?There's nothing that cleanses your soul like getting the hell kicked out of you.?
(Woody Hayes)
Over the past month, Locke had experienced plenty of tender mercies, small things that had made his life a little bit easier to bear. The most recent of these was the kindness of the healer who, despite the fact that it was very early in the morning, answered the door when Atalanta had dragged him to his clinic, close to the Red Dragon Inn. By the time the two had arrived there, the concussed Locke was babbling almost entirely in elvish, or at least that's what it sounded like most of the time. Fortunately for the pair, the healer happened to be an elf as well, of the tall, willowy, and ethereally handsome (or was that beautiful?) persuasion. He hadn't seen Locke as many healers had previously: as a body to dump in an bath tub full of ice (although, for the most part, that's what Locke's healing consisted of). He talked soothingly to the ice elf in elvish, and held his gloved hand while introducing what turned out to be very painful healing magic into his system. It was hot, almost too hot for Locke, and he could feel the energy pumping, burning through his arteries with each beat of his frigid heart. He felt bad for the healer, who ended up with bruises on his hand from where Locke had squeezed it tightly.
Now, though, Locke was alone. It was late afternoon, an hour before the healer would finish his official workday, and the other elf was in the front taking care of a neighborhood kid who had sprained his ankle running around playing tag. Locke was lounging in a tub full of ice cubes, resting his head on a pillow, trying as best he could to get comfortable. The snow elf was also doing something else at that moment. He was thinking. About life and death, God or gods, fear and violence, friendship and love.
Locke had seen his life flash before his eyes more times than he was used to in the past month or so. The man with the soul-sucking eyes and scimitar, who bounded from the rafters baying for his blood. The woman, the demon with the gold irises, who lurked in the shadows preying on the fears of others. She had harmed many, both those close to Locke and those he had never met. He had nearly succumbed to her charms: the whispers in his head, the caresses of chill wind and promises of colder things to come. It was only by the combined efforts of his friends that he was able to survive, albeit with his current head injury. Not to mention the burns and heatstroke he had suffered the previous time he'd encountered her.
Locke had also seen others hurt, those he considered friends. Atalanta, Chase, Shimmer. In the face of his injuries and the injuries of those he cared about, he was in a more...contemplative mood then usual.
What did Locke want? He wanted to survive, find a way to face the evils that were bedeviling him and his friends. He wanted to forge new friendships, and right the wrongs he had visited upon so many individuals, in the distant and recent past. He wanted to work a job that had more of a future and a benefit on society than playing cards and bluffing people out of their hard-earned silvers. He wanted to love. Above all else, though, he just wanted to touch people. Literally. He wanted to hug friends and kiss lovers, without them recoiling at the iciness of his skin. He didn't want to settle for just touching people when it was convenient, when they needed his chill to heal their wounds. He didn't want to feel like the closest he could ever get to a lover's caress was the fist of a fighter careening with his flesh. It was with those thoughts that Locke formulated a desperate plan to transcend the bounds of his current cold body, and return to ?normal?, or whatever passed for normal in Rhydin.
(Woody Hayes)
Over the past month, Locke had experienced plenty of tender mercies, small things that had made his life a little bit easier to bear. The most recent of these was the kindness of the healer who, despite the fact that it was very early in the morning, answered the door when Atalanta had dragged him to his clinic, close to the Red Dragon Inn. By the time the two had arrived there, the concussed Locke was babbling almost entirely in elvish, or at least that's what it sounded like most of the time. Fortunately for the pair, the healer happened to be an elf as well, of the tall, willowy, and ethereally handsome (or was that beautiful?) persuasion. He hadn't seen Locke as many healers had previously: as a body to dump in an bath tub full of ice (although, for the most part, that's what Locke's healing consisted of). He talked soothingly to the ice elf in elvish, and held his gloved hand while introducing what turned out to be very painful healing magic into his system. It was hot, almost too hot for Locke, and he could feel the energy pumping, burning through his arteries with each beat of his frigid heart. He felt bad for the healer, who ended up with bruises on his hand from where Locke had squeezed it tightly.
Now, though, Locke was alone. It was late afternoon, an hour before the healer would finish his official workday, and the other elf was in the front taking care of a neighborhood kid who had sprained his ankle running around playing tag. Locke was lounging in a tub full of ice cubes, resting his head on a pillow, trying as best he could to get comfortable. The snow elf was also doing something else at that moment. He was thinking. About life and death, God or gods, fear and violence, friendship and love.
Locke had seen his life flash before his eyes more times than he was used to in the past month or so. The man with the soul-sucking eyes and scimitar, who bounded from the rafters baying for his blood. The woman, the demon with the gold irises, who lurked in the shadows preying on the fears of others. She had harmed many, both those close to Locke and those he had never met. He had nearly succumbed to her charms: the whispers in his head, the caresses of chill wind and promises of colder things to come. It was only by the combined efforts of his friends that he was able to survive, albeit with his current head injury. Not to mention the burns and heatstroke he had suffered the previous time he'd encountered her.
Locke had also seen others hurt, those he considered friends. Atalanta, Chase, Shimmer. In the face of his injuries and the injuries of those he cared about, he was in a more...contemplative mood then usual.
What did Locke want? He wanted to survive, find a way to face the evils that were bedeviling him and his friends. He wanted to forge new friendships, and right the wrongs he had visited upon so many individuals, in the distant and recent past. He wanted to work a job that had more of a future and a benefit on society than playing cards and bluffing people out of their hard-earned silvers. He wanted to love. Above all else, though, he just wanted to touch people. Literally. He wanted to hug friends and kiss lovers, without them recoiling at the iciness of his skin. He didn't want to settle for just touching people when it was convenient, when they needed his chill to heal their wounds. He didn't want to feel like the closest he could ever get to a lover's caress was the fist of a fighter careening with his flesh. It was with those thoughts that Locke formulated a desperate plan to transcend the bounds of his current cold body, and return to ?normal?, or whatever passed for normal in Rhydin.