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)
exsiliumlogs2012-10-08 04:47 pm
deadelfwalking) wrote in exsiliumlogs2012-10-08 04:47 pm
Entry tags:
it's a dead man's party; who could ask for more?
Date & Time: 10/9, however many days beyond
Location: Around the city
Characters: Koltira Deathweaver, yOU?
Summary: this stupid fuck is back from the dead. you should probably punch him in the goddamn face.
Warnings: this intro prose is hideously purple pls forgive
He knew of the rumors, had heard the theories whispered throughout the halls of the Undercity, the muttering among the troops he once commanded at Andorhal. According to some, true death for the undead was a release, and perhaps this was the case for the petty troops of the Scourge: the ghouls, the geists, all those creatures who were merely shells for otherwise untainted souls. But for the higher orders of the undead, the reality was much more dire. Koltira's will was his own, but his soul was irrevocably stained, fractured by the Lich King and the unforgivable acts Koltira had committed while enslaved to that overarching dominance. He was damned in this life and the next, as he discovered soon after the last of his energy ebbed out of his broken, mangled body.
For a few brief, shining moments, he felt restored. Whole. Koltira had observed his corpse, now truly still, unattended on the forest floor, and felt nothing but serenity. But then he was thrust into another world, blinded and lost, beset on all sides by slavering, growling things that stared at him hungrily as they gathered for their feast.
Koltira had no defenses. He could not move, nor cry out; he was nothing but vulnerable spirit stuff here, tender and primed for the shredding. And the shredding had come. An eternity seemed to pass, and each inching, crawling second of it was stretched out beyond rational possibility. The creatures of this otherworld had fed on him, ceaselessly, mercilessly, until he was sure that there was no more of him left to take. But somehow their claws always found something to slice. His consciousness was reduced to the basest emotions: despair; terror; agony. He was nothing else, and he deserved nothing else.
Then, inexplicably, Koltira had woken up. He was back on the island, back in his monstrous body, Byfrost lying next to him. The Initiative had resurrected him, and for once he was relieved to feel the old, familiar pain coursing through his limbs. It was nothing compared to what he had just endured.
Koltira's armor was not there in the infirmary, but someone had laid out a suit and a pair of gloves, presumably taken from his sparse room in the apartments. He had climbed out of the bed, dressed himself, taken up Byfrost, and walked out. There was work to be done.
The memory of the past few days lingered, nevertheless, haunting him as he moved about the city, coming and going in brief, dark flashes. He supposed it would for some time.
[ooc: tags can be either action or prose; whatever is easiest! You may find him on the street, in the bars, or lurking in the apartment buildings over the next several days.]
Location: Around the city
Characters: Koltira Deathweaver, yOU?
Summary: this stupid fuck is back from the dead. you should probably punch him in the goddamn face.
Warnings: this intro prose is hideously purple pls forgive
He knew of the rumors, had heard the theories whispered throughout the halls of the Undercity, the muttering among the troops he once commanded at Andorhal. According to some, true death for the undead was a release, and perhaps this was the case for the petty troops of the Scourge: the ghouls, the geists, all those creatures who were merely shells for otherwise untainted souls. But for the higher orders of the undead, the reality was much more dire. Koltira's will was his own, but his soul was irrevocably stained, fractured by the Lich King and the unforgivable acts Koltira had committed while enslaved to that overarching dominance. He was damned in this life and the next, as he discovered soon after the last of his energy ebbed out of his broken, mangled body.
For a few brief, shining moments, he felt restored. Whole. Koltira had observed his corpse, now truly still, unattended on the forest floor, and felt nothing but serenity. But then he was thrust into another world, blinded and lost, beset on all sides by slavering, growling things that stared at him hungrily as they gathered for their feast.
Koltira had no defenses. He could not move, nor cry out; he was nothing but vulnerable spirit stuff here, tender and primed for the shredding. And the shredding had come. An eternity seemed to pass, and each inching, crawling second of it was stretched out beyond rational possibility. The creatures of this otherworld had fed on him, ceaselessly, mercilessly, until he was sure that there was no more of him left to take. But somehow their claws always found something to slice. His consciousness was reduced to the basest emotions: despair; terror; agony. He was nothing else, and he deserved nothing else.
Then, inexplicably, Koltira had woken up. He was back on the island, back in his monstrous body, Byfrost lying next to him. The Initiative had resurrected him, and for once he was relieved to feel the old, familiar pain coursing through his limbs. It was nothing compared to what he had just endured.
Koltira's armor was not there in the infirmary, but someone had laid out a suit and a pair of gloves, presumably taken from his sparse room in the apartments. He had climbed out of the bed, dressed himself, taken up Byfrost, and walked out. There was work to be done.
The memory of the past few days lingered, nevertheless, haunting him as he moved about the city, coming and going in brief, dark flashes. He supposed it would for some time.
[ooc: tags can be either action or prose; whatever is easiest! You may find him on the street, in the bars, or lurking in the apartment buildings over the next several days.]