Darkness. And Pain.
He must have been blind, that evening when he stumbled into the inn, for he could not recall seeing his path there, or even seeing the inn itself. It was perhaps sheer luck that he had manged to find the building, and even greater luck that he managed to stumble his way inside rather then collapsing in the street and risking death under heavy wheels and sharp hooves. Whatever it was, luck or providence, that led him into the Red Dragon Inn that evening, it was fortunate indeed for him. At that moment his whole world was nothing more then darkness. Darkness and pain.
He had been naked, or so he was told, naked as a babe, shivering, weak, barely capable of standing, all his muscles trembling like they were new and untried. His lungs had ached, burned with the air they breathed even as they gasped for more like a man drowning. The feel of the rough wood of the doorframe he had clung to had felt like thousands of needles under his fingers, his skin on fire with raw sensation. And the song, oh the song in his mind...loud, deafingly loud, a chorus semingly made of a thousand voices all thundering at once in a language that was at once familiar and foreign, the words fleeting, gone into undistinguishable noise before they were even formed...and yet the sound of it all deafend his ears.
He had tried to cry out, at least for pain, at most for aid...but had found his throat blocked, the words choked off before they could well out of his chest, his mouth left sputtering strangled sibilence until at last his knees had buckled and given way and he had toppled face down onto the floor before him.
It had been Keaton who had come to his rescue, Keaton who had seen the wounds on his back, two large, gaping slices on the insides of his shoulderblades that bled with a dark, unnatural blood that tingled when he had touched it. Raziel had been dripping with the stuff, and it had been Keaton, with the help of Jewell, who had helped to staunch the bleeding, only to find that the strange wounds were already healing with an inhuman speed. As he had lain on the floor under these ministrations, Raziel had come to again, his eyes opening slowly and this time, for the first time, seeing, though the light burnt and the shadows seemed too dark. But he could make out shapes, and he grabbed at the nearest one to pass his line of sight - which just happened to be Keaton's wrist. He still didn't know how he had managed to get the word out, or even how he had known the word, but it managed to slip past the strangling knot of unspoken words in this throat and escape into the air.
"Help..."
And then there was nothing but the darkness again.
He must have been blind, that evening when he stumbled into the inn, for he could not recall seeing his path there, or even seeing the inn itself. It was perhaps sheer luck that he had manged to find the building, and even greater luck that he managed to stumble his way inside rather then collapsing in the street and risking death under heavy wheels and sharp hooves. Whatever it was, luck or providence, that led him into the Red Dragon Inn that evening, it was fortunate indeed for him. At that moment his whole world was nothing more then darkness. Darkness and pain.
He had been naked, or so he was told, naked as a babe, shivering, weak, barely capable of standing, all his muscles trembling like they were new and untried. His lungs had ached, burned with the air they breathed even as they gasped for more like a man drowning. The feel of the rough wood of the doorframe he had clung to had felt like thousands of needles under his fingers, his skin on fire with raw sensation. And the song, oh the song in his mind...loud, deafingly loud, a chorus semingly made of a thousand voices all thundering at once in a language that was at once familiar and foreign, the words fleeting, gone into undistinguishable noise before they were even formed...and yet the sound of it all deafend his ears.
He had tried to cry out, at least for pain, at most for aid...but had found his throat blocked, the words choked off before they could well out of his chest, his mouth left sputtering strangled sibilence until at last his knees had buckled and given way and he had toppled face down onto the floor before him.
It had been Keaton who had come to his rescue, Keaton who had seen the wounds on his back, two large, gaping slices on the insides of his shoulderblades that bled with a dark, unnatural blood that tingled when he had touched it. Raziel had been dripping with the stuff, and it had been Keaton, with the help of Jewell, who had helped to staunch the bleeding, only to find that the strange wounds were already healing with an inhuman speed. As he had lain on the floor under these ministrations, Raziel had come to again, his eyes opening slowly and this time, for the first time, seeing, though the light burnt and the shadows seemed too dark. But he could make out shapes, and he grabbed at the nearest one to pass his line of sight - which just happened to be Keaton's wrist. He still didn't know how he had managed to get the word out, or even how he had known the word, but it managed to slip past the strangling knot of unspoken words in this throat and escape into the air.
"Help..."
And then there was nothing but the darkness again.