Kaprao Ocimum (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deadpanlife) wrote2012-04-24 12:05 pm
deadpanlife) wrote2012-04-24 12:05 pm
deception lies in this box
You are not a violent person.
You are everything but a violent troll, which is why you're such a terrible one. You have tried more than once to remedy this, but whenever you raise your knife you think of the blood that would be spilled and you feel sick to the core and repulsed with yourself. In the end, you can never do it.
(You think of the you from four sweeps ago, covered in blood and leftover entrails. And then you throw up a little in your mouth.)
In hindsight you still have absolutely no clue why Phaest thought it a good idea to invite you to play this game, not that you are not grateful for it. But Scrib was the sort of game that invariably involved fighting mooks to level up and gather resources, and fighting is something you are decidedly terrible at. Which is probably why you're surrounded by imps right now, because the universe has perfect timing and you are fairly certain that someone, somewhere is getting a kick out of your life in a very schadenfreude manner.
You don't bother to pull out a weapon because you know you won't be able to do it, but they're at the entrance of your hive and the only way you can go is deeper in, which seems like a terrible idea. Besides, what if they reach your garden? No, no, no, there will be no fighting near your garden, you have had enough death and disconnection screaming in your thinkpan in the past few hours than you have ever wanted in your entire life.
In your hesitation you do not see the imp leaping at you fast enough, and there are claws digging into your shoulder where your old scar is, raking down and tearing through your shirt and skin and bright red bleeds out --
And this is when something in you just flips like a switch.
It's not as if you haven't seen your own blood before, but this is a context that is far too familiar in all the ways you do not want to remember. You do not know when you pulled out your billhook, nor do you care, because you're not all there anymore -- your mind is in some place far, far away, where you are three sweeps old again and there is a sword pierced through your shoulder, where you are surrounded by predators who see you as nothing more than easy prey and a squeakbeast to be played with before they cull you like the weakling you are.
But there is a difference.
That is, you are not nearly as helpless as they think you are, or at least you think so and you are going to prove it. You are small and weak and cullbait, but you are still a troll. No one thinks much of cullbait, and highbloods certainly wouldn't see one as a threat, but the desire to survive screams the loudest in those slated to die young and fast.
You ignore the (phantom) pain in your shoulder, because this is nothing compared to writhing on the floor hallucinating your death in between throwing up while your bloodpusher struggles to keep pumping, barely register the pain as another claw swipes at you and you bleed even more. The blade in your hand sinks easily into the first throat you can reach and you do not flinch as you feel more arms and claws grabbing and tearing into you. This is nothing, because pain is transient and it'll go away sooner or later, and you have long learnt to accept that, but a life snuffed out does not come back.
You will not let them take that away from you. Fuck their so-called right to your life, fuck their stupid blood colour, fuck that fuck them fuck everything you will live live live live live outlive them live outlive they must die die die diediediediedie YOU WILL LIVE YOU WILL LIVE YOU ARE MORE THAN CULLBAIT
When you are finally back in your own head, when you finally come to, you are covered in sticky black gunk mixed with your own bright red. And you stare down at the billhook in your hand, dripping the same. You can't remember what you did (or rather, you can't remember what was going through your thinkpan), nor can you explain how the piles of grist that surround you got there, and what did you do what did you do what just happened you can't have done all that right you're a worthless troll who couldn't kill a fly to save yourself --
You are not a violent person.
Or at least, that's what you tell yourself.
You are everything but a violent troll, which is why you're such a terrible one. You have tried more than once to remedy this, but whenever you raise your knife you think of the blood that would be spilled and you feel sick to the core and repulsed with yourself. In the end, you can never do it.
(You think of the you from four sweeps ago, covered in blood and leftover entrails. And then you throw up a little in your mouth.)
In hindsight you still have absolutely no clue why Phaest thought it a good idea to invite you to play this game, not that you are not grateful for it. But Scrib was the sort of game that invariably involved fighting mooks to level up and gather resources, and fighting is something you are decidedly terrible at. Which is probably why you're surrounded by imps right now, because the universe has perfect timing and you are fairly certain that someone, somewhere is getting a kick out of your life in a very schadenfreude manner.
You don't bother to pull out a weapon because you know you won't be able to do it, but they're at the entrance of your hive and the only way you can go is deeper in, which seems like a terrible idea. Besides, what if they reach your garden? No, no, no, there will be no fighting near your garden, you have had enough death and disconnection screaming in your thinkpan in the past few hours than you have ever wanted in your entire life.
In your hesitation you do not see the imp leaping at you fast enough, and there are claws digging into your shoulder where your old scar is, raking down and tearing through your shirt and skin and bright red bleeds out --
And this is when something in you just flips like a switch.
It's not as if you haven't seen your own blood before, but this is a context that is far too familiar in all the ways you do not want to remember. You do not know when you pulled out your billhook, nor do you care, because you're not all there anymore -- your mind is in some place far, far away, where you are three sweeps old again and there is a sword pierced through your shoulder, where you are surrounded by predators who see you as nothing more than easy prey and a squeakbeast to be played with before they cull you like the weakling you are.
But there is a difference.
That is, you are not nearly as helpless as they think you are, or at least you think so and you are going to prove it. You are small and weak and cullbait, but you are still a troll. No one thinks much of cullbait, and highbloods certainly wouldn't see one as a threat, but the desire to survive screams the loudest in those slated to die young and fast.
You ignore the (phantom) pain in your shoulder, because this is nothing compared to writhing on the floor hallucinating your death in between throwing up while your bloodpusher struggles to keep pumping, barely register the pain as another claw swipes at you and you bleed even more. The blade in your hand sinks easily into the first throat you can reach and you do not flinch as you feel more arms and claws grabbing and tearing into you. This is nothing, because pain is transient and it'll go away sooner or later, and you have long learnt to accept that, but a life snuffed out does not come back.
You will not let them take that away from you. Fuck their so-called right to your life, fuck their stupid blood colour, fuck that fuck them fuck everything you will live live live live live outlive them live outlive they must die die die diediediediedie YOU WILL LIVE YOU WILL LIVE YOU ARE MORE THAN CULLBAIT
When you are finally back in your own head, when you finally come to, you are covered in sticky black gunk mixed with your own bright red. And you stare down at the billhook in your hand, dripping the same. You can't remember what you did (or rather, you can't remember what was going through your thinkpan), nor can you explain how the piles of grist that surround you got there, and what did you do what did you do what just happened you can't have done all that right you're a worthless troll who couldn't kill a fly to save yourself --
You are not a violent person.
Or at least, that's what you tell yourself.