Post by gabranth on Jul 17, 2010 17:08:49 GMT -5
Username: gabranth
Canons you own: -
Link to RP thread: canon drive
Audition:
Confined in armor lined with sand and sweat, Gabranth feels strangely cold. Above, the sun strives to cook him alive in the metal that curls around his quivering muscles. Perhaps it would have, if only the twines of heat could take root. But he’s cold, from fingers to toes, even as he sweats and pants around gritted teeth. The man doesn’t know where he is or how he got here. Even where he came from is covered in a haze he can’t break. Concentrating on that right now is, however, out of the question. The quaking of his limbs is less from the weakness and fatigue than the startling chill. His movements are slower in the mix. Muscles ripple and weep as he splits his weapon into two and attacks simultaneously on either side. What happened to the cobblestones of Archadia's streets? No. More pressing matters are at hand.
He knows these creatures, black as night with eyes of gold. They came to his home, a land he had adopted after his country's capture, his mother's death. Gabranth knows them in appearance, a few in battle, but he does not know them. They rip the beating organ from the chest with shadowy limbs. They rejoice in their bloodshed. Gabranth knows nothing like them. He is learning quickly though, of their patterns, their persistence, their abilities. How unbelievably difficult they are to kill. Instinctual, with limited thought but raw strength and determination. The Seeq and Bangaa had been no match, let alone the Humes, not in the numbers that had come to Archadia. Gabranth swings again, desperately this time.
The last falls in a puff of angry shadows. Gabranth is quick to follow, crumbling boneless to his knees. He digs a sword into the sand to keep him off his stomach, unable to get his free hand to his head quick enough. Haphazardly he grasps a crooked horn, and yanks the helm from his face.
He vomits.
The blonde shakes as if his insides are falling apart. It takes long minutes for his body to stop dry heaving, for fumbling fingers to find the clasps and buckles that free him of his metal cage. If he wasn’t so dizzy with fatigue and confusion, Noah fon Ronsenburg may have found room to be humiliated by his weakness. The mental lashing will come later to be sure, violent and crushing, his self-loathing spiraling to a new low. For now, he’s spared the sear of rage and contempt in the cold of - . Of whatever this is. The dawn of realization, perchance. That everything really is gone this time and he is just as hopelessly lost and alone. Alone without order and honor, law and consequence. Companionship does not cross his mind. He does not require it at all in fact, unlike the desperate need for responsibility and edict.
But for a moment, just a moment, he must forget it. His abasement and lack of honor are inconsequential next to the consequences of staying here in the middle of this foreign desert. The sun laughs at his prostration.
He sets aside his recognition and empties himself of emotion. The task is disgustingly easy. He vomits again, painfully, this time with only the precious air he’s sucking in. He wipes his mouth with the back of his glove, the realization of dislike flickering in his eyes for only a moment. Wavering eyes set on the helmet lying on its side in the sand. He begins to feel the full effects of fighting, weakened, in the blazing heat. He wonders what it means to reach for the hollow eyes with fingers that tremble. The facade judges him harshly. Gabranth forces himself off the ground, back into his armor, and into a slow gait. The motivation is false. The thought is painful on more than one level when it comes to him, quickly shut out by the empty look in his eyes.
He is a hound without a master.
