The Darkness Between the Stars
This.
This place.
It is Angband.
It is Angband.
Not an illusion.
When Gorlim wakes, he is in his cell. Beaten. Bloody. Tortured as he was, starving and thirsty, dizzy and exhausted, as if the Bar had only been a dream of possibilities and nothing more.
Screams ricochet over stone.
Flesh is rended.
Blood flows and drips steadily as the moan ( Read more... )
This place.
It is Angband.
It is Angband.
Not an illusion.
When Gorlim wakes, he is in his cell. Beaten. Bloody. Tortured as he was, starving and thirsty, dizzy and exhausted, as if the Bar had only been a dream of possibilities and nothing more.
Screams ricochet over stone.
Flesh is rended.
Blood flows and drips steadily as the moan ( Read more... )
Gorlim becomes slowly, painfully aware of where he is, of the sounds, the stench, of the creature hovering above him. An old friend. It takes immense effort to push himself over, to roll his head up and peer through blurring eyes at his tormentor. But every effort is worth it, because it preserves a little bit of rebellion. It's that spirit that, despite all, has yet to be brought to its knees.
Yet.
Even in the dead, Wraith-ridden echo of a man as Gorlim was, brought from Hell to a pub at the end of the universe, still held something of that spirit. It shines through sometimes, as now, when he knows, on all levels of his being, that he must endure. He must. There is more at stake here than his own broken body. He knows he will never be whole again now.
But he won't let ANYONE have the satisfaction of seeing the Beorings toppled. He IS his people here and now, and he is all of their strength.
His own face is a cruel mockery of the orc standing over him. His dry lips have cracked and bled, there is a clotted scab where the lip was split. His nose is broken, his eyes blackened and swollen. But he smiles up at the twisted beast, and parts his parched lips into a mockery of a harsh laugh.
Good evening, Joe. Nice to see you. How ya doin' tonight?
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