would now be called Old English (though he would not be aware of the latter). «I am Xiah,» he began in a accented and slightly deep tone of one who was from Asia—what would now be known as Korea more specifically, «Are you the one who has summoned me?» This he asked of Elliot.
For him, there was nothing but the darkness—black, unending, and uninteresting. And if not darkness, every so often a terror of slumber would plague him; the same repeating memories laden with paranoia, betrayal, and faces he had forever burned into his mind. He’d grown accustomed to this; grown accustomed to what would feel like mere minutes when he awoke finally—if at all. Because surely, if one were awake for centuries of silence, one would have simply gone mad. Xiah was not the maddening sort; calculating, perhaps, but madness had never suited him despite claims to the contrary.
Unlike his siblings he could not see the world outside of his book; he could not hear it or learn from it. He would not be able to even glean the scent of an argument from the men in the resting chamber Cedric had chosen for him so many ages ago.
That is, not until all those barely bubbling burning desires became rekindled with the stench of… freedom.
As the two men watched on, final rites stained along the pedestal, a metaphorical finger within the tome twitched; a jaw clenched; eyes moved behind a curtain of black lashes and skin. Inside the pages, a man on a throne draped in black Asian silk and sashes—adorned in silver and gold jewelry—lifted his head as if it had been lulled to one side too long. At the same time, the blood writ on the stone began to sink into the crevices, the cracks where one piece of stone block pressed against another; it moved up the podium in trails. When the tendrils reached the flat top from varying ends they all twisted just so before moving up along the book itself—sinking into the pages, the ouroboros, and the cover itself. None of it remained.
As his eyes snapped open, black laced with brown and pupils dilating before becoming smaller, so did the book snap open. The stiff leather-skin cover smacked against stone and pages fluttered—three or four—revealing an pen-sketched image of the very man waking up. Lines moved like badly running ink for brief moments as Xiah finally got a view of the world before him—looking out at the man above him. His eyes narrowed noticeably before he stood up, colorless image walking towards Elliot while everything cleared. It was fuzzy and his limbs felt anguished with disuse; being contained in such an ill-fitting prison didn’t help with that. Which is likely why it was no surprise when the book became covered in an over-pouring of black smoke—something akin to thick smog from a one of those machines at a club. It spewed out and swept the room. If someone reached out to touch the book then nothing would be felt—gone. But the thick smoke that looked more like liquid than smoke would coil to one side of the room after it covered it in a three foot height—Elliot’s left and good five or so feet away from the elevated podium. It became solid slowly, appearing more like thickening blood and tar as it took on a sheen. The form of a man, sweeping black and red silk of a long coat that left his chest bare, and billowing black pants with leather boots remained. A soft thick curtain of straight black-brown hair fell just under his chest—tickled the hard plane of flesh there that was hairless and unblemished aside from a circular and jagged scar. The latter was slightly pinkened against his olive-pale skin.
Eye remained shut as he inhaled deeply and made a fist with one hand. Distinctly Asian features appeared almost peaceful for a moment—gratified and even sated; like one looked before waking up after a too long rest. And then he reached up, cracking his neck and flexing his jaw widely--making jewelry on his ears and wrists clank together; jemmed rings blinked in the reflective firelight on his long fingers. As he was finished with this his eyes opened slowly, focusing first on the one on the podium dressed in…. strange things.
It was impossible not feel Cedric’s dying magic all around him, withering like a tree being suffocated by parasite—unwilling to go and reaching for survival.
How long has it been…? he wondered as his lips twisted into a grim scowl. This he did not direct at the man on the podium, but rather at the room—at the etched runes he knew all too well even if this was the first time he’d seen this place with his own eyes.
At the same time he felt the tug of limited time—limited time before he was returned to a book once more. He didn’t have the luxury of focusing on his goals, not when he was free and could—possibly—accomplish them easily enough.
The one in the dark clothes that seemed to fit him too well to actually move in appeared European—a bit Anglo-Saxon; though, with far less hair on his face than he was accustomed to from those with facial hair in the English Kingdoms. Was this some new style? He didn't quite imagine how it was functional; then again, many of the adornemnts kings wore were far from functional.
As such, he decided to try speaking to him in one of two tongues he knew and what would now be called Old English (though he would not be aware of the latter). «I am Xiah,» he began in a accented and slightly deep tone of one who was from Asia—what would now be known as Korea more specifically, «Are you the one who has summoned me?» This he asked of Elliot.
Sometimes I feel like a girl~... sometimes I don't~
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