Deathless
It was a sea.
No, not the sea- Thal had never seen the sea, no sea had ever crossed his eyes.
But yet, he was drowning.
Dark and heavy.
Not water- much to dark. Tasted like iron and smelled like rust. Stung his throat as he pushed upwards. Or downwards.
He realized quickly it was all blood. A sea of blood. His head pushed the surface.
And he was falling again.
Falling once more, and he was always awake for it.
He was watching the ground come up.
Again. He realized he was having the same nightmare.
He prayed he wouldn't wake up this time.
He shot up, breathing heavy, panicked as always. He had that nightmare every night for the past few weeks. But he didn't remember going to sleep. He only remembered the temple being attacked. He barely could recall what he did. He only recalled something...awful. He looked around the room, lights dimmed. His lightsaber, his equipment was gone. He had the tell-tale signs of a fight on his hands. Blisters, cuts, scabs.
His face felt heavy. He'd been hit, and his back ached. He must've been thrown.
He looked around the room. If he was a prisoner, whoever took him treated him well. Or, he was back in Silver Rest, ideally. But-
He did not know this part of the temple, if he was even in the temple. He tried to calm himself, reaching out with the force. But instead of usual, as if he was reaching out with a third arm, to move around, to touch, to feel, to guide him- it was like looking through rain. Hazy. Murky. Oily shadows clouded his vision. He shut his eyes, trying to concentrate.
He felt that. That rage. That deep-seated hate. That sea of blood in him. That dream was real. He could feel it, deep in that part of him that he hadn't touched since he escaped the hands of slavers. All that hatred. All that rage. All that anger. The indignation, the ire. The all-consuming inferno that gave him strength. Made him such a killer, made him such a savage brute in the ring. That made him survive the Red Tower's sands, made him survive long enough to be found in the Shadowlands, knee-deep in the blood of slavers.
The blood he spilled carried with his soul. He was reliving the lives he took in his dream. He was facing the cruel reality every night that he had no let go of anything. He glanced around, panicking. The sudden realization terrified him. He clutched his braided hair, standing up, finding the only thing he was wearing was compression shorts. The large brute clutched his head, glancing this and that way. He let his head back and screamed.
He felt that power course through him, the familiar anger washing over him. The room began to shake slightly, before the calming nature of Silver Rest washed over him like a cool water. He blinked, breathing heavy. There was a sink in the corner of the room, and the dim light let him catch a glimpse of his reflection. His eyes, normally ice blue in their complexion- were dark, red in the center. Yellow-ish around the iris. He gripped the sink, trying to calm himself.
Were it ever so easy.
Further he strayed from his past, the more absolute the darkness became. The more sure he was that he could never become more than a mongrel, a dog unleashed to kill and to fight. He stared at himself in the mirror, shaking his head, trying to shake the image of the sea of blood from his mind. He walked back to the bed he awoke from, wrapping himself in the blanket that was provided to him, and went back to attempting to calm himself.
[member="Coren Starchaser"] l [member="Romi Jade"]
