2012-07-15, 10:24 PM (ISO 8601)
Firbolg in the Playground
Re: Reincarnation Wars - IC *Still Recruiting*
The pale light emanated from the windows above, casting a long shadow on the stone. Seated at his workbench, Alexander Idrian examined the mechanism in front of him: a broken timepiece. It seemed to be running several seconds slow now.
Tick, tick, tick.
With a sigh, he tosses it away. Before it could land, an idle flick of the finger dismisses it into dust. A slow smile splits pale skin. Almost as an afterthought, he realizes how quiet the laboratory is now. The voices remained stilled, as was proper. They would bother him when and only when he permitted it. The barriers were still holding strong, but no battle is without cost. Behind his dull gold irises, Alexander could feel the pain slowly building - the hunger that came with using one's powers. What had the Watchmaker called it? Evolutionary imperative? What utter nonsense he had sprouted. There had been a carnival, and something about redemption. Of course, there were others. The Nihilist, who seemed to spend all of their conversations either laughing triumphantly or trying to persuade him to kill everything. The Hero, who did almost the exact opposite and wallowed, usually making a half-hearted attempt to get Alexander to run off or re-invent himself. Finally, there was the Tyrant. Of the four spirits, he seemed to be the most rational, and the only one worth talking to. Then again, he had deluded himself into thinking he was a god, but compared to the others he was practically sane.
Suddenly irritated by such idle thoughts, Alexander stands up.
Some fresh air would do me good, I think. Ensuring that his twin bracers of pewter and steel stay firmly embedded into his forearms, he walks over to his desk and removes one of the many vials. He holds it up to the light, watching the flakes of metallic pewter fall slowly through the alcohol solution. Pulling back the cap, Alexander downs the drink. He can feel the pewter reserve inside him now, a veritable treasure trove of power. Throwing on a grey coat, he walks over to the cabinet. There, lined in dark mahogany, was Caesura - a true man's blade. He belts it on carefully, the sheath only a slight bulge beneath the wool fabric. Alexander Idrian is ready. Moving to the door, he steps through with an abandon he does not quite feel.
Last edited by 3SecondCultist; 2012-07-16 at 06:11 AM.
"The philosophers have only interpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it."