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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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[ there's a pause, and he looks curious. ]
There were those within the Ten Realms cursed as you are. Not elves, but a Valkyrior.
[ and Loki had used them at the time, passed them off to another incarnation that found a way to free them. that brings back a few painful memories. ]
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Cursed with undeath? The will to destroy? Both?
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There were damned for consuming the pleasures of the flesh. My grandfather liked to keep those in his service under his control—even in terms of their own will, bodies and what he claimed as virtue.
They were no less virtuous after their horizontal tango, I'm sure. Though I'm almost certain that my grandfather was the one who started the patriarchy—[ pause, and he sounds like he's leaning forward. ]—and I mean the patriarchy.
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Your grandfather was a villain.
Though I do not know what you mean by 'patriarchy'.
[ It seems to have more weight than just the usual definition. ]
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And a few other choice terms. He got his own, in the end. Their curse was lifted.
Ah—the patriarchy that casts expectation upon women to act a certain way or damns them. That kind of double standard that they're exposed to. To the Midgardians it's a tad different, but it exists to those in Asgard as well.
They were all women, as a Valkyrior tends to be.
They were damned by the King of Asgard, and then abandoned by their lover. You can imagine their displeasure on top of the curse. They consumed the souls of the dead, undead themselves, yet all the dead were turned toward Hel or Valhalla, depending.
Soooo ... they were always hungry, painted as monsters, and left to suffer.
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And what became of them? After the curse? Did they return to their normal lives?
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Their curse lasted far past their own deaths, even for one of the Aesir. When their souls were freed, they were taken into the service of the queen of the dead.
...
Some say if you whisper their name, they still hear.
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[ Solemn. As ever, the only cure for undeath is more death. ]
I had thought ... never mind. There are constants all over, I suppose.
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You thought you could use my sorcery.
[ there's more curiosity to it than accusation, though it does contain a little bit of judgement. Loki's arrogance, most likely. ]
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I ate it. An unpleasant taste.
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[ a little dramatic there, Loki. ]
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[ He quirks an eyebrow. ]
Like a demon, but worse.
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[ he sounds sore now. ]
You owe me two drinks.
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My apologies. My body is somewhat comprised of fel--demonic--magic. In Azeroth, it is the essence of chaos. Your magic tasted more of ... possibility.
Overwhelming possibility.
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he had met Mephisto again before this. it hadn't gone to his liking; he was left with a lingering anxiety. ]
That's the short of it. Everything is full of possibility, you just need to know how to use it.
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Magic is part of my people's heritage. Those of us that still live are hopelessly addicted to it.
But I was never a mage. Only a warrior. For us, magic is simply food.
[ He's not stupid--but he was never an intellectual. ]
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[ consuming those vibrations isn't unheard of, but there's a little bit of a dubious tone in his voice; it's not because he doesn't believe him, but that's quite a statement. ]
What happens when you don't have it?
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[ He grimaces. ]
Other needs.
But if I were alive, I would have to consume magic regularly to stay alive. To stay sane. Those who do not manage their addiction become Wretched.
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[ but he doesn't push there, not yet. there are other ways to find out. ]
I take it this whole Wretched dealy isn't a pleasant outcome.
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[ He goes on, dryly. ]
But it was not this particular terrible fate that destiny had in store for me.
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