video | un: deathweaver

[respired]

[ 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.

Comments

[babbylon]

I hear only excuses coming from your mouth. What good are they? What good are you?

I should kill you now.

[respired]

You are free to try.

[ He's contrite, but he would still defend himself. He ain't about the afterlife for the undead. ]

[babbylon]

Sorry enough to repent, yet arrogant enough to resist your rightful punishment. Truly the worst sort of mongrel.

[Gilgamesh hums, and despite his words it's a more neutral sound than judgmental. Thoughtful.]

What do you live for, Koltira Deathweaver? Why breathe when you admit yourself to be an abomination? Answer honestly.

[respired]

Death is not penance. It is merely an end.

[ He could be a jackass and point out (as he vaguely recalls Gil did, though most of those encounters are already being sliced to ribbons in his memory) that he doesn't, in fact, breathe at all.

If anyone had asked him this question a year ago, he would have an instant answer: to kill the Lich King. To have his revenge. But he's got that.

And now? He thinks of Sylvanas's torture chambers, waiting for him should he ever be sent back. He thinks of the punishments he's already endured, and why. ]

I live now to make my own choices. To be free.

private;

[babbylon]

You will never be free.

[But if Koltira pays attention, the tone seems almost self-damning. As if he meant to say we instead of you. He brushes past it quickly, and there is a pause on his end. He's drinking, of course. Though he's also weighing his options, and to that end, he switches the feed to private.]

Let us say someone was amenable to providing you a distraction from this hunger. What then?

[respired]

Not truly. But I can struggle against this body and its demands. I can reach for who I was.

[ Or he can try, anyway. Sometimes--like right now--that person seems impossible to reach. ]

... what do you mean?

[babbylon]

I am not offering you charity. I am offering you a deal. A contract of sorts. Proper repentance for what you've done.

Interested?

[respired]

[ In truth, Koltira's presently open to most anything outside of death. He replies carefully, his voice slow and cautious. ]

I would be. Tell me the terms.

[babbylon]

You recall our battle. You were quite vicious. Bestial, even, as I've rarely seen before. As you were made and enslaved, only to fight and to follow orders... such is the lot of Servants. I understand your hunger as others do not.

[Once again, it could easily be read as a criticism against himself. But once again, he does not explicitly refer to himself as so helpless, much too proud, much too stubborn.]

Come to me and show me your potential. Test your blade against me, whenever you feel such ugliness rearing its head. And I will exhaust you, and I will sate you, and I will quell this beast that lives inside. This I do for a very specific price.

[respired]

[ Between Archer and Gilgamesh, he's become--if not an expert--at least somewhat knowledgeable on a Servant's lot. There is common ground--though it seems the Servant has significantly more autonomy in day-to-day life than any death knight ever did. And maybe a little less eternal torment? He's not sure on that point.

Warily: ]

What price is that?

[babbylon]

To be determined.

[...really, Koltira couldn't have thought it would be that easy. Even without a visual one can practically imagine the coy little sneer that's just woven itself all across his face. But despite his tight-lippedness it's reasonable to say the price would be substantial.

After all, Gilgamesh was still considering slaughtering him in the street, just because he could and because the King of Heroes does not forgive so easily.]

Remember my name and remember my face. When that hunger approaches once more, pursue them. Then I will know you answer me in good faith.

[respired]

[ Well, this seems fucking treacherous. But he knows that the Servants are durable, perhaps among the most durable people here. He's hoping for luck in the upcoming missions; for a war or a monster or something that can quell the pain already rising in his blood. But in the absence of that ... ]

You must suffer, Gilgamesh. Pain must be exchanged for pain.

[babbylon]

Only a King should suffer so well.

[There's no room for misinterpretation here. He's all but inviting it.]

[respired]

[ It's imperative that Koltira avoid another frenzy. He never wants to hear the other members of ALASTAIR scream like that again.

(Well, he does want to. But he doesn't want to want to.) ]

... as you say.

I agree to your terms.

[ Even if one is an unknown variable. Desperate times, though. ]