ᴋᴏʟᴛɪʀᴀ ·sᴜɴsʜɪɴᴇ· ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜᴡᴇᴀᴠᴇʀ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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futurology2016-02-26 08:41 pm
respired) wrote in futurology2016-02-26 08:41 pm
video | un: deathweaver
[ Koltira's in the sunny courtyard, standing beneath one of the trees. Shadows and light play across his face, throwing the cold, icy glow of his eyes into stark relief. He's wearing greaves and boots, but only a plain, black tunic otherwise (and the skull-shaped ring that serves as his communicator). Byfrost, as ever, simmers darkly on his back.
He doesn't speak right away, as though he's suddenly lost his nerve. Truth be told, he's not sure how to begin this. The middle part is clear, and the end bit, too, but ... he exhales. ]
My name is Koltira Deathweaver, if you did not know it before. I have hurt a number of you directly, and in so doing, hurt others indirectly. Some of us have spoken, though not all. I will try now to explain myself.
[ He leans back against the tree, uncomfortable. ]
My second name is not a family name. It is an epithet, forced upon me as undeath itself was forced upon me.
[ He gestures to his eyes; his sallow, bluish, cracked skin. ]
I earned [ this word he spits, disgusted by it ] the epithet during long years of enslavement to a will that subsumed my own. The Lich King ordered my death; he remade me into one of his knights. And though I broke free, and though my brothers and sisters rose up against our former master, his mark on us remains.
[ He taps his foot on the grass. ]
We call it the endless hunger. It is a curse--of blood, of flesh, of whatever unholy foundation holds our wretched bodies together. Hunger is perhaps the best way for you to understand it, though it is not for any typical food. We were made to be machines for war. We were made to cause suffering. If we fail in this, we suffer ourselves.
The pain is ever present, albeit manageable. For a time. But if we--if I--do not give in to the hunger's demands, the pain grows. Worsens. It becomes wracking, all-encompassing.
[ He holds up his hand, curling his fingers slowly into a fist. ]
Imagine starving to death, and yet being unable to die. Your body is past its breaking point, but it does not break, because it cannot.
[ His nails dig into the palm of his hand. Black blood trickles down his wrist. ]
Instead, you break. As we do. If I ignore the hunger for too long, I descend into madness. A blood-seeking hysteria. Such was the state in which some of you found me.
I do not tell you this as an excuse. Only as an explanation. I deeply regret what I have done, and I am sorry. You need not forgive me. I do not expect such. If you would rather I keep my distance, I will honor this wish.
[ He pauses. ]
I wish I could end this by telling you that it will never happen again. But that would be a lie. It will. I cannot cure this curse. I can promise only this: when I feel the madness taking hold, I will give due warning. You will be able to spare yourselves, and you will know that if you see me--you must run.
He doesn't speak right away, as though he's suddenly lost his nerve. Truth be told, he's not sure how to begin this. The middle part is clear, and the end bit, too, but ... he exhales. ]
My name is Koltira Deathweaver, if you did not know it before. I have hurt a number of you directly, and in so doing, hurt others indirectly. Some of us have spoken, though not all. I will try now to explain myself.
[ He leans back against the tree, uncomfortable. ]
My second name is not a family name. It is an epithet, forced upon me as undeath itself was forced upon me.
[ He gestures to his eyes; his sallow, bluish, cracked skin. ]
I earned [ this word he spits, disgusted by it ] the epithet during long years of enslavement to a will that subsumed my own. The Lich King ordered my death; he remade me into one of his knights. And though I broke free, and though my brothers and sisters rose up against our former master, his mark on us remains.
[ He taps his foot on the grass. ]
We call it the endless hunger. It is a curse--of blood, of flesh, of whatever unholy foundation holds our wretched bodies together. Hunger is perhaps the best way for you to understand it, though it is not for any typical food. We were made to be machines for war. We were made to cause suffering. If we fail in this, we suffer ourselves.
The pain is ever present, albeit manageable. For a time. But if we--if I--do not give in to the hunger's demands, the pain grows. Worsens. It becomes wracking, all-encompassing.
[ He holds up his hand, curling his fingers slowly into a fist. ]
Imagine starving to death, and yet being unable to die. Your body is past its breaking point, but it does not break, because it cannot.
[ His nails dig into the palm of his hand. Black blood trickles down his wrist. ]
Instead, you break. As we do. If I ignore the hunger for too long, I descend into madness. A blood-seeking hysteria. Such was the state in which some of you found me.
I do not tell you this as an excuse. Only as an explanation. I deeply regret what I have done, and I am sorry. You need not forgive me. I do not expect such. If you would rather I keep my distance, I will honor this wish.
[ He pauses. ]
I wish I could end this by telling you that it will never happen again. But that would be a lie. It will. I cannot cure this curse. I can promise only this: when I feel the madness taking hold, I will give due warning. You will be able to spare yourselves, and you will know that if you see me--you must run.
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