Post
by Miaou » Sat Feb 10, 2018 9:06 am
"I messed up. I almost ruined everything. I'm not allowed to die. I can not let myself simply get away with coming that close."
Thoughts like this flow through the hin's mind. Alone, the halfling huddled around a fire in a simple robe. It was a dark night, only a sliver of a moon visible to give natural light. He was in the woods, the Bramble Woods to be exact. A small thicket, a small nook between a few trees out of sight. No one would see him, nobody would bother him. It was as he wished.
Wind picked up and the hin looked to the dark sky. A small breath and he stood, the robe falling off him. Underneath he was nude, and his feet stepped around the fire to the other side. On the ground was a blade, a human might call it a short sword, but to Buppi it was a proper blade. Made of silver, it was clearly a beautiful blade to behold. Elven etchings betray the origin, and a simple leather wrap around the handle was the only other detail. He bent over and picked up the silver blade, looking it over. Another small hesitant breath, and he lifted the blade up.
"I will be seen as worthless. I am only a vessel to serve. If I am expected to simply serve, I will do so. So long as I am seen as useful. So long as I have some form of worth visible to see. I am given over and not free... And I am fine with this."
The blade's tip is turned downwards, and he thrusts the blade downwards into the soil. The blade holds, shoved into the earth a good number of inches. Buppi gives another nervous breath, and he straightens. His arms extend, and the halfling begins to dance.
His movements are well trained. Disciplined, studied, expressive. An arm to the side, then curled towards his chest and out the other way, other hand joining it as it crosses his torso. A lean to the side, his feet begin to move, pressing into the dirt for only a moment until they flutter to the next spot. His dance brings him to circle the silver sword, slowly moving gracefully around it.
"If I mess up more, if I simply take kind words to mean I did not entirely fail, I am not prepared. I am not safe, and those I love are not safe from me as well. I must be better than this. They require it of me."
Humming begins to drone out of the hin, a soft and light-hearted melody to accompany the dance. Buppi dances a bit closer to the blade and his arm swings down, and back up. He spins slowly, lifting one leg and giving a small jump. He glances to his arm, and sees the crimson colour. A clean gash runs up the inside of his forearm. Drops begin to pour onto the dirt as he dances over them, mixing the scarlett liquid in with the earth.
"Just serve. Just be there for them. Make sure you are there for them. Do whatever you need to do to be with them. Stop /failing/."
His other arm rises in the dance, and falls close to the blade. Another cut, he winces slightly. The dance continues, whatever he was performing continuing on. Next, his leg swings close to the blade and his calf is cut, bleeding freely. The the blade is now coloured silver and red, the flames from the fire dancing off the metal's reflection. A low pass, and his second leg is brought close to the blade, the calf cut much like the other. All four of his limbs now bleed freely, dripping down to the ground and off his body. His humming begins to fade, and his dancing slows. He looks to the bloodied blade expectingly.
Nothing happens.
Buppi shutters, and stops his movements. He stands, staring at the blade, expecting something, anything, to happen to it. Time passes, and still the blade simply remains stuck in the ground, the blood now dry. He glances to his arms and winces and he moves them.
"I fail again."
His head shakes, feet taking him to his things off to the side. His hands fish out cloth and begins the process of wrapping up the gashes. He really should heal them properly, or have them seen to. They weren't small by any degree, though not deep as well. He simply wraps them up instead, and begins to put on his clothing and gear.
Dressed, he moves to the fireplace and gathers up the robes before glancing to the blade. An exhale, his hand moves to the hilt and pulls upwards. He winces as pain from the wound on his arm dislikes his use of the limb, but the sword comes free. The silver blade is wiped on the grass to crudely clean it, and it's slid into one of the loops on his belt. The halfling turns and walks away from the small clearing in the woods, and with a muttered spell the fire goes out.
"I will always fail."