Reawakening
((OOC: Warning! Potentially disturbing imagery within relating to traumatic events and the mental responses to such.))
It has been reported that some victims of torture, during the act, would retreat into a fantasy world from which they could not WAKE UP. In this catatonic state, the victim lived in a world just like their normal one, except they weren’t being tortured. The only way that they realized they needed to WAKE UP was a note they found in their fantasy world. It would tell them about their condition, and tell them to WAKE UP. Even then, it would often take months until they were ready to discard their fantasy world and PLEASE WAKE UP
“Reynault, wake up!”
What? What was...
“You’re going to be late!”
The entrance exam for the mage’s academy! He’d almost overslept!
A mad scramble for breakfast, to gather his supplies, his notes, his wits, and the young man was out the door at a gallop, pelting down the street with his pack over one shoulder and his cloak flapping. He could hear the bell calling the hour from Stratholm Cathedral as he pounded up the stairs to the main door of the Academy, and he paused to catch his breath a moment before reaching for the door.
What was wrong with his hand?
...nothing. There was nothing wrong with his hand, it was a normal, human hand resting on the door’s handle, the nails slightly chewed and marked by a few healing paper cuts, but a perfectly normal hand. Why had it struck him as being strange?
“Hey, wake up! You’re blocking the way!” The other hopeful applicants had arrived, and here he was woolgathering on the front steps! Great first impression, Reynault...
He took a moment, once inside to check over his things. Pen with extra nibs, inkwell, pencils, notes...
What was wrong with his notes?
He frowned at the first page, which was not the carefully written out equations it should have been. Instead, the entire page was covered in random, chaotic scrawls, oriented every which way, all the same phrase. “Wake up.” Was someone having a prank at his expense? Out of paranoia, he flipped to the next page, then the next, each one just as jumbled as the first. What in the name of the Light...
The bell sounded strange. Why was it still ringing?
Looking up, the sun coming in through the Academy’s windows caught Reynault full in the face, and he flinched from the pain of it, raised a hand to shield his eyes. But it was like there was some odd resistance on his arm, like someone holding onto him. He struggled, panic rising in his throat, though he didn’t know why...
“Wake up! Wake up damn you!”
The Death Knight thrashed on the ground before Light’s Hope chapel, screaming incoherently through a throat that had long since rotted away, clawing at the other Fallen Heroes that held him down as a priest held glowing hands over the gaping wound in his chest. The light burned, the Light...
“Reynault! Wake up!”
it hurts please it hurts
It has been reported that some victims of torture, during the act, would retreat into a fantasy world from which they could not WAKE UP. In this catatonic state, the victim lived in a world just like their normal one, except they weren’t being tortured. The only way that they realized they needed to WAKE UP was a note they found in their fantasy world. It would tell them about their condition, and tell them to WAKE UP. Even then, it would often take months until they were ready to discard their fantasy world and PLEASE WAKE UP
“Reynault, wake up!”
What? What was...
“You’re going to be late!”
The entrance exam for the mage’s academy! He’d almost overslept!
A mad scramble for breakfast, to gather his supplies, his notes, his wits, and the young man was out the door at a gallop, pelting down the street with his pack over one shoulder and his cloak flapping. He could hear the bell calling the hour from Stratholm Cathedral as he pounded up the stairs to the main door of the Academy, and he paused to catch his breath a moment before reaching for the door.
What was wrong with his hand?
...nothing. There was nothing wrong with his hand, it was a normal, human hand resting on the door’s handle, the nails slightly chewed and marked by a few healing paper cuts, but a perfectly normal hand. Why had it struck him as being strange?
“Hey, wake up! You’re blocking the way!” The other hopeful applicants had arrived, and here he was woolgathering on the front steps! Great first impression, Reynault...
He took a moment, once inside to check over his things. Pen with extra nibs, inkwell, pencils, notes...
What was wrong with his notes?
He frowned at the first page, which was not the carefully written out equations it should have been. Instead, the entire page was covered in random, chaotic scrawls, oriented every which way, all the same phrase. “Wake up.” Was someone having a prank at his expense? Out of paranoia, he flipped to the next page, then the next, each one just as jumbled as the first. What in the name of the Light...
The bell sounded strange. Why was it still ringing?
Looking up, the sun coming in through the Academy’s windows caught Reynault full in the face, and he flinched from the pain of it, raised a hand to shield his eyes. But it was like there was some odd resistance on his arm, like someone holding onto him. He struggled, panic rising in his throat, though he didn’t know why...
“Wake up! Wake up damn you!”
The Death Knight thrashed on the ground before Light’s Hope chapel, screaming incoherently through a throat that had long since rotted away, clawing at the other Fallen Heroes that held him down as a priest held glowing hands over the gaping wound in his chest. The light burned, the Light...
“Reynault! Wake up!”
it hurts please it hurts