Feb 11 18:08:34 106 PA

From Chronicles

The current game time is: Thu Feb 11 18:08:34 106 PA.

Desmond is resting alone this early evening. A rough day at the factory, one of the dwindling few before his new occupation comes to be. Enough to leave him too tired to keep focus on his cookbook of choice. Hours still before Aimee might return home. The book slips down into his lap as his head lowers slowly, drifting slowly into a steady sleep, leaned into the corner of his couch.

And so, the Sandman comes as outside the fog begins to roll in; bringing with it the accumulated mental stress of a city that is living on the edge of disaster but cannot do anything to prevent it. It wafts outside; creeping in through the cracks in the windows and doors and drifts through the empty room as Desmond plunges further and further into the depths of sleep. And then, suddenly . . .

It is a very dark night, and rain is pouring down hard. Cold rain of the kind that seems to bounce up about a foot after hitting the ground. A heavy brown trenchcoat wards off the violent water as the cracked and broken sidewalk seems to stretch on forever. Gnarled trees are reminders of what used to be verdant paradise. The feeling of a weapon upon the back is reassuring as always . . . one never knows what they might encounter here, especially when one turns off of the ruins of the merchant's plaza and into what used to be the park. Here, the remains of craters are everywhere but there is that narrow strip between them that frequent use has made into a well-packed path.

A search on multiple spectrums reveals that as before, nobody is there as the path leads on to the graveyard.... where she, along with all the rest of them was buried. And he'd know. He buried them.

It is a dream, oh yes, but the one dreaming it will not know. And this is more vivid than any dream ever mentioned or concieved of before. Even the air smells poor and some great devestation hangs over the place. The city around him is in ruins. As it has been for many, many years.

Once 'her' headstone is reached, hastily erected and clustered around so many others that he knows....there is the time for reflection. And then surprising panic as a voice is heard. A tall man, elven by the look of him with his hands clasped behind the small of his back. He wears a simple black hooded robe that has been pulled well down. His eyes glow flaintly but his expression is paternal if anything.

"There are many here, aern't there? Poor bastards didn't stand a chance."

Rain. He barely perceives it. Before the weight of what has been, can so small a thing truly matter in the now? Desmond strides through it as if the day were clear, yet the set of his features matches the time. Hard lines set from malleable stone to unwavering steel. Crinkling the puckered gouge that flanks the dull glowing left orb, flicking in tandem with it's flesh mate. Ever watchful.. ever seeking the next threat, the next obstacle to be erased. None.. for now. It never lasts. Scanning the ruins without truly seeing them. Too often he's seen them before. He knows them better than he had before.. before.. His flesh eye twitches. Then is still. His thoughts still, no longer reaching back there. Not again.

Through the park. Seeking but not seeing. Ears flicking outward, the right a stump but still functional. No threats. He moves into the graveyard. Moves past the many markers. Those too he knows. His path taking him unerringly towards his goal. Why? He pauses as he comes to her marker. Pausing, his eyes lower. The hasty, simple marker holding a glitter at the center. A ring, battered and half melted that has been driven into the wood that bears her name. A dull ache rises up, but the old rage.. the old pain has been eased by numbness. That is why he comes. To feel that ache. To feel something.. more.

The voice prompts an instant reaction. The heavy blade along his back comes out and is lifted towards the strange elf in an instant. The long weapon handled with ease despite considerable weight, a loose two handed grip keeping it rock steady as the keen blade tip points towards the interloper's heart unerringly. Perhaps it is the strangeness of this visitor that stays an instant strike. One more life is nothing to Desmond, no matter who owns this one. Even so.. "What.. do you want?" The words come slowly. How long has it been since he spoke last? The heavy roll of his deep voice having roughened enough to be edged with a growl. The blade does not lower.

It is most interesting how the rain falls in sheets but never seems to strike this strange figure. He does not appear old either, rather roughly middle aged. As he moves, long crimson hair becomes visible as he tosses his head and then runs his hands through it; completely needless of the sword that the other points at him. Softly, gently even he reaches out to attempt to push the blade away from him. It is not a threatning gesture at all, far from it. A peaceful touch of the sword's tip with his fingers as he aims to have it point slightly away. "No threat. Just a concerned figure. Besides . . . that isn't going to harm me in any way. My dear lost leopard. If I have taken refuge in this place; surrounded by so many ghosts as well, would it not strike you that I am likewise capable of defending myself and more than meets the eye? And besides, dear kitten, would it not be the greatest of sins to defile the grave of your wife with pointless violence?"

He offers Desmond a sad little smile. "How long has it been? Twenty years? Thirty? And you still keep coming back. The Coalition levelled this place for a good reason. How many undead were here? The plague? Or even worse, how each person who wasn't desecrated rose the next day? When do you ever intend to leave? There's nothing here for you except some scavengers to shoot at once and awhile. What do they call you, eh? What was it? The Black Cat of the Ruins or some nonsense like that? I can understand grieving over your friends and loved ones, but to become an agent of simple murder?"

He gives a sort of twisted half smile as a bolt of lightning cracks in the background. Some thunder rolls too. "You were a half decent person once, or tried to be. Maybe it'd have been better if you died with the rest of them? Maybe not during the bombardment like a defenseless woman . . . but when the skelebots came, so at least you could go down fighting?"

Desmond flicks the blade slightly to the side as it is touched, merely shifting his stance initially. A subtle move back and to his side to place the blade just slightly out of touch range. Other than that, his posture remains solid. There is, perhaps, the slightest tension in his expression at the mention of she. But again, there is nothing more than a dull heat. Not even the warmth of his rages will come to him. Once a frightening ecstasy of pure violence and hate that frightened him to the core once. Now.. beyond his reach, even when he might take comfort in feeling something so pure again.

The words that follow do not tell him anything new. Though he has since pushed back the details. HIdden away the horror.. the end. She'd gone early.. just before the coming of the Coalition. He hides away the memories of what came after. He'd wished for death. He'd thrown himself into battle with savagery that frightened as many as it inspired. Recklessness that should have given him that peace, but at every turn he lived. Unscathed, no, but alive. A piece here.. a portion there.. lost. A little metal here to replace a bone.. a little metal there to replace an organ. Not enough for a partial, but he can feel the unnatural pieces of himself. Hate them, even as they maintain him in this.. what? Purgatory? Such deep thoughts no longer touch him.

Still the blade remains lifted and pointed. Whether or not he believes the interlopers claims.. whether or not he truly cares is unknown. Perhaps he would test this being, if only for another chance at the peace he cannot give himself. He confirms nor denies the musings, the rehash. What could have been. He only maintains his posture, mimicking the steadiness of stone as he neither relaxes nor strikes. Stone.. steel.. yes.. He continues to stare at the elf being and again he asks roughly, "What do you want?"

The reply that comes is althogeather simple and altogeather brief in light of the sheer volume of speech found in his last interaction. He rises paitently up; hovering an inch or two off the ground. "Merely for you to consider what you have done to earn yourself this purgatory; this suffering. This, as you see before you is inevitable and inescapable. Consider what brought you to this sad and tormented existance; and how you might have prevented it. Perhaps you should have taken your loved ones and left before it began . . . perhaps you should have had the decency to at least die fighting."

And then . . . he dissapears, on that sobering thought; leaving Desmond in this tortured little place for as long as he wants to sleep.

Desmond comes awake not too long after, his eyes snapping open. he bolts upright, head turning, eyes searching. Rapidly darting about the room, as if to see beyond the normalcy of the room. Still warm and cozy, the soft lighting seeming too bright.. to inviting to be true. And yet..

His mind slows down, his thoughts clear. His breath smoothes from the short, rapid draws that mingle with the panic of coming back to a place that is both familiar and alien. Dream.. only a dream.. nightmare. Desmond sinks back slowly. he can remember.. pieces of it. Parts. Flashes of what could be. If.. if it were not just a dream. Could it be? The confusion is clear on his face. The uncertainty.

He cannot be uncertain. He must.. reach out again. He pushes the book from his lap, slipping himself down onto the floor. He must seek again. And hope that he will be answered unlike before. He drops into a comfortable cross legged sit and closes his eyes. It will take him some time to push back the quiet echoes of that first panic. The dread for what might be. To calm himself. To quiet his mind and open it to the future. He sits quietly in the room, all else but this forgotten. His eyes closed, mind reaching out to the possibilities in the hopes of finding the way. Tags: desmond, undead tp