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Cinnamon Swirl #10. Center Stage with Malt
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : PG
Timeframe : 1260 (after the battle)
Word Count : 450
Malt Prompt : (summer challenge) Fighting was nice and beautiful and fun but dying was impractical
There was a thundering in his head that threatened to rend his skull in two. And the thought occurred to him that it shouldn’t hurt half as much as his gut, but his gut didn’t hurt at all, in fact it was numb. Tristan would have lifted a hand to the wound, but there was something pinning him down. He swore it was a body, or maybe a few, though human or demon he hadn’t a clue.
He forced open his eyes. The rumbling swelled and the world swam. He could see the body - a man in dark robes, not one of his own - and at the same time, he…couldn’t. It was a strange thing to see something and to not see it all in the same glimpse. He could make out every wrinkle in the man’s cloak, and yet he could see the bloody, mangled mess of leater that was his breastplate, that should, within all reason, be under him.
He would have shaken his head if he could have moved it at all. Instead he rolled his eyes to the heavens. The dark, star-studded sky occupied the same space as a domed roof, the two shifting in and out of focus. There was light. More light than the moon should have provided, the soft, even light of carefully spaced lanterns. Tristan blinked. Neither landscape retreated.
Even the ground beneath him, where he could feel it at all, was both lined with grass and rocks and a floor of smooth boards. Faces loomed in the darkness that was not darkness. Six of them. Black, white, red, blue, gold and green. Was he dying? Were the gods themselves coming for him?
Not now, he wasn’t. Not if he had anything to say about it. Tristan pulled in a deep, shuddering breath, and it seemed that took more strength than he had. The whole scene threatened to dissolve into black, and his gut did hurt then, like hot pokers were being drawn across the rents in his armor. He forced his eyes wide, and the image of the roof and the gods took hold. Not gods, they were stone. Statues. And his chest was cold and throbbing.
His eyelids drooped, the strain of keeping them open too great. The stars seeped back into place, and with them the stench of blood and the weight of the corpse draped across him. The numbness returned to his chest, and his breath faltered.
He drew one more choking gasp. The statues and the colors and the soft, warm glow of the building that housed them washed over him once more with a swift terrible roar, and then the world went dark.
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : PG
Timeframe : 1260 (after the battle)
Word Count : 450
Malt Prompt : (summer challenge) Fighting was nice and beautiful and fun but dying was impractical
There was a thundering in his head that threatened to rend his skull in two. And the thought occurred to him that it shouldn’t hurt half as much as his gut, but his gut didn’t hurt at all, in fact it was numb. Tristan would have lifted a hand to the wound, but there was something pinning him down. He swore it was a body, or maybe a few, though human or demon he hadn’t a clue.
He forced open his eyes. The rumbling swelled and the world swam. He could see the body - a man in dark robes, not one of his own - and at the same time, he…couldn’t. It was a strange thing to see something and to not see it all in the same glimpse. He could make out every wrinkle in the man’s cloak, and yet he could see the bloody, mangled mess of leater that was his breastplate, that should, within all reason, be under him.
He would have shaken his head if he could have moved it at all. Instead he rolled his eyes to the heavens. The dark, star-studded sky occupied the same space as a domed roof, the two shifting in and out of focus. There was light. More light than the moon should have provided, the soft, even light of carefully spaced lanterns. Tristan blinked. Neither landscape retreated.
Even the ground beneath him, where he could feel it at all, was both lined with grass and rocks and a floor of smooth boards. Faces loomed in the darkness that was not darkness. Six of them. Black, white, red, blue, gold and green. Was he dying? Were the gods themselves coming for him?
Not now, he wasn’t. Not if he had anything to say about it. Tristan pulled in a deep, shuddering breath, and it seemed that took more strength than he had. The whole scene threatened to dissolve into black, and his gut did hurt then, like hot pokers were being drawn across the rents in his armor. He forced his eyes wide, and the image of the roof and the gods took hold. Not gods, they were stone. Statues. And his chest was cold and throbbing.
His eyelids drooped, the strain of keeping them open too great. The stars seeped back into place, and with them the stench of blood and the weight of the corpse draped across him. The numbness returned to his chest, and his breath faltered.
He drew one more choking gasp. The statues and the colors and the soft, warm glow of the building that housed them washed over him once more with a swift terrible roar, and then the world went dark.