dunes

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Immolate
Posts: 8
Joined: Thu Dec 01, 2016 2:25 am

dunes

Post by Immolate » Tue Apr 04, 2017 2:54 am

"I think it was about three months after we'd hit Suzail that I realised I didn't like her as much as I liked hurting people for her."
I said that neatly aloud to my audience, a group of escaped slaves I'd caught and was running back up toward Calimport. They all stared at me in rapt attention, feigned as it all was. Part of me was just about amused by the fact it was certainly possible none of them even knew what Suzail was, they were so young.
I went on, not for their sake, but because sometimes it felt good to talk. Things felt a little bit warmer when I spoke, a little less lonely that way.


When I watched the sun peek its head up over the horizon I realised I hadn't slept yet, too busy staring out a grimy window all night. She laid there, in our a bed, all proper and covered up by cheap linen, perfect in the way a cracked teacup was. Wasn't.
I'd started dreaming the last few nights before, about all those people Tuigans I'd sent the Orcs after. I had this dream often enough. By this point it was a practically routine nightmare, or so I'd thought. They all had her face, contorted in all kinds of expressions that I couldn't bear didn't bother to examine.
She'd brought it up again, what I'd done, in one of our now more and more frequent arguments, and now I couldn't stop thinking about it. She felt pretty guilty about it - even apologised, couldn't meet my eyes while she was doing it - but it didn't matter.
Nothing mattered, overwrought Sharran cliches aside. It all just felt so dull, like the purpose I thought I'd found had bled out at the edges until it was just gone. A ghost, that might as well had never been there at all.
I rubbed at my chin a little bit; watched her sleep a few minutes in mild contemplation. Then I went out the door, a ghost, who might as well had never been there at all.


I looked back down to my audience cargo, suddenly filled with the irresistible urge to just look at them all, in their tiny little eyes. One of them, a blonde thing with a real sharp looking face, a Damaran I think by the blue eyes; had a pretty nasty scar on the side of her face, or whatever she had left that passed for the concept. All dark and leathery like it'd been branded, or just stuck into a fire without a care.

I broke the kid's jaw with the club I was carrying and left her behind, in the sand. The last couple miles back to port were silent, save for the wind on the dunes.

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