peacefullywreathed: (i'll say it to be proud)
Solomon Wreath ([personal profile] peacefullywreathed) wrote in [personal profile] impudentsongbird 2013-02-05 03:22 pm (UTC)

"Yes, High Priest," Nathanial said, unable to quite deny that his face was pale or that his gaze was still fixed on Solomon. Necromancers didn't have friends. Not really. Their only real ties of connection were their faith and their common goals. Yet Solomon Wreath was one of the very few of his brethren whom Nathanial might actually like--whose company he at least found enjoyable on occasion. He was an intelligent man, a faithful one, a practical one all at once. It wasn't a common combination.

Seeing him now, like this, shook Nathanial more than he cared to admit or dared to reveal to Tenebrae. This wasn't just about withdrawal. This was about something else. What could drive Solomon Wreath, one of the most faithful men Nathanial had ever known, to this? To praying to a Christian god in the midst of his agony?

He made to rise, but his voice broke through something in Solomon's consciousness and the suffering Necromancer opened his eyes, looking up once more at Nathanial. Before, his vision had been semi-lucid, enough to show faint recognition but no true acknowledgement.

Now, though, Solomon's feverish eyes seemed to look right through him, into him, in a way that made a chill run down Nathanial's back. He looked almost ... surprised. A weary sort of surprise. His lips moved, his ragged voice coming out as if he wasn't even aware he spoke. "From where does the light in your soul come, Quiver?"

Skin crawling, Nathanial Quiver rose in a cloud of exceptional calm, given the circumstances, and turned to exit with a respectful nod toward the High Priest.

He needed the whole length of the dungeon just to find his voice again. By the time he reached the main part of the Temple, he had his composure secure, his shakenness buried deep where he could ignore it now and hopefully forever.

Mind-readers weren't common. In fact, Nathanial had only ever heard rumours of them, and most of them had been proved frauds. He himself kept an open mind about their existence, but assumed they were but a myth. Fortunately, they had Sensitives in the Temple who could read auras. It was something they looked for, in fact; a skill like that was extremely useful in divining power-levels in Necromantic magic.

Very few people were willing to say no to Nathanial, even if they were busy. So it was barely ten minutes, the length of time it took to walk to the Temple commons and back, before Nathanial had returned with a man a couple of centuries his lesser. Born and raised in the Temple, like most others, with a vibrant eyes who had looked on many people to judge potential in Necromantic magic, Siren Mystique was their best bet for discovering just what was wrong with Wreath.

Nathanial refused the lingering unease, the feeling that something was going to go wrong.

"High Priest," he said softly, with a nod at Tenebrae, and again looked down at Solomon. This time he was prepared; this time, the sight of a man he may have once gone so far as to call a friend left no trace of unease on his face or bearing. He stepped aside to let Siren in and then closed the door behind them, standing in front of it with his hands folded before him.

Siren didn't speak. Nathanial had already explained what they wanted and Siren, young and eager in his calling, had been intrigued. He moved toward Solomon like a man only half in this world, eyes already trained on Solomon.

Nathanial wasn't sure what he expected. He did not expect Solomon, panting, to suddenly freeze and roll his eyes toward Siren with a sudden terrified catch in his breath. "Don't," he whispered hoarsely, gazed trained, unblinking, at the Sensitive. "Don't. Don't."

The last came out a rising cry of pain as his body lifted under the force of another convulsion. Nathanial frowned and stepped forward, reaching out to Siren's shoulder.

Which was when Siren screamed.

Which was when Siren screamed, over and over, standing rigid where he was except where his body trembled violently. With an abrupt lurch in his stomach Nathanial snatched his shoulder and wrenched him away; Siren spun, knees collapsing, and fell to the floor with a sickening thud. He lay there, breathing fast and whimpering, his eyes wide and sightless. Shaken, Nathanial kneeled to run his hand before the man's eyes; they didn't track the motion at all.

Solomon moaned and rolled over, pressing his forehead to the cold stone and clutching the bear to his chest.

"What did he see?" Nathanial asked without thinking, distantly shocked to find a minor tremble in his own body.

"Scream," Solomon mumbled. He bowed into the floor again with another choked groan, a raspy one half-unheard because his voice was all but lost; one marked by exhaustion. How much longer until Solomon Wreath, too, broke beyond the means of return?

"L- lifestream. Aura. Screaming, Scream--life screaming. K- Kian, don't."

... If he wasn't already there?

Post a comment in response:

This account has disabled anonymous posting.
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
HTML doesn't work in the subject.
More info about formatting