02-07-2018, 07:31 AM
The landscape around him was a chaotic mess of broken imagery of conflicting, impossible terrain. A confusing kaleidoscope of half-formed thought and lingering fancy, flickering this way and that. But his gaze never swept aside to observe or pay it any mind. For all the riot of sensory overload around him, one thing was certain: the path before him. Nothing more than dirt, cracked and broken. Deeply furrowed and stained with blood and the stink of death. A field suited only to carry corpses within it. The aftermath of a horrid battle. A battle he had fought in, maybe. Some long-buried nightmare, trying to crawl back up to torment him.
Distantly, the thunder of guns echoed; the ground shook and trembled underfoot.
The priest only sighed, bowing his head as he marched resolutely onward. Arms folded behind his back, tired green eyes ever facing forward, he marched onward. Bent and weary, the weight of years pushing him down and slowing his pace, but he marched onward.
Another pace brought with it the taste of blood in the air. Another pace brought the metallic smell of rust. A third pace carried the noxious impact of death and disease with it. Drifting from a place beyond his endless path, stretching forward out of sight.
He paused his aimless, meandering march, head finally turning from its forward cast. Off to the side he stared, his attention focused on something he knew not what. But it was something...definite. Something that seemed real, not born of his own fragmented and shattered past. Not the phantoms of war; not the spectre of a thousand crusades; not the lingering regret of his own death; but something real, in this land of dreams. His exhausted mind took far too long to grasp the concept, grappling and throwing aside the weight of this accursed sleeper's torment keeping him down.
As he did, a new light rekindled in his eyes, and his posture straightened. The noise of artillery and gunfire ceased all at once; the thunder of war dropping to a dull background rumble. Distantly, the tolling of bells sounded. Church bells.
His glasses shone with silver light, and his expression twisted from the despondent, aimless grimace of a man who only wanted a respite to the manic grin of a predator who had finally found something to hunt. It was hard to say why, but the chaotic whirl of scent and taste riding on the winds had revitalized him, and spoke of things he knew quite well. Demons, monsters, heathens; just waiting for him.
He never broke his stance — arms folded behind his back, hands clasped together, shoulders hunched forward and leaning into his walk — as he went, though he redoubled his pace. Every step he took, the ground behind him was left withered and barren; coated in ash and dust, the bloody battlefield lost from memory as it ceased to have hold over him. Spears and lances of silver, each one capped with a cross and fluttering pennant of rich blue, burst through the ground before him, forming a menacing lane to herald his arrival. Each weapon was cracked, splintered, bloodied from use, but still proud and whole; still serviceable as weapons, if one should merely take them.
He went onward, flanked by his armless honor guard, the fields behind him drowned in ash and dust. Before him, the ground was ripped apart by thorny vines, tearing the crazed landscape apart and leaving it broken, but clear of any other obstruction. Pools and puddles of muck and filth, diseased blood and rusted skyscrapers, all were shredded and torn down, masses of thorns and fallen spears forming bridges and stairs to let the steadily-advancing paladin advance.
Until finally, he emerged. A corroded, snarling cliffside of metal and twisted gore was crumbled to dust. It spilled forth flakes of rust, howling in anguish as blood fountained and spilled, before it went silent, withering and dying. Desiccated, in an instant, and crumbled to dust. A harsh gust of bitingly cold air blew through the resulting tunnel, and tongues of flame, spewing forth masses of vines, crawled forth, framing the entryway as Alexander Anderson emerged.
Slowly, his footsteps even and measured, he strode down. Each stride was met with a crisscross of vines and lance, or of churned earth and fire frozen in place. Dimly, the chorus of church bells tolled and boomed, before they ceased with a noise like crashing thunder; a great many boulders and stones rolling and crashing as they were struck down and silenced by the clashing of wills in this place of dreams. Ash and dust blew out around him, his eyes peering from one unearthly form to the next.
"An' so this is what I find...lurking even in my own dreams. A group of mutants, demons and heretics, just waiting for the slaughter..." He gave a tired chuckle, shaking his head. "Suppose I should take it as a sign..." And a grin crept onto his face, the scent of bloodlust rising about the priest in a palpable cloud. "...slayin' your like is what I was born t'do."
Distantly, the thunder of guns echoed; the ground shook and trembled underfoot.
The priest only sighed, bowing his head as he marched resolutely onward. Arms folded behind his back, tired green eyes ever facing forward, he marched onward. Bent and weary, the weight of years pushing him down and slowing his pace, but he marched onward.
Another pace brought with it the taste of blood in the air. Another pace brought the metallic smell of rust. A third pace carried the noxious impact of death and disease with it. Drifting from a place beyond his endless path, stretching forward out of sight.
He paused his aimless, meandering march, head finally turning from its forward cast. Off to the side he stared, his attention focused on something he knew not what. But it was something...definite. Something that seemed real, not born of his own fragmented and shattered past. Not the phantoms of war; not the spectre of a thousand crusades; not the lingering regret of his own death; but something real, in this land of dreams. His exhausted mind took far too long to grasp the concept, grappling and throwing aside the weight of this accursed sleeper's torment keeping him down.
As he did, a new light rekindled in his eyes, and his posture straightened. The noise of artillery and gunfire ceased all at once; the thunder of war dropping to a dull background rumble. Distantly, the tolling of bells sounded. Church bells.
His glasses shone with silver light, and his expression twisted from the despondent, aimless grimace of a man who only wanted a respite to the manic grin of a predator who had finally found something to hunt. It was hard to say why, but the chaotic whirl of scent and taste riding on the winds had revitalized him, and spoke of things he knew quite well. Demons, monsters, heathens; just waiting for him.
He never broke his stance — arms folded behind his back, hands clasped together, shoulders hunched forward and leaning into his walk — as he went, though he redoubled his pace. Every step he took, the ground behind him was left withered and barren; coated in ash and dust, the bloody battlefield lost from memory as it ceased to have hold over him. Spears and lances of silver, each one capped with a cross and fluttering pennant of rich blue, burst through the ground before him, forming a menacing lane to herald his arrival. Each weapon was cracked, splintered, bloodied from use, but still proud and whole; still serviceable as weapons, if one should merely take them.
He went onward, flanked by his armless honor guard, the fields behind him drowned in ash and dust. Before him, the ground was ripped apart by thorny vines, tearing the crazed landscape apart and leaving it broken, but clear of any other obstruction. Pools and puddles of muck and filth, diseased blood and rusted skyscrapers, all were shredded and torn down, masses of thorns and fallen spears forming bridges and stairs to let the steadily-advancing paladin advance.
Until finally, he emerged. A corroded, snarling cliffside of metal and twisted gore was crumbled to dust. It spilled forth flakes of rust, howling in anguish as blood fountained and spilled, before it went silent, withering and dying. Desiccated, in an instant, and crumbled to dust. A harsh gust of bitingly cold air blew through the resulting tunnel, and tongues of flame, spewing forth masses of vines, crawled forth, framing the entryway as Alexander Anderson emerged.
Slowly, his footsteps even and measured, he strode down. Each stride was met with a crisscross of vines and lance, or of churned earth and fire frozen in place. Dimly, the chorus of church bells tolled and boomed, before they ceased with a noise like crashing thunder; a great many boulders and stones rolling and crashing as they were struck down and silenced by the clashing of wills in this place of dreams. Ash and dust blew out around him, his eyes peering from one unearthly form to the next.
"An' so this is what I find...lurking even in my own dreams. A group of mutants, demons and heretics, just waiting for the slaughter..." He gave a tired chuckle, shaking his head. "Suppose I should take it as a sign..." And a grin crept onto his face, the scent of bloodlust rising about the priest in a palpable cloud. "...slayin' your like is what I was born t'do."
![[Image: kUpgBYg.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/kUpgBYg.gif)