The Protectors: The Otherworld

The Protectors: The Otherworld

Leituras 5
Votos 1
Capítulos 1

Em andamento<5 mins

Última atualização qui, nov 26, 2015

'How did my life ever get to this point' I thought as I looked upon the crowd of thousands staring at me, all of whom were shouting until I could hear nothing except for the loud blur of voices. Not the first time since I had arrived in this unusual and confusing place, I felt clueless and completely terrified. I didn't know what to do. Feeling the weight of the weapon bearing down on me, I looked down to the sword gripped in my hand and felt shivers tremble through my body at what was to happen. It's kill or be killed in this crazy place. I had to survive...needed to survive, to prove I was worthy. 'But hadn't I done that enough already? Had I not defeated every pointless challenge they had thrown at me? I put my life in danger over and over again, was it not enough?' As I looked at my opponent on the opposite side of the arena, I felt fear shoot through my veins but also an unexpected rush of excitement. What was happening to me? I couldn't believe what was about to happen, but I couldn't stop it, couldn't delay it any more then I already had. I felt the roar of my opponent vibrate the ground beneath me, and steeled my emotions. Raising my sword and getting into the starting position I had been taught, I let the past sixth months flash through my mind as I readied myself for what was to come.

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shuntaro chishiya x oc The last King had ruled through paranoia, through the kind of weak-willed fear that saw threats in allies and let power slip through trembling fingers. The noise swelled, folding in on itself, growing larger than the sum of its parts. It was no longer sound; it was weight, crushing down on me, sinking into the marrow of my bones, pressing into hollow spaces of my mind. It tangled with my thoughts, wrapped around them like a vice until I couldn't tell where the shouting stopped and where my mind began. Some were composed, faces and expressions unreadable. I recognized it for what it was. Panic didn't always look like screaming, sometimes it was just the way someone swallowed hard, as if trying to keep it down. The wall bore the marks of time, not in cracks or stains, but in etchings of survival - a tally of days carved with a dagger. At first, I had carved them close together, expecting to leave before the space ran out. But as the marks stretched, as the numbers climbed, the gaps between each tally mark grew wider, as if denial could be traced in spacing, as if putting more distance between each stroke would make it less real. I ran my fingers over the final mark, the last one I was allowed. I focused on the way the air felt when no one else was breathing it. The visa was not an empty threat, nor an arbitrary limit designed to keep me playing - it was a fuse reminder that time did not stop simply because I had. I wondered why I wasn't so scared, but when you realize you're being controlled by fear, things stop being so scary.

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