[Closed] Rock of Ages
Who: Alexander Anderson (judaspaladin )
When: Between this and this.
Where: The mist, the ruins.
Format: Paragraph
What: Anderson has a crisis of faith after losing his regeneration - and his sanity - to the mist.
Warnings: Little bit of blood, Christian ideology
He had left Johan with enough meat and wild berries to last for a week at least. Anderson never slept the night he left, merely dozed close enough to dreaming to disturb him. Supposedly, the mist that they currently lived in made you see and hear things. While that may be true, these dreams were too personal. He felt the flames of London burning, the spatter of countless vampire's blood and Maxwell's cries for help.
Something was wrong with him and it was unfair to make the boy suffer through it as well. Johan had his own problems to deal with. He wanted to stay, to guide the lad. However, it seemed prudent to step away a little bit, to get his own house in order.
Then there was the matter of his leg, which still hadn't healed. Had he lost the ability? Was he no longer worthy of being God's soldier? Maybe his regeneration was the price for letting a lamb go astray.
So he left.
He pushed deeper into the ruins, deeper into the mist that everyone feared so much. Not so far that he couldn't return to the house where he left the boy; he'd never leave Johan truly alone. He found a cave, surprisingly empty, and set up camp.
He slept even less here, the dreams turning to one single nightmare. Enrico Maxwell stood over him robed in flames, proclaiming that God had abandoned Anderson just as Anderson had abandoned Maxwell in his time of need. That's why he was here, in Anatole. In Hell.
So to pass the time and ease his nerves, he read his bible.
A lifetime in the wilderness. It worked for John the baptist, maybe it would lead Anderson to a few answers. He could continue to help the people by killing the monsters that would work their way to the city limits. Indeed, he took out a few the very night he arrived to his new home. Despite his leg, he was still a formidable opponent.
The Forge - which for some reason he kept - would blare out sometimes, disturbing the quiet, sometimes waking him from the nightmare. He heard that Johan made it back into the city safely, a small relief. He also heard about the disappearence of Quatre. He said a small prayer for the missing, asking for peace to the boy and those he left behind. Prayers could be heard, even in Hell. Anderson was sure of that.
Then a miracle happened. On the third day - it was always the third day, wasn't it - Johan offered Anderson the gift of a church, a place to start his worship and spread the Word. It may have been an dusty, bare warehouse but to him, it was more beautiful than the Vatican in all its glory. He smiled for the first time.
What a fool he had been. This was no Hell, not in the slightest. As bad and strange as this place was, God was here and listening. Perhaps it was Purgatory, a test. Or this was a permanent position for Anderson, to guide these lost souls to their final destination. He began the trek back to the city.
As the sunlight hit his skin, near the city limits, he felt the familiar sensation of regeneration: of cells splitting, forming new ones and knitting together torn tissue. He wasn't quite sure what to think at that. Had his renewed vows brought it back? It didn't matter. He regained his familiar stride and stepped back into Anatole, ready to face the challenge set before him.
"The Good Laird will provide. Aaaaaaaamen!"
When: Between this and this.
Where: The mist, the ruins.
Format: Paragraph
What: Anderson has a crisis of faith after losing his regeneration - and his sanity - to the mist.
Warnings: Little bit of blood, Christian ideology
He had left Johan with enough meat and wild berries to last for a week at least. Anderson never slept the night he left, merely dozed close enough to dreaming to disturb him. Supposedly, the mist that they currently lived in made you see and hear things. While that may be true, these dreams were too personal. He felt the flames of London burning, the spatter of countless vampire's blood and Maxwell's cries for help.
Something was wrong with him and it was unfair to make the boy suffer through it as well. Johan had his own problems to deal with. He wanted to stay, to guide the lad. However, it seemed prudent to step away a little bit, to get his own house in order.
Then there was the matter of his leg, which still hadn't healed. Had he lost the ability? Was he no longer worthy of being God's soldier? Maybe his regeneration was the price for letting a lamb go astray.
So he left.
He pushed deeper into the ruins, deeper into the mist that everyone feared so much. Not so far that he couldn't return to the house where he left the boy; he'd never leave Johan truly alone. He found a cave, surprisingly empty, and set up camp.
He slept even less here, the dreams turning to one single nightmare. Enrico Maxwell stood over him robed in flames, proclaiming that God had abandoned Anderson just as Anderson had abandoned Maxwell in his time of need. That's why he was here, in Anatole. In Hell.
So to pass the time and ease his nerves, he read his bible.
A lifetime in the wilderness. It worked for John the baptist, maybe it would lead Anderson to a few answers. He could continue to help the people by killing the monsters that would work their way to the city limits. Indeed, he took out a few the very night he arrived to his new home. Despite his leg, he was still a formidable opponent.
The Forge - which for some reason he kept - would blare out sometimes, disturbing the quiet, sometimes waking him from the nightmare. He heard that Johan made it back into the city safely, a small relief. He also heard about the disappearence of Quatre. He said a small prayer for the missing, asking for peace to the boy and those he left behind. Prayers could be heard, even in Hell. Anderson was sure of that.
Then a miracle happened. On the third day - it was always the third day, wasn't it - Johan offered Anderson the gift of a church, a place to start his worship and spread the Word. It may have been an dusty, bare warehouse but to him, it was more beautiful than the Vatican in all its glory. He smiled for the first time.
What a fool he had been. This was no Hell, not in the slightest. As bad and strange as this place was, God was here and listening. Perhaps it was Purgatory, a test. Or this was a permanent position for Anderson, to guide these lost souls to their final destination. He began the trek back to the city.
As the sunlight hit his skin, near the city limits, he felt the familiar sensation of regeneration: of cells splitting, forming new ones and knitting together torn tissue. He wasn't quite sure what to think at that. Had his renewed vows brought it back? It didn't matter. He regained his familiar stride and stepped back into Anatole, ready to face the challenge set before him.
"The Good Laird will provide. Aaaaaaaamen!"