Post by Thistle on May 21, 2015 0:38:32 GMT -6
Thistle tossed and turned in his meager beddings, attempting, in vain, to find sleep. His thoughts whirled around in his head, preventing any attempts at rest. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Halizar’s twisted face, frozen mid laugh. He could see the flickering lights of the portal; the bodies piled high around it. He could hear the cruel laughter of his enemy as he escaped, victorious, once again. He could hear the moans of agony of his comrades, fallen Basilica members, as they died around him. He could hear the sounds of failure; see the signs of his own crushing incompetence.
A loud crack of thunder roused him from his self-pitying stupor. The monk sighed, resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any rest that night. He looked over his body, examining the wounds, His muscles ached, his hands were bloodied and he had numerous gashes across his back, courtesy of a particularly temperamental giant. He stretched out, rotating his right shoulder to gauge the damage incurred. Minimal. Pleased with the results of his inspection, Thistle marched over to his comrade’s sleeping area. Which was in the rafters, due to the whole raccoon thing.
“Nabbi! Up!” He called, impatiently. “I’m bored.” The kintu, who was nocturnal, scampered down to deliver a sloppy salute.
“Present and ready, Marshal Thistle sir!” she declared, displeased at the interruption.
“Fight me, Nabbi.”
“Sir, are you sure that is wise? You just returned from the front lines, and it’s the –“ She stopped at the look in her superior’s eyes. “Understood, Marshal.”
“Splendid. Shall we?” Thistle said, gesturing towards the door. Grabbing two wooden blades on his way out, a rare smile crossed his lips.
Thistle opened his eyes, confused. He was fairly certain that he had just been sparring with Nabbi, and wasn’t sure how he had gotten here, wherever here was. He felt for his sword. Not there. Neither were 7 of the 13 knives he kept hidden on him, nor the collapsible spear he had had recently made. He wasn’t bound, but he had been beaten by his captors, as evidenced by the fresh bruises and cuts on his torso. Looking around, he saw that he was in a clearing. Unfamiliar trees surrounded him, and the air smelled foreign. The long grass was of a type that he had never seen before, and there was a single flower in the center of the curiously circular clearing. “Strange.” He murmured, slowly turning around, taking in his surrounding. Every nerve in his body screamed danger, danger. Muscles taut, he closed his eyes and listened intently.
Nothing. No birds, no animals, no movement. The air was stagnant, sweet. There hadn’t been any movement in this grove for many, many years. Except the grass was more or less trimmed, and the trees would have grown in if they weren’t being tended. Thistle took a tentative step towards the flower. It was a dark, ominous red, and looked… dangerous. Bending down to get a closer look, he was reminded of a different red, equally dangerous, equally dark. A memory surfaced, a memory of crowds shouting in anger, of riots, confusion, corruption, kidnappings, the downfall of law and order. Thistle saw flashes of red, followed by excruciating pain. Was it her? Did it matter? It hurt. It was probably her. It really hurt. It was always her. More pain. Red again, followed by blissful darkness.
Thistle opened his eyes, slowly. He spat grass out of his mouth, getting to his feet. He was still in the clearing, but the sun had set. A single beam of moonlight illuminated the flower in front of him. It had opened up, showing its white and blue interior. Thistle stared in shock at the plant, uncomprehending. It could have been hours, or seconds, before the monk looked closer at the plant. Rivulets of dark, crimson liquid ran down the stem, staining the grass around it. Thistle watched, mesmerized, as the red spread outwards, slowly creeping towards the edge of the forest. Thistle knew that he had to stop it from reaching the trees, he just knew, without understanding why, that horrible things would happen once the blood flower stained the tree roots. He fell to his knees, pleading with the flower, begging. He tried grabbing the flower, tried tearing it out of the ground, except his hands passed right through it. He tore up the grass, but the scarlet sea continued to spread through the dirt, relentless. Hours passed, the red getting closer and closer to the tree line. Thistle sat and watched, dread in his heart, for what felt like, and was, an eternity.
Thistle opened his eyes to the worried face of his scribe peering down at him.
“Marshal? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. What happened? Why am I on the ground?” He asked, groggily.
“You passed out the as soon as we left the church. I dragged you back in, and stuck you in your closet.” Nabbi replied.
“I’ve got work to do.” Thistle said, as way of thanks. “Get me everything we have on flowers.”
A loud crack of thunder roused him from his self-pitying stupor. The monk sighed, resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any rest that night. He looked over his body, examining the wounds, His muscles ached, his hands were bloodied and he had numerous gashes across his back, courtesy of a particularly temperamental giant. He stretched out, rotating his right shoulder to gauge the damage incurred. Minimal. Pleased with the results of his inspection, Thistle marched over to his comrade’s sleeping area. Which was in the rafters, due to the whole raccoon thing.
“Nabbi! Up!” He called, impatiently. “I’m bored.” The kintu, who was nocturnal, scampered down to deliver a sloppy salute.
“Present and ready, Marshal Thistle sir!” she declared, displeased at the interruption.
“Fight me, Nabbi.”
“Sir, are you sure that is wise? You just returned from the front lines, and it’s the –“ She stopped at the look in her superior’s eyes. “Understood, Marshal.”
“Splendid. Shall we?” Thistle said, gesturing towards the door. Grabbing two wooden blades on his way out, a rare smile crossed his lips.
Thistle opened his eyes, confused. He was fairly certain that he had just been sparring with Nabbi, and wasn’t sure how he had gotten here, wherever here was. He felt for his sword. Not there. Neither were 7 of the 13 knives he kept hidden on him, nor the collapsible spear he had had recently made. He wasn’t bound, but he had been beaten by his captors, as evidenced by the fresh bruises and cuts on his torso. Looking around, he saw that he was in a clearing. Unfamiliar trees surrounded him, and the air smelled foreign. The long grass was of a type that he had never seen before, and there was a single flower in the center of the curiously circular clearing. “Strange.” He murmured, slowly turning around, taking in his surrounding. Every nerve in his body screamed danger, danger. Muscles taut, he closed his eyes and listened intently.
Nothing. No birds, no animals, no movement. The air was stagnant, sweet. There hadn’t been any movement in this grove for many, many years. Except the grass was more or less trimmed, and the trees would have grown in if they weren’t being tended. Thistle took a tentative step towards the flower. It was a dark, ominous red, and looked… dangerous. Bending down to get a closer look, he was reminded of a different red, equally dangerous, equally dark. A memory surfaced, a memory of crowds shouting in anger, of riots, confusion, corruption, kidnappings, the downfall of law and order. Thistle saw flashes of red, followed by excruciating pain. Was it her? Did it matter? It hurt. It was probably her. It really hurt. It was always her. More pain. Red again, followed by blissful darkness.
Thistle opened his eyes, slowly. He spat grass out of his mouth, getting to his feet. He was still in the clearing, but the sun had set. A single beam of moonlight illuminated the flower in front of him. It had opened up, showing its white and blue interior. Thistle stared in shock at the plant, uncomprehending. It could have been hours, or seconds, before the monk looked closer at the plant. Rivulets of dark, crimson liquid ran down the stem, staining the grass around it. Thistle watched, mesmerized, as the red spread outwards, slowly creeping towards the edge of the forest. Thistle knew that he had to stop it from reaching the trees, he just knew, without understanding why, that horrible things would happen once the blood flower stained the tree roots. He fell to his knees, pleading with the flower, begging. He tried grabbing the flower, tried tearing it out of the ground, except his hands passed right through it. He tore up the grass, but the scarlet sea continued to spread through the dirt, relentless. Hours passed, the red getting closer and closer to the tree line. Thistle sat and watched, dread in his heart, for what felt like, and was, an eternity.
Thistle opened his eyes to the worried face of his scribe peering down at him.
“Marshal? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. What happened? Why am I on the ground?” He asked, groggily.
“You passed out the as soon as we left the church. I dragged you back in, and stuck you in your closet.” Nabbi replied.
“I’ve got work to do.” Thistle said, as way of thanks. “Get me everything we have on flowers.”