01-06-2017, 05:42 AM
Amen.
His final word, before his awareness fled completely and the last dregs of his body crumbled away. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
His world was darkness. But he was content. He had lived a good life; died a good death. He was not headed to heaven — his life was far too soaked in sin for that; far too covered and stained by wrath and death, even in God's name — but he had blessed by the signs of the children under his care living peacefully. They were happy. Even Maxwell had been forgiven, and was in a better place. But there was only one place in the afterlife for an assassin, whether of the Lord or merely for the want of money.
An eternity bathed in boiling blood was all that awaited him.
...but all that met him was darkness. A pitch-black void, stretching as far as his eyes could see — and further still, he imagined. He could not move, to look about in other directions. Could not even twitch in the slightest. Could not speak. Could not draw breath. He hung there, in solitude and silence. Waiting for he knew not what. Eternity, perhaps? Was this his true punishment? Not suffering forevermore in the fiery lifeblood of sins he had committed, but this...this omnipresent solitude and isolation? Not even worthy of eternal suffering and pain, but only of isolation.
It was...fitting enough.
But such was not to be the way of things. For moments, or for millennia, he waited there. He could not tell. But slowly, awareness filtered into his mind of a strange, white figure. Floating there. No eyes on its face. Nothing save a mouth, spread wide in a grin of almost childish mischievous and malevolence. Saint Guillotine wished he had the capacity and authority over his body to speak, to even ask a simple question. Who was this...creature before him? What did it want? Where was he? Many questions flashed through his mind, each of them unspoken and unanswered yet brushed aside immediately to make way for the next. He could just stare, his eyes stinging from the near-luminescent sheen of the figure, stark and alarmingly bright white against the blackness of its surroundings.
And then it spoke to him.
Just like that, without his questions even being asked, they were answered — after a fashion. Who this creature was. Where he was. Why he had been brought here. But so many more questions left unanswered, and so many more raised. Was he not dead, after all? Was this some bizarre delusion, a hallucination of a dying, broken mind before passing into the eternal hereafter? Or was this the other side of life? Could it be a test, some unforeseen suffering and test to give the Judas Priest one last chance at redemption, and earn his way into Heaven?
Before he could ponder over his dilemma any more, the entity calling itself Omni vanished with a final, cryptic message. And then Anderson felt himself falling. Confusion registered in his mind first. Falling. He could move again! He could draw breath; he was free!
...but he was falling. Falling toward a bright light. Piercingly bright, and stark white against the blackness he had hung suspended in. He hurtled down into the fullness of that harsh, blinding embrace and lost his senses as quickly as they had been restored to him.
......
...?
A low hissing noise grated against his ears, even as a heavy weight settled on his chest. It slowly, ever so slowly, grew in pressure, and a similar feeling slid across his arms, and down his body. Wearily, and with great effort, the bayonet priest slowly pried his eyes open. Glaring sharply off his glasses, a light with no clear source shone down through...a shell of glass? He craned his neck upward, peering at where he had found himself. His dull, clouded mind took far too long to come to the realization: an hourglass. An hourglass, inside a fountain of sand.
....no. Not sand. A wheezing breath brought the unmistakable smell to his nostrils: Ash.
A fountain of ash, slowly covering and burying him in a dusty, snow-white tomb. Had he remained unaware for much longer, it would have no doubt covered him entirely.
With a supreme exertion, he rose up to a sitting posture, displacing inordinate amounts of the fine powder, struggling to find room to stand and rise. He needed to escape, before there was so much of this blasted ash he wouldn't have the room to even move at all. His hands curled into fists. His eyes scanned the glass enclosure with a searching gaze. He struck, producing a resounding note as his knuckles clashed against the glass, ringing it like a bell. Searing pain jolted up his arm, the glass far sturdier than it appeared. He ground his teeth against each other, striking with his opposite hand. The result was the same.
Ssssssssst......
More ash slowly, steadily fell down. Blasted up from jets outside the hourglass to land in the upper chamber, to filter down through the narrow aperture linking them. Time was not on his side.
A reflexive flick of his wrist produced a bayonet in his left hand. A growl of frustration left his mouth as he lunged forward, striking with it. It hit the glass wall with a harsh, grating screech. The blow glanced off, scratching a deep scar into the transparent crystal. A second flourish had another blade in his right hand. It struck the glass, producing a faint crack, spidering out from where the point of the blade impacted.
Throwing both of the blades aside, freeing his hands in the increasingly cramped space, the Paladin smashed one punch after the other into the cracked section of glass. It slowly spread, cracking wider and further, a spidery network of minuscule fissures marring the side of the half-dome.
And then it broke, a cascade of dust and ash spilling out, carrying the coughing, sputtering priest with it.
He crawled out of the wash of ash on hands and knees, extricating himself from it and coughing out what felt like a lungful of the stuff. His glasses slipped from his face with the choking cough, clattering against the ground. His watery gaze fell on the message inscribed on his left glove. Speak with Dead. How appropriate.
His final word, before his awareness fled completely and the last dregs of his body crumbled away. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
His world was darkness. But he was content. He had lived a good life; died a good death. He was not headed to heaven — his life was far too soaked in sin for that; far too covered and stained by wrath and death, even in God's name — but he had blessed by the signs of the children under his care living peacefully. They were happy. Even Maxwell had been forgiven, and was in a better place. But there was only one place in the afterlife for an assassin, whether of the Lord or merely for the want of money.
An eternity bathed in boiling blood was all that awaited him.
...but all that met him was darkness. A pitch-black void, stretching as far as his eyes could see — and further still, he imagined. He could not move, to look about in other directions. Could not even twitch in the slightest. Could not speak. Could not draw breath. He hung there, in solitude and silence. Waiting for he knew not what. Eternity, perhaps? Was this his true punishment? Not suffering forevermore in the fiery lifeblood of sins he had committed, but this...this omnipresent solitude and isolation? Not even worthy of eternal suffering and pain, but only of isolation.
It was...fitting enough.
But such was not to be the way of things. For moments, or for millennia, he waited there. He could not tell. But slowly, awareness filtered into his mind of a strange, white figure. Floating there. No eyes on its face. Nothing save a mouth, spread wide in a grin of almost childish mischievous and malevolence. Saint Guillotine wished he had the capacity and authority over his body to speak, to even ask a simple question. Who was this...creature before him? What did it want? Where was he? Many questions flashed through his mind, each of them unspoken and unanswered yet brushed aside immediately to make way for the next. He could just stare, his eyes stinging from the near-luminescent sheen of the figure, stark and alarmingly bright white against the blackness of its surroundings.
And then it spoke to him.
Quote:"My name is Omni. This is not the world you know."
Just like that, without his questions even being asked, they were answered — after a fashion. Who this creature was. Where he was. Why he had been brought here. But so many more questions left unanswered, and so many more raised. Was he not dead, after all? Was this some bizarre delusion, a hallucination of a dying, broken mind before passing into the eternal hereafter? Or was this the other side of life? Could it be a test, some unforeseen suffering and test to give the Judas Priest one last chance at redemption, and earn his way into Heaven?
Quote:“That’s all you need to know right now. You’ll figure out the rest soon enough. I’ll be watching … and waiting.”
Before he could ponder over his dilemma any more, the entity calling itself Omni vanished with a final, cryptic message. And then Anderson felt himself falling. Confusion registered in his mind first. Falling. He could move again! He could draw breath; he was free!
...but he was falling. Falling toward a bright light. Piercingly bright, and stark white against the blackness he had hung suspended in. He hurtled down into the fullness of that harsh, blinding embrace and lost his senses as quickly as they had been restored to him.
......
...?
A low hissing noise grated against his ears, even as a heavy weight settled on his chest. It slowly, ever so slowly, grew in pressure, and a similar feeling slid across his arms, and down his body. Wearily, and with great effort, the bayonet priest slowly pried his eyes open. Glaring sharply off his glasses, a light with no clear source shone down through...a shell of glass? He craned his neck upward, peering at where he had found himself. His dull, clouded mind took far too long to come to the realization: an hourglass. An hourglass, inside a fountain of sand.
....no. Not sand. A wheezing breath brought the unmistakable smell to his nostrils: Ash.
A fountain of ash, slowly covering and burying him in a dusty, snow-white tomb. Had he remained unaware for much longer, it would have no doubt covered him entirely.
With a supreme exertion, he rose up to a sitting posture, displacing inordinate amounts of the fine powder, struggling to find room to stand and rise. He needed to escape, before there was so much of this blasted ash he wouldn't have the room to even move at all. His hands curled into fists. His eyes scanned the glass enclosure with a searching gaze. He struck, producing a resounding note as his knuckles clashed against the glass, ringing it like a bell. Searing pain jolted up his arm, the glass far sturdier than it appeared. He ground his teeth against each other, striking with his opposite hand. The result was the same.
Ssssssssst......
More ash slowly, steadily fell down. Blasted up from jets outside the hourglass to land in the upper chamber, to filter down through the narrow aperture linking them. Time was not on his side.
A reflexive flick of his wrist produced a bayonet in his left hand. A growl of frustration left his mouth as he lunged forward, striking with it. It hit the glass wall with a harsh, grating screech. The blow glanced off, scratching a deep scar into the transparent crystal. A second flourish had another blade in his right hand. It struck the glass, producing a faint crack, spidering out from where the point of the blade impacted.
Throwing both of the blades aside, freeing his hands in the increasingly cramped space, the Paladin smashed one punch after the other into the cracked section of glass. It slowly spread, cracking wider and further, a spidery network of minuscule fissures marring the side of the half-dome.
And then it broke, a cascade of dust and ash spilling out, carrying the coughing, sputtering priest with it.
He crawled out of the wash of ash on hands and knees, extricating himself from it and coughing out what felt like a lungful of the stuff. His glasses slipped from his face with the choking cough, clattering against the ground. His watery gaze fell on the message inscribed on his left glove. Speak with Dead. How appropriate.