Plasmatropolis [OLD]

Tension

Thalleous quietly ran his left index finger over the edge of his sword, gazing uninterestedly at the film of blood that it left, appearing purple against the translucent blade. He had been cleaning and polishing the greatsword until it glittered and shone. The whetstone he'd been using was settled on the wooden work bench to his right, water slowly dripping from the rock and seeping into the wood.

The cut it left wasn't painful, nothing was painful enough to compare with his chronic sense of loss. The crimson liquid slowly oozed down his finger, and he studied it for a while. It was warm against the grey skin underneath, seeping into the crevices on his palm. He chuckled for a moment before flipping his hand over, allowing the blood to cling to its underside. Some of the trails that the droplet left were already beginning to dry, forming a thin skim over his hand.

He clenched his fist once again, the dried blood crunched and more liquid oozed from the cut, following the creases on his hand. Putting the sword back down to his side, he brushed his hand on his trousers, leaving a streak of blood in its path. He produced a small pink vial, a potion of regeneration, tipped it over and allowed a single drop to fall into the wound. The flesh on either side of the chasm knit together within several, stinging seconds.

The Sendaris turned back to the sword, sitting to his right, the red of his own blood already starting to dry on the blade. He grabbed a damp rag from the bench, swiping the liquid off, causing droplets of diluted liquid to spray off, hitting the wall. He looked up for a moment before wiping the sword with a drier rag. After he was pleased with the state of the blade, he sheathed it, placing back in its polished wooden scabbard. He stood up again, slinging the greatsword onto his back, the sheath pinning itself flat on his back.

Thalleous stretched his arms, then walked out of the workshop, heading to the main dining room. He headed over to the fridge, grabbing a can of beer from the inside of the door. Cracking open the lid, he took a sip of the cool liquid. He turned around, quietly closing the door with the tip of his foot. It made a low thunk as the door met the rest of the fridge. Trudging to a seat in the empty room, he settled down, can in hand, condensation slick on the metal. He took another sip of the beer, then set the can back down. Exhaustion suddenly crashed over him in waves, and the leader of the outcast Sendaris slumped back against the chair.

The full weight of the situation was slowly beginning to seep through the breaks in the wall of grief that had surrounded his mind for so long, realisation and revelations slowly engulfing his being. He sat there at that table for a long while, until the only lights on in the whole establishment was the overhead lamp in the dining room. The Sendaris' eyes began to flutter, and he picked up the half empty can. He didn't feel like finishing the beer, so using the remainder of his stamina, he stood up and poured the transparent yellow liquid out, then headed back to his room.

Maybe tomorrow would hold well enough for him.

*****

William marched with his army of Droug behind him. More had been produced since the beginning of his crusade, and now he had reinforcements. Orson and Ria were not far, leading smaller divisions, while Ria's Sendaris were also lumped in. If William was being completely honest, he had no intention of betraying the woman, mainly because her reinforcements were actually useful. More than could be said about most of the Ardoni.

They were approaching the city boundaries now. William drew his purple sword, and it crackled in anticipation of when it would have to be used soon. This was going to be simple - a large attack on the city. If he was lucky, the Animator Coalition had sent too many forces, too far away for adequate resistance to form.

With his other hand, he reached into his inventory, pulling out something he'd taken along with him. The photo of him, his wife, and Jackson. He looked over it for a moment, pausing to consider what Jackson had said to him in his recent dream, but then he put it away. No being sentimental today, he decided. This was the day of victory, and he only had time to fight.