Post by The Master Tactician on Jan 4, 2013 0:27:30 GMT -5
A single candle burned low in its brass, casting shadows behind the hunched form of Noxus' grand general. He sat trembling, his face pressed against the map of Ionia before him, sweat beading on his forehead. His pen lay dry beside its inkwell; he had not written anything in hours.
Pain was no stranger to the man. On the battlefield, pain became rage and rage became power. But this was different, all-consuming, and there was no adrenaline to temper its severity. It began as a dull ache in his chest, tightening and intensifying until even breathing became torturous. Then it crept upwards, searing his back and shoulders, twisting his throat with agonizing force: closed, open, closed again. The General stood, knocking back his chair, and retched over his map. Both hands pressed flat against the table, supporting him through this surge of convulsions. His eyes began to water with the wracking power of each gag. Perched atop a nearby chair, his monstrous raven watched the ordeal in silence, transfixed...
For a moment the twisting lifted, the fit seemed to subside. Swain straightened, took a shaky breath and reached for his cane. Then the nausea returned in full force. And the general had time only to turn, tearing his shroud from his face, before a torrent of black cascaded from his crooked mouth, falling to the carpet in waves. Thud, splat, split. Splat, splat.
He dropped to his hands and knees beside the inky mess, still more vomit spilling from his lips. His eyes rolled backwards; a vein pulsed in his forehead; he shook, expelling the last of the rancid goop with a wheeze. For some time, the general knelt upon the floor, his breath coming in harsh waves.
Then a disembodied voice shook the room. The appointed time draws nearer, general. Rejoice.
He was certain it was a hallucination. The real demon blotted out all light and warmth, crushed the air from his lungs when it spoke--and the red candle still flickered on the table. But, in his sleep-deprived fervor, he replied from the floor, "Rejoice? Was that your plan all along? The Void, your catalyst?! How is that supposed to help me?!" His brows were knit in an uncharacteristic expression of distress.
Use your tactician's mind, general. It is why we chose you, after all.
"A distraction, a decoy, a chance to earn our enemies' trust. But," he paused, trembled, then cried, "look at me!" gesturing madly to his exposed chin and neck. The lower half of the general's face was indeed marred beyond recognition. The topmost layer of flesh appeared to have been melted away, and beneath it lay a mass of putrid tissue, pus-slathered, black in places. "Look!" Swain's desperate voice echoed in the empty room as he pulled his military robe open wider by the collar. The rot stretched over his shoulders and down his chest. He let out a dry sob, pounded his fists into the bile-soaked rug...
Pain was no stranger to the man. On the battlefield, pain became rage and rage became power. But this was different, all-consuming, and there was no adrenaline to temper its severity. It began as a dull ache in his chest, tightening and intensifying until even breathing became torturous. Then it crept upwards, searing his back and shoulders, twisting his throat with agonizing force: closed, open, closed again. The General stood, knocking back his chair, and retched over his map. Both hands pressed flat against the table, supporting him through this surge of convulsions. His eyes began to water with the wracking power of each gag. Perched atop a nearby chair, his monstrous raven watched the ordeal in silence, transfixed...
For a moment the twisting lifted, the fit seemed to subside. Swain straightened, took a shaky breath and reached for his cane. Then the nausea returned in full force. And the general had time only to turn, tearing his shroud from his face, before a torrent of black cascaded from his crooked mouth, falling to the carpet in waves. Thud, splat, split. Splat, splat.
He dropped to his hands and knees beside the inky mess, still more vomit spilling from his lips. His eyes rolled backwards; a vein pulsed in his forehead; he shook, expelling the last of the rancid goop with a wheeze. For some time, the general knelt upon the floor, his breath coming in harsh waves.
Then a disembodied voice shook the room. The appointed time draws nearer, general. Rejoice.
He was certain it was a hallucination. The real demon blotted out all light and warmth, crushed the air from his lungs when it spoke--and the red candle still flickered on the table. But, in his sleep-deprived fervor, he replied from the floor, "Rejoice? Was that your plan all along? The Void, your catalyst?! How is that supposed to help me?!" His brows were knit in an uncharacteristic expression of distress.
Use your tactician's mind, general. It is why we chose you, after all.
"A distraction, a decoy, a chance to earn our enemies' trust. But," he paused, trembled, then cried, "look at me!" gesturing madly to his exposed chin and neck. The lower half of the general's face was indeed marred beyond recognition. The topmost layer of flesh appeared to have been melted away, and beneath it lay a mass of putrid tissue, pus-slathered, black in places. "Look!" Swain's desperate voice echoed in the empty room as he pulled his military robe open wider by the collar. The rot stretched over his shoulders and down his chest. He let out a dry sob, pounded his fists into the bile-soaked rug...
