Post by Barlei on Sept 10, 2021 19:07:21 GMT -8
Continued From Here: dragonballbd.proboards.com/thread/2642/sift-grain-tear-asunder-thread?page=1&scrollTo=13789
Pain.
Sharp and pounding, right at the base of his skull. It traveled the length of his spine, spreading through his injured limbs—a throbbing, pulsing wave fraying the ends of all his nerves.
That pain was manageable. It would dull and fade away.
Nothing compared to the aching hole in his chest where his heart once was. It was a heart that once beat proudly, full of pride and confidence. Full of respect and admiration for his allies, his friends.
His family.
Such a thing did not exist now. What he thought was his family had turned out to be his greatest enemy.
He was all alone in this world.
As his consciousness returned, he took quiet assessment of himself and his surroundings. He could only see out of his left eye; the other eye was swollen shut, throbbing each time he moved his head.
He felt bound, as if something were restricting his body. Lifting his head as much as he could muster without passing out from the pain, he found a good portion of his body was wrapped in medical gauze. A heavy leather trench coat covered him like a blanket—it was the mantle he was awarded when he’d beaten Pietr to become the new leader of the Starving Wolves.
A position he had never wanted to begin with.
The stiff cot he laid on sagged beneath his weight. The room was dark and cool; weak torchlight sent ambient light spiraling across the cavernous ceiling above him.
Just where the hell was he?
He felt helpless, much like a child dependent on the grace of a caregiver. More than that—helplessness permeated his being, flooded his thoughts, and brought an even greater turmoil to his soul.
No matter what he did, no matter how much he apologized and tried to make amends, the universe would never let him forget. Eight centuries, enduring torture and subjugation from the Tuffles, and still it wasn't enough punishment. He hadn’t suffered enough.
It was simple, then.
If Rye, Sesame, and everyone else harmed because of his foolish mistake wanted him dead, then why should he care to live anymore? Death would be a welcome reprieve. It would be an end to this entire nightmare. He could do that. Close his eyes and stop breathing.
Never have to hurt or suffer again.
“Open your eyes.”
A gentle voice lilted toward him, easing out of the darkness. Barlei cracked open his left eye, looking about in the dark.
“H-Hello…?” His voice was a dry rasp. His throat hurt. “...who’s there?”
“Good. You understood me and obeyed the directive.”
Something stirred in the shadows off to the side. Once his sight adjusted, he spied the torch being drawn off the nearby stone wall and carried over to him.
“Who…” He struggled to catch his breath and form the words. “W-Who are…?”
“Open your eyes. Fill your lungs. Breathe… breathe and LIVE.”
His vision blurred, darkness creeping into the edges of his vision. His single open eye rolled into the back of his head as everything faded into fitful darkness.
He awoke in darkness.
Something warm pressed against his cheek. His head no longer rested on the stiff cot; he could feel the warmth of flesh through fabric beneath his head. A smell reached his nostrils—a rich, perfumey scent he did not recognize but found tantalizing nonetheless.
The warmth on his face moved. He could feel the press of slender fingers along his rough, weathered cheek.
“Good. You’re still alive.”
He shifted his eye upwards, staring into a pale, stoic face. A woman.
“What’s so good about it, lady?” His throat felt much less parched, as if somehow he’d been given water. “Trust me… you don’t wanna get mixed up with a guy like me.” He settled his head back down onto her lap, closing his eye. “Just let me rot, alright?”
“I cannot do that. It is my desire to nurse you back to health.”
He felt her shift beneath him. Barlei sensed she was closer now; a few strands of her hair brushed against his battered brow, slipping into the oily tangles of his own unwashed hair.
Her scent was alluring. He had to force himself to focus, cracking his good eye to look up at her.
“Why? What do you care? You don’t even know me.”
“You’re right. I don’t know you. However…” She reached over, tugging the coat up to his chin. The bristles from the coarse wolf’s fur that trimmed the collar and hood tickled his face. “You are the new Fang of the Starving Wolves. I have a duty to you, and in return, you have a duty to fulfill to all of us.”
“Us?”
He squinted, trying to capture more of her face. His vision refused to clear fully; the most he was offered was a pale, slender face and a soothing, if not somber, tone.
“Yes. Our group isn’t as grand or numerous as it once was. Our last Fang… he was not an honorable man.” A brief pause. “Barlei-san, did he die with honor?”
She knew his name. It wasn’t a big shock. His face had been plastered all over the place since he’d starred in that movie role and a few commercials. Barlei-san… reminded him of a demon princess he knew.
“I dunno,” he lied.
He had to get out of there before he found himself wrapped up in business that didn’t concern him. With a pained grunt, he tried to push himself up to a seated position.
A hand against his chest pushed him back down. Barlei tried to move his arms again, but the pain was too much to bear.
“Let me go, damn it.”
“I cannot.”
He tried to sit up again, only to be met with similar results.
“I said, let me GO.” His voice became a weak growl, void of its usual rich timbre.
The woman said nothing; instead, she pushed the coat down and inspected his bandages. “You heal quickly. I shouldn’t be surprised—we Saiyans are built not only for combat, but also for survival.”
He paused, staring up at her. “...y-you’re a… Saiyan?”
Her fingers prodded gently at the bandages, surmising if any yet needed to be replaced. She never responded to his inquiry.
Barlei settled his head back against her lap, staring up at her as she checked him over. Something stirred, deep within his being. Her tenderness and kindness were something he was unaccustomed to.
Two Saiyans, relics of a bygone age like himself, had tried to murder him; for revenge, if he had to surmise a reason. Here was another, one wholly unfamiliar, tending his injuries to spare his life.
A life he was so willing to toss casually away.
“May I…” He spoke with hesitancy, as if fearful of frightening the woman away. “Is there more water?”
“Of course.” She reached over him, her hand slipping from view. The lip of a chipped wooden mug was pressed to his lips as he sipped the contents.
It was disgusting; probably drawn from a nearby stream. Were they still in the Great Desert? Nevertheless, it soothed the ache in his throat. He glanced up at her. The sight of her soothed the ache in his soul.
He laid his head back, shutting his eye.
Death was easy. He was a stubborn bastard. Maybe… maybe he’d see this thing through to the end.
WC: 1,234
Pain.
Sharp and pounding, right at the base of his skull. It traveled the length of his spine, spreading through his injured limbs—a throbbing, pulsing wave fraying the ends of all his nerves.
That pain was manageable. It would dull and fade away.
Nothing compared to the aching hole in his chest where his heart once was. It was a heart that once beat proudly, full of pride and confidence. Full of respect and admiration for his allies, his friends.
His family.
Such a thing did not exist now. What he thought was his family had turned out to be his greatest enemy.
He was all alone in this world.
As his consciousness returned, he took quiet assessment of himself and his surroundings. He could only see out of his left eye; the other eye was swollen shut, throbbing each time he moved his head.
He felt bound, as if something were restricting his body. Lifting his head as much as he could muster without passing out from the pain, he found a good portion of his body was wrapped in medical gauze. A heavy leather trench coat covered him like a blanket—it was the mantle he was awarded when he’d beaten Pietr to become the new leader of the Starving Wolves.
A position he had never wanted to begin with.
The stiff cot he laid on sagged beneath his weight. The room was dark and cool; weak torchlight sent ambient light spiraling across the cavernous ceiling above him.
Just where the hell was he?
He felt helpless, much like a child dependent on the grace of a caregiver. More than that—helplessness permeated his being, flooded his thoughts, and brought an even greater turmoil to his soul.
No matter what he did, no matter how much he apologized and tried to make amends, the universe would never let him forget. Eight centuries, enduring torture and subjugation from the Tuffles, and still it wasn't enough punishment. He hadn’t suffered enough.
It was simple, then.
If Rye, Sesame, and everyone else harmed because of his foolish mistake wanted him dead, then why should he care to live anymore? Death would be a welcome reprieve. It would be an end to this entire nightmare. He could do that. Close his eyes and stop breathing.
Never have to hurt or suffer again.
“Open your eyes.”
A gentle voice lilted toward him, easing out of the darkness. Barlei cracked open his left eye, looking about in the dark.
“H-Hello…?” His voice was a dry rasp. His throat hurt. “...who’s there?”
“Good. You understood me and obeyed the directive.”
Something stirred in the shadows off to the side. Once his sight adjusted, he spied the torch being drawn off the nearby stone wall and carried over to him.
“Who…” He struggled to catch his breath and form the words. “W-Who are…?”
“Open your eyes. Fill your lungs. Breathe… breathe and LIVE.”
His vision blurred, darkness creeping into the edges of his vision. His single open eye rolled into the back of his head as everything faded into fitful darkness.
He awoke in darkness.
Something warm pressed against his cheek. His head no longer rested on the stiff cot; he could feel the warmth of flesh through fabric beneath his head. A smell reached his nostrils—a rich, perfumey scent he did not recognize but found tantalizing nonetheless.
The warmth on his face moved. He could feel the press of slender fingers along his rough, weathered cheek.
“Good. You’re still alive.”
He shifted his eye upwards, staring into a pale, stoic face. A woman.
“What’s so good about it, lady?” His throat felt much less parched, as if somehow he’d been given water. “Trust me… you don’t wanna get mixed up with a guy like me.” He settled his head back down onto her lap, closing his eye. “Just let me rot, alright?”
“I cannot do that. It is my desire to nurse you back to health.”
He felt her shift beneath him. Barlei sensed she was closer now; a few strands of her hair brushed against his battered brow, slipping into the oily tangles of his own unwashed hair.
Her scent was alluring. He had to force himself to focus, cracking his good eye to look up at her.
“Why? What do you care? You don’t even know me.”
“You’re right. I don’t know you. However…” She reached over, tugging the coat up to his chin. The bristles from the coarse wolf’s fur that trimmed the collar and hood tickled his face. “You are the new Fang of the Starving Wolves. I have a duty to you, and in return, you have a duty to fulfill to all of us.”
“Us?”
He squinted, trying to capture more of her face. His vision refused to clear fully; the most he was offered was a pale, slender face and a soothing, if not somber, tone.
“Yes. Our group isn’t as grand or numerous as it once was. Our last Fang… he was not an honorable man.” A brief pause. “Barlei-san, did he die with honor?”
She knew his name. It wasn’t a big shock. His face had been plastered all over the place since he’d starred in that movie role and a few commercials. Barlei-san… reminded him of a demon princess he knew.
“I dunno,” he lied.
He had to get out of there before he found himself wrapped up in business that didn’t concern him. With a pained grunt, he tried to push himself up to a seated position.
A hand against his chest pushed him back down. Barlei tried to move his arms again, but the pain was too much to bear.
“Let me go, damn it.”
“I cannot.”
He tried to sit up again, only to be met with similar results.
“I said, let me GO.” His voice became a weak growl, void of its usual rich timbre.
The woman said nothing; instead, she pushed the coat down and inspected his bandages. “You heal quickly. I shouldn’t be surprised—we Saiyans are built not only for combat, but also for survival.”
He paused, staring up at her. “...y-you’re a… Saiyan?”
Her fingers prodded gently at the bandages, surmising if any yet needed to be replaced. She never responded to his inquiry.
Barlei settled his head back against her lap, staring up at her as she checked him over. Something stirred, deep within his being. Her tenderness and kindness were something he was unaccustomed to.
Two Saiyans, relics of a bygone age like himself, had tried to murder him; for revenge, if he had to surmise a reason. Here was another, one wholly unfamiliar, tending his injuries to spare his life.
A life he was so willing to toss casually away.
“May I…” He spoke with hesitancy, as if fearful of frightening the woman away. “Is there more water?”
“Of course.” She reached over him, her hand slipping from view. The lip of a chipped wooden mug was pressed to his lips as he sipped the contents.
It was disgusting; probably drawn from a nearby stream. Were they still in the Great Desert? Nevertheless, it soothed the ache in his throat. He glanced up at her. The sight of her soothed the ache in his soul.
He laid his head back, shutting his eye.
Death was easy. He was a stubborn bastard. Maybe… maybe he’d see this thing through to the end.
WC: 1,234