It was cold. The first sensation in...how long?
Arlston was laying down in the bed in Theramore deep within the Keep that housed the Pillar's headquarters. The same bed he'd been in for the last month and half. The same bed he'd bled and sweated in. The bed that had housed the comatose assassin ever since the bleeding wounds and shadow corruption had drained him to the brink of life.
It was a miracle in itself that he had managed to escape Draenor alive. He would be dead if not for Nisur, the paladin risking his own life to save Arlston's. Drawing on his past as a priest of the Light, Nisur had exorcised every last trace of the taint from the young rogue, and exhausted himself in the process. Arlston would not, could not ever find a sufficient way to repay Nisur. The debt was too large.
Arlston lay in the bed with his eyes closed, unable to open them if he had wanted to.
He had missed another chance to die.
Motionless in the bed, Arlston felt...weak.
A feeling he had felt before. Many times before. The effort of opening his eyelids was painful. Everything he did hurt. Breathing caused agony to ripple across his chest, thinking created a migraine that made his skull feel about to burst. The pain was constant, but the pain reminded him he was alive. As long as he was alive, he would not let pain overcome him.
Just as master assassin, and Arlston's mentor, Huwe had trained him. Pain was nothing but an unconscious thought. It can be ignored. It can be harnessed. It can be beaten. Closing his eyes briefly, he forced the pain to a far corner of his mind, and shut it there. Out of his awareness. Sitting up slowly in his bed, his mind felt, foggy. How many days had it been? What was the state of the world? What had transpired during his recovery? Where was the rest of the Pillar? Questions could wait. Arlston eased himself off the bed and slowly limped to the washstand and mirror in his quarters.
While considered a Vanguard in the Pillar, he preferred simple things. His quarters contained nothing but a bed, rug, dresser, a table for documents, and this washstand and mirror set. No windows, but the two lamps created sufficient light. After all, he preferred the dark corner where he could go largely undisturbed. The cold stone sent further chills up his feet as Arlston stood before the mirror. The man staring back at him haunted and disheartened him as always. The man staring back through the thin pane of reflective glass was what the world thought was Arlston. It was the face, however that made Arlston's numbness complete. The face, always blank, always impassive, emotionless. Cold.
No matter what he tried, he could not remember the last time true emotion had caused him to break this mask, this emotionless mask of a face. Some had considered him handsome, long before he he had starting wearing face concealing cloth. And now that mask was pale, gaunt, and more than just a little frightening. The eyes alone seemed alive. The eyes alone were the only conduits left that betrayed his inner thoughts. His emotions existed, at least he thought they did. Most others who met him thought him almost lifeless, intimidating, and untrustworthy. His eyes said different. Most often flickering with determination beneath those light green irises. Now the light was gone. It seemed almost, hollow. Only those considered "close" to him, would understand what he was like.
Blinking slowly, Arlston shook his head to clear away his thoughts, and picked up his razor. Shaving away the growth that a month of being bedridden had given him. Deep within his mind, Arlston chuckled, remembering it was not so long ago he didn't even have to shave. And how Renzik "The Shiv" had laughed openly about it. Finishing by clearing the lather, Arlston gazed at the pale, atrophied man in the mirror.
His body had grown weak, thin, and frail. The whiter lines of dozens upon dozens of small scars crisscrossed his torso and arms. The fairly large horizontal scar on his neck still tingled. None of them could outdo the large, long scar on his abdomen. His first one ever received on the end of a blade. The first one to ever scar his soul as badly as his body. That scar was his reminder. Evil dwells in the shadows. So it was into the shadows he would go to find it, and fight it.
Striding slowly across his quarters, Arlston opened his dresser, and removed his equipment from the numerous shelves and pegs. Ignoring the pain that surged in the corner of his mind. There was work to be done. And he was going to find Brenri and do it. Strapping on his preferred leather armor, and hiding his vast array of knives throughout the hidden pockets, he prepared to leave. His last article as always, Arlston arranged one of his usual masks around his face. His scars of the past could wait. He wasn't dead yet. He had a future to tend to...
Arlston was laying down in the bed in Theramore deep within the Keep that housed the Pillar's headquarters. The same bed he'd been in for the last month and half. The same bed he'd bled and sweated in. The bed that had housed the comatose assassin ever since the bleeding wounds and shadow corruption had drained him to the brink of life.
It was a miracle in itself that he had managed to escape Draenor alive. He would be dead if not for Nisur, the paladin risking his own life to save Arlston's. Drawing on his past as a priest of the Light, Nisur had exorcised every last trace of the taint from the young rogue, and exhausted himself in the process. Arlston would not, could not ever find a sufficient way to repay Nisur. The debt was too large.
Arlston lay in the bed with his eyes closed, unable to open them if he had wanted to.
He had missed another chance to die.
Motionless in the bed, Arlston felt...weak.
A feeling he had felt before. Many times before. The effort of opening his eyelids was painful. Everything he did hurt. Breathing caused agony to ripple across his chest, thinking created a migraine that made his skull feel about to burst. The pain was constant, but the pain reminded him he was alive. As long as he was alive, he would not let pain overcome him.
Just as master assassin, and Arlston's mentor, Huwe had trained him. Pain was nothing but an unconscious thought. It can be ignored. It can be harnessed. It can be beaten. Closing his eyes briefly, he forced the pain to a far corner of his mind, and shut it there. Out of his awareness. Sitting up slowly in his bed, his mind felt, foggy. How many days had it been? What was the state of the world? What had transpired during his recovery? Where was the rest of the Pillar? Questions could wait. Arlston eased himself off the bed and slowly limped to the washstand and mirror in his quarters.
While considered a Vanguard in the Pillar, he preferred simple things. His quarters contained nothing but a bed, rug, dresser, a table for documents, and this washstand and mirror set. No windows, but the two lamps created sufficient light. After all, he preferred the dark corner where he could go largely undisturbed. The cold stone sent further chills up his feet as Arlston stood before the mirror. The man staring back at him haunted and disheartened him as always. The man staring back through the thin pane of reflective glass was what the world thought was Arlston. It was the face, however that made Arlston's numbness complete. The face, always blank, always impassive, emotionless. Cold.
No matter what he tried, he could not remember the last time true emotion had caused him to break this mask, this emotionless mask of a face. Some had considered him handsome, long before he he had starting wearing face concealing cloth. And now that mask was pale, gaunt, and more than just a little frightening. The eyes alone seemed alive. The eyes alone were the only conduits left that betrayed his inner thoughts. His emotions existed, at least he thought they did. Most others who met him thought him almost lifeless, intimidating, and untrustworthy. His eyes said different. Most often flickering with determination beneath those light green irises. Now the light was gone. It seemed almost, hollow. Only those considered "close" to him, would understand what he was like.
Blinking slowly, Arlston shook his head to clear away his thoughts, and picked up his razor. Shaving away the growth that a month of being bedridden had given him. Deep within his mind, Arlston chuckled, remembering it was not so long ago he didn't even have to shave. And how Renzik "The Shiv" had laughed openly about it. Finishing by clearing the lather, Arlston gazed at the pale, atrophied man in the mirror.
His body had grown weak, thin, and frail. The whiter lines of dozens upon dozens of small scars crisscrossed his torso and arms. The fairly large horizontal scar on his neck still tingled. None of them could outdo the large, long scar on his abdomen. His first one ever received on the end of a blade. The first one to ever scar his soul as badly as his body. That scar was his reminder. Evil dwells in the shadows. So it was into the shadows he would go to find it, and fight it.
Striding slowly across his quarters, Arlston opened his dresser, and removed his equipment from the numerous shelves and pegs. Ignoring the pain that surged in the corner of his mind. There was work to be done. And he was going to find Brenri and do it. Strapping on his preferred leather armor, and hiding his vast array of knives throughout the hidden pockets, he prepared to leave. His last article as always, Arlston arranged one of his usual masks around his face. His scars of the past could wait. He wasn't dead yet. He had a future to tend to...
Edited by Arlston on 11/9/2011 9:50 AM PST
