ʜᴄ sᴠɴᴛ ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏɴᴇs
Prakith
Ruins of the God-King's Keep
Consciousness came to Antherion like a trickle of cold water. The first thing he became aware of was the solid surface upon which he was resting -- then the dryness of his mouth, and the slow, constant sound of his artificial throat pumping a steady stream of air in and out of his lungs. His sixth sense was swimming in darkness, the keep was a sea of it, and from it no distinct presences could be picked. Where were the ones he had traveled here with -- the mocking specter, the cold-hearted king? Had they abandoned him? Betrayed him? He lay still as though dead for a moment, letting the world cease its spinning, listening for sound nearby.
Nothing. He was alone.
Gathering his thoughts, he pushed himself off the ground, with effort, his fluid-wire muscles straining underneath messy, scar-tissue skin. He squinted at his surroundings, searching for where he last was aware of being: an arched pathway, a stairwell leading downwards. His seismic senses revealed little and less, as though he was suddenly swallowed by the earth -- no path lead up or down, but a portal of swirling mist lay before him.
He stepped forwards, reaching out to touch it -- it was insubstantial, dream-stuff, nothing. He had a vague awareness of the softness of his thoughts, but an unconscious part of him accepted what was happening as fact, suspicious fact. He could not yet break that hold on him.
Very well. I will play your games.
He stepped forwards into the tunnel of ether, pressing deeper forwards, guided by instinct.
| [member="Darth Ophidia"] |