Koltira Deathweaver (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deadelfwalking) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
exsiliumlogs2013-10-31 11:10 am
deadelfwalking) wrote in exsiliumlogs2013-10-31 11:10 am
[open] don't say it's easy to follow a process; there's nothing harder than keeping a promise
Date & Time: Whenever
Location: VR; halls
Characters: Koltira & you
Summary: it's hard OK
Warnings: spooky scary skeletons
A: V.R. ROOM; ACHERUS: THE EBON HOLD
[He could have used this technology to recreate his homeland of Quel'thalas. He did think about it, momentarily. But he had not seen the walls of that city for over ten years now, not since his people called themselves by another name, not since they had reinvented their entire identity and culture. Any Silvermoon he designed would be a dead memory; a smudged watercolor painting. He wasn't fit to walk those streets, anyway.
So he turned to the familiar. Acherus was a floating ziggurat, the base of operations for every death knight of the Ebon Blade. Because it began life as part of the Scourge, its decor was not inviting: the cold stone floor was inscribed with skeletal designs, and in many places it was littered with actual skeletons. Braziers of unearthly fire burned in its halls, and tattered, black drapes hung from its archways. Enormous kilns carved like skulls encircled the room, their eyes and mouths bright with blue flame.
Koltira is in the center of this room, viciously attacking a target dummy. No matter how many times he cut into the wood, no matter what poisons he feeds into the resulting cracks, the dummy does not topple or shatter. It spins from the force, its burlap sack head grinning luridly, but that's all.
Doing this keeps Koltira's mind from everything that's happened recently. He had dealt out lethal punishments before, but that was during his time as a slave. He has no regret for his decision in and of itself--some lessons must be brutally taught. But he wonders if he'll have to do it again, and how many times. He wonders how much that will change his face, how it will change the faces of those who look at him.
He impales the dummy with Byfrost, and he heaves.]
B: CORRIDORS
[Koltira tries to keep to the less populated areas of the base, but that is not an easy task. Even though the throes of his blood frenzy have passed, he still hears the pulse of the transports like a war drum in his ears, pounding, pounding, pounding. The rush of their veins thrums beneath his skin, and he stares at anyone who passes him for several more seconds than necessary. He thinks of their delicate wrists; their vulnerable ankles. He thinks of their blood in his mouth. Then, clenching his fists, he turns away.]
Location: VR; halls
Characters: Koltira & you
Summary: it's hard OK
Warnings: spooky scary skeletons
A: V.R. ROOM; ACHERUS: THE EBON HOLD
[He could have used this technology to recreate his homeland of Quel'thalas. He did think about it, momentarily. But he had not seen the walls of that city for over ten years now, not since his people called themselves by another name, not since they had reinvented their entire identity and culture. Any Silvermoon he designed would be a dead memory; a smudged watercolor painting. He wasn't fit to walk those streets, anyway.
So he turned to the familiar. Acherus was a floating ziggurat, the base of operations for every death knight of the Ebon Blade. Because it began life as part of the Scourge, its decor was not inviting: the cold stone floor was inscribed with skeletal designs, and in many places it was littered with actual skeletons. Braziers of unearthly fire burned in its halls, and tattered, black drapes hung from its archways. Enormous kilns carved like skulls encircled the room, their eyes and mouths bright with blue flame.
Koltira is in the center of this room, viciously attacking a target dummy. No matter how many times he cut into the wood, no matter what poisons he feeds into the resulting cracks, the dummy does not topple or shatter. It spins from the force, its burlap sack head grinning luridly, but that's all.
Doing this keeps Koltira's mind from everything that's happened recently. He had dealt out lethal punishments before, but that was during his time as a slave. He has no regret for his decision in and of itself--some lessons must be brutally taught. But he wonders if he'll have to do it again, and how many times. He wonders how much that will change his face, how it will change the faces of those who look at him.
He impales the dummy with Byfrost, and he heaves.]
B: CORRIDORS
[Koltira tries to keep to the less populated areas of the base, but that is not an easy task. Even though the throes of his blood frenzy have passed, he still hears the pulse of the transports like a war drum in his ears, pounding, pounding, pounding. The rush of their veins thrums beneath his skin, and he stares at anyone who passes him for several more seconds than necessary. He thinks of their delicate wrists; their vulnerable ankles. He thinks of their blood in his mouth. Then, clenching his fists, he turns away.]