10-15-2013, 11:49 PM
Porphyr peered up at the blank canvas with contempt. The nearby fountain frothed and gurgled, the water clear. He could sense no corruption in its depths.
His scarred lips split in a sneer. Apart from the fountain, everything in every direction was white, clinical, sterile. The sort of place you could conduct surgery in without antiseptic. Porphyr's gunpowder eyes narrowed in disgust. He scratched his chin with filthy nails, watched mottled skin and whiskers flake away, stark yellow in contrast with the ground.
"That's more like it," he cackled. Sweat traced paths down his grimy forehead like the tines of a rake through leaves. The fever raged inside him, an ever-present affliction. He delighted in his frailty, the weakness in his emaciated frame, those moments of glassy-eyed distance when he could veritably feel each compromised cell in his body.
Nothing excited Porphyr more than weakness.
He laughed, his head tossed back, coughing his glee into the sterilized air. Blood and phlegm dotted his cheeks. He wiped them away with an encrusted sleeve.
That's when the sound of voices reached him.
Three of them shattered the stillness. A young man's, cocksure, almost arrogant, broken up by the rumbles of two older men. Porphyr listened for a while, scraping the wax out of one ear. Still, he could make out no words.
The fountain shifted, panels of metal and sheets of glass rearranging into a new geometric pattern. Through a water-flecked pane, he saw three blurry forms. Two stood rigid, gesticulating with their hands. The third, a vast, hulking specimen, stood in surly silence. They were healthy, strong, free of disease. Porphyr spat in their direction.
After a while he approached, adjusting the bracer on his right wrist. With a thought, it conjured a small throwing knife. He used it to prick his finger. The contagion bubbled up to the surface, roiling. His fingers seized up and grew gnarled and stuff. With his other hand, he grasped the knife and tucked it back into the bracer, ready to infect the first of the trio who posed a threat.
As he stepped around the fountain, they came into view: two humans and an orc, none of whom he recognized. They fell silent when they saw his shuffling form, the pockmarks and boils dotting his skin.
Porphyr dragged a hand through his greasy hair. It came back sticky. His bloodstained lips creased in an oily smile that didn't extend to his eyes. "Greetings," he rasped. He convulsed with a bout of untimely laughter. "I am Porphyr, Contagion's Clasp. I was hoping for some information."
His scarred lips split in a sneer. Apart from the fountain, everything in every direction was white, clinical, sterile. The sort of place you could conduct surgery in without antiseptic. Porphyr's gunpowder eyes narrowed in disgust. He scratched his chin with filthy nails, watched mottled skin and whiskers flake away, stark yellow in contrast with the ground.
"That's more like it," he cackled. Sweat traced paths down his grimy forehead like the tines of a rake through leaves. The fever raged inside him, an ever-present affliction. He delighted in his frailty, the weakness in his emaciated frame, those moments of glassy-eyed distance when he could veritably feel each compromised cell in his body.
Nothing excited Porphyr more than weakness.
He laughed, his head tossed back, coughing his glee into the sterilized air. Blood and phlegm dotted his cheeks. He wiped them away with an encrusted sleeve.
That's when the sound of voices reached him.
Three of them shattered the stillness. A young man's, cocksure, almost arrogant, broken up by the rumbles of two older men. Porphyr listened for a while, scraping the wax out of one ear. Still, he could make out no words.
The fountain shifted, panels of metal and sheets of glass rearranging into a new geometric pattern. Through a water-flecked pane, he saw three blurry forms. Two stood rigid, gesticulating with their hands. The third, a vast, hulking specimen, stood in surly silence. They were healthy, strong, free of disease. Porphyr spat in their direction.
After a while he approached, adjusting the bracer on his right wrist. With a thought, it conjured a small throwing knife. He used it to prick his finger. The contagion bubbled up to the surface, roiling. His fingers seized up and grew gnarled and stuff. With his other hand, he grasped the knife and tucked it back into the bracer, ready to infect the first of the trio who posed a threat.
As he stepped around the fountain, they came into view: two humans and an orc, none of whom he recognized. They fell silent when they saw his shuffling form, the pockmarks and boils dotting his skin.
Porphyr dragged a hand through his greasy hair. It came back sticky. His bloodstained lips creased in an oily smile that didn't extend to his eyes. "Greetings," he rasped. He convulsed with a bout of untimely laughter. "I am Porphyr, Contagion's Clasp. I was hoping for some information."