Virak Ip
Broken Soul
Awareness was something that he often struggled to hold onto. Or, at least, he assumed he was a he. Memories of possessing a body, of being able to feel and experience the world, of flesh and blood and bone were rare and fleeting, surfacing amidst the brief lulls within the storm that surrounded his consciousness before being dragged back under alongside himself and the forceful sleep capture him once more. From the few memories he had been able to cling on to, however briefly it had been for, he was certain that he had remembered his body, remembered sand and desert and wind surrounding a naked form, and it was that bit of information that he clung to during the scattered moments of being awake.
At times, he dreamt of the desert, at other moments he dreamt of towering structures made of steel and the void of space. Sometimes, he dreamt of people: a red skinned Zabrak, a cloaked Rattataki, a human with black hair and regal attire as well as someone with black hair and dulled, violet eyes. No names ever came to him though, no matter how much he struggled and fought to find and cling to any knowledge he could claim as his. In the end, his futile efforts would always result in him being pulled back into the stormy waters that kept him captive; a personal cage.
But, as was instinct in all living things, he wished to live, to breathe and experience the world. The brief insight he gained when he managed to fight back to pull of sleep was not enough, was never enough. And, as such, he stopped fighting, he stopped resisting the pull of the deep waters and, instead, let them consume him, let it flow through him and become him. Control over himself was the first thing he had been able to accomplish within the prison-existence he lived within and, as such, he would gain control over the waters after they became him. It took time, for of course it did - rarely was something worth doing done quickly, but for one such as him, who had no name and no life to live, the passage of time was inconsequential; all that mattered to him was that it was working, all that he focused on was his end goal - his freedom.
And so, as the waters that entombed him became him, he became the waters and reached out blindly, for no longer could he focus on singular thought, his mind becoming a mess of numerous thoughts, to many to track, as the nothingness he had lived within since his creation became something, became overwhelmingly powerful and oppressive in its weight. He scrambled defiantly though the waters, seeking, searching for help, for knowledge that would guide him and he struggled.
‘Help.’ Softly uttered with intense need, the single word would reverberate outwards, seeking an open ear, searching for the one memory that had surfaced in that moment - the woman with black hair and regal attire and dark grey eyes and tea and fires and power and debate. ‘Stop me drowning. Help. Find me.'
He knew, instinctively, that he had not begged in years, despite being sure that he had not lived for years. But, now, when he wished to live and be free and experience the world? Now he would beg, now he would plead for he wanted, he needed to Live. He needed help before the ocean consumed him once more, before he was sentenced back to his nothingness or was torn apart by the everything that had invaded the void.
‘HELP ME!’
[member="Lady Kay"]
At times, he dreamt of the desert, at other moments he dreamt of towering structures made of steel and the void of space. Sometimes, he dreamt of people: a red skinned Zabrak, a cloaked Rattataki, a human with black hair and regal attire as well as someone with black hair and dulled, violet eyes. No names ever came to him though, no matter how much he struggled and fought to find and cling to any knowledge he could claim as his. In the end, his futile efforts would always result in him being pulled back into the stormy waters that kept him captive; a personal cage.
But, as was instinct in all living things, he wished to live, to breathe and experience the world. The brief insight he gained when he managed to fight back to pull of sleep was not enough, was never enough. And, as such, he stopped fighting, he stopped resisting the pull of the deep waters and, instead, let them consume him, let it flow through him and become him. Control over himself was the first thing he had been able to accomplish within the prison-existence he lived within and, as such, he would gain control over the waters after they became him. It took time, for of course it did - rarely was something worth doing done quickly, but for one such as him, who had no name and no life to live, the passage of time was inconsequential; all that mattered to him was that it was working, all that he focused on was his end goal - his freedom.
And so, as the waters that entombed him became him, he became the waters and reached out blindly, for no longer could he focus on singular thought, his mind becoming a mess of numerous thoughts, to many to track, as the nothingness he had lived within since his creation became something, became overwhelmingly powerful and oppressive in its weight. He scrambled defiantly though the waters, seeking, searching for help, for knowledge that would guide him and he struggled.
‘Help.’ Softly uttered with intense need, the single word would reverberate outwards, seeking an open ear, searching for the one memory that had surfaced in that moment - the woman with black hair and regal attire and dark grey eyes and tea and fires and power and debate. ‘Stop me drowning. Help. Find me.'
He knew, instinctively, that he had not begged in years, despite being sure that he had not lived for years. But, now, when he wished to live and be free and experience the world? Now he would beg, now he would plead for he wanted, he needed to Live. He needed help before the ocean consumed him once more, before he was sentenced back to his nothingness or was torn apart by the everything that had invaded the void.
‘HELP ME!’
[member="Lady Kay"]