He was but another shadow gathered in the night. The cast of pale moonlight did nothing to illuminate his presence, just as Oriax wanted it. He had left the world of light and bright things a long time ago, answering a calling that had ached so much it made his soul shiver up until the moment he had taken his own life. It was what was necessary for the elf to cross from this life to the next, an everlasting life full of devotion to Death. A ritual cast, a plunge of a knife, and then all he knew was transformed.
The inn was well known. He had known it, just as he knew this city was a place full of life that would not miss a few stolen here and there. Sacrificed to entropy. Extending his own existence. Amidst the fires that had burned some weeks ago and the bodies strewn throughout the city no one had noticed an extra here and there. Everyone pointed fingers at cloaked figures and firebugs, not at the pale shadow of nothingness. Just as Oriax wanted it.
A pull of purpose had drawn him away from the bustle of life. So wasteful they were, the living. They fought, ripped at each, tore away pieces of heart, soul, even flesh without being mindful of the consequences. Scratches and rifts, rents and holes that could not, would never heal. So much damage, so much havoc, would death not be better? He could not remember if in his first life understanding the burning toil of relationships, the endless give and take and conflict. In his second it made no sense. He had watched such a scene of strife unfold between two lovers who parted ways forever. So tempting it was to follow the girl and offer her a knife. Inspire her devotion to the darkness rather than take her. A broken soul was poor fodder and poorer servant. He let her be.
His steps made no noise as he stalked his prey. He needed to catch up to the rough man but that was no problem. His stride is long and quick as it needs to be. Shadows are always there pressing against the light. Bearing down. Cast even when light is at its brightest and seemingly most complete.
Oriax did not falter when the man ahead looked backwards over his shoulder. The elf was just another spot in the night with no desire to be seen. The human's eyes were weak, inferior, and just could not See. A shrug and he focused again on his journey. He was close to his goal, never knowing he would never make it.
The elf moved faster, closing the distance between himself and the other in the time it took a neuron to fire. A thought didn't even have time to form in the human's head before he found himself caught in the tangle of long arms and immobilized by a sudden press of darkness. His mouth opened to scream which only made it easier for the tendrils of shadow to enter. To cut off the air. Shadow filled and filled as he struggled, there was no mercy. Just the way Oriax did it.
"You," hissed his cold voice in the man's ear. "You who have dealt pain to innocence, death to those not yet called to the dark embrace, in ugly, unjust fashion." He spoke quickly. The life force was fading, the struggle with it. "You have been judged and found unworthy of this world." Pale fingers pressed into the bulging flesh of the man's neck, nails scraped harshly and dug until welts formed.
The body in his arms shuddered then stilled. Slumped. It was over too fast. Oriax let him fall into the heap and strode away to leave him in that undignified position. Eyes staring unseeing towards the sky.
He would be found come morning, the death ruled the fault of a glob of chewing tobacco—a vice the man was well-known for—lodged in his windpipe. It would be determined the scratches on his throat were the desperate act of a man who knew his number was up to cheat Death. No investigation would be launched, no one would cry over his passing. His body would turn the flames of his cremation an odd blue-black.
And Oriax would go back to wandering the night waiting for the next soul to be cleansed from the world.
The inn was well known. He had known it, just as he knew this city was a place full of life that would not miss a few stolen here and there. Sacrificed to entropy. Extending his own existence. Amidst the fires that had burned some weeks ago and the bodies strewn throughout the city no one had noticed an extra here and there. Everyone pointed fingers at cloaked figures and firebugs, not at the pale shadow of nothingness. Just as Oriax wanted it.
A pull of purpose had drawn him away from the bustle of life. So wasteful they were, the living. They fought, ripped at each, tore away pieces of heart, soul, even flesh without being mindful of the consequences. Scratches and rifts, rents and holes that could not, would never heal. So much damage, so much havoc, would death not be better? He could not remember if in his first life understanding the burning toil of relationships, the endless give and take and conflict. In his second it made no sense. He had watched such a scene of strife unfold between two lovers who parted ways forever. So tempting it was to follow the girl and offer her a knife. Inspire her devotion to the darkness rather than take her. A broken soul was poor fodder and poorer servant. He let her be.
His steps made no noise as he stalked his prey. He needed to catch up to the rough man but that was no problem. His stride is long and quick as it needs to be. Shadows are always there pressing against the light. Bearing down. Cast even when light is at its brightest and seemingly most complete.
Oriax did not falter when the man ahead looked backwards over his shoulder. The elf was just another spot in the night with no desire to be seen. The human's eyes were weak, inferior, and just could not See. A shrug and he focused again on his journey. He was close to his goal, never knowing he would never make it.
The elf moved faster, closing the distance between himself and the other in the time it took a neuron to fire. A thought didn't even have time to form in the human's head before he found himself caught in the tangle of long arms and immobilized by a sudden press of darkness. His mouth opened to scream which only made it easier for the tendrils of shadow to enter. To cut off the air. Shadow filled and filled as he struggled, there was no mercy. Just the way Oriax did it.
"You," hissed his cold voice in the man's ear. "You who have dealt pain to innocence, death to those not yet called to the dark embrace, in ugly, unjust fashion." He spoke quickly. The life force was fading, the struggle with it. "You have been judged and found unworthy of this world." Pale fingers pressed into the bulging flesh of the man's neck, nails scraped harshly and dug until welts formed.
The body in his arms shuddered then stilled. Slumped. It was over too fast. Oriax let him fall into the heap and strode away to leave him in that undignified position. Eyes staring unseeing towards the sky.
He would be found come morning, the death ruled the fault of a glob of chewing tobacco—a vice the man was well-known for—lodged in his windpipe. It would be determined the scratches on his throat were the desperate act of a man who knew his number was up to cheat Death. No investigation would be launched, no one would cry over his passing. His body would turn the flames of his cremation an odd blue-black.
And Oriax would go back to wandering the night waiting for the next soul to be cleansed from the world.