He could smell it still, taste it on his tongue.
Blood in the air, on his blades, on his fur, in his mouth - it was everywhere, pooling out from a wound. Or was it two? Three, four? It didn't matter. It was all he could focus on, the salty, coppery taste filling both his senses and his mind, as he licked his knives clean, sheathing them back into his belt. The job was quick, easy, as it always was, for him. Spend a long enough time as a soldier, and even you can become something great, something beyond just your regular troop. Spend long enough, and even though you can't ever get it out of your head, maybe you can get used to the taste of blood, and the feeling of killing.
He didn't have any trouble with that, though. There was something thrilling about proving your dominance completely and utterly over someone else, showing off in the meantime, becoming something to be feared. He loved that feeling, relished it. It drove him to become what he was. To become that "something" beyond. Of course, it also kept him awake at night often - remembering his old life, as a soldier, that is. The pain he felt, the scars he carried, balanced out by the scars he left on others. Not that they could sport those around as badges of survival. Only time they'd be seen was during the burial, if they had anyone to bury them.
It kept him awake tonight, too. A thirst, of sorts, for blood. And for something more than that. A world without borders, ruled by one power.
That was the vision, wasn't it? Everyone had one. That was his, granted to him by another, pushing him to murder, to gain power by any means necessary. Maybe that's where his bloodthirst started - or maybe it was the other way around. He didn't know anymore. All he knew was that it was time to stop hiding. He couldn't just ditch his purpose. Not many could. It was in his blood, at this point. A meme that controlled his very being.
So he put on his scarf, slipped on the bandolier that carried his knives, eyeing his beret before deciding to leave it, and leaving. Leaving the little cabin he had built himself to live out the rest of his days in peace. A metaphorical gesture, it occurred to him. Peace was over.
Now was his time to shine.
He was reminded him of a legendary archetype, as he walked along the railroad connecting to the Typhoon - he had heard of it, in his youth. Some sort of extant group. Thieves and rogues, the lot of them, isolated to the sea. Pirates, one could say. He didn't know, didn't have an opinion, really. He couldn't trust the rumors, and even if he could - well, he knew a little something about criminality, about violence for some goal, or even for just the sake of violence. A relatable goal. It took him hours for his lithe form to reach the end of the track and the beginning of the rest of his life.
With just a thought, he send a small wave of telekinesis to hit the bells that greeted him, glancing one of his steely grey eyes at the basket of black mambas. Go figure. Of course there would be more snakes everywhere he went. He sat and waited, curling up his spotted tail around his feet, patient, the little sheriff's badge he had pinned to his scarf glinting in the light of morning.
Blood in the air, on his blades, on his fur, in his mouth - it was everywhere, pooling out from a wound. Or was it two? Three, four? It didn't matter. It was all he could focus on, the salty, coppery taste filling both his senses and his mind, as he licked his knives clean, sheathing them back into his belt. The job was quick, easy, as it always was, for him. Spend a long enough time as a soldier, and even you can become something great, something beyond just your regular troop. Spend long enough, and even though you can't ever get it out of your head, maybe you can get used to the taste of blood, and the feeling of killing.
He didn't have any trouble with that, though. There was something thrilling about proving your dominance completely and utterly over someone else, showing off in the meantime, becoming something to be feared. He loved that feeling, relished it. It drove him to become what he was. To become that "something" beyond. Of course, it also kept him awake at night often - remembering his old life, as a soldier, that is. The pain he felt, the scars he carried, balanced out by the scars he left on others. Not that they could sport those around as badges of survival. Only time they'd be seen was during the burial, if they had anyone to bury them.
It kept him awake tonight, too. A thirst, of sorts, for blood. And for something more than that. A world without borders, ruled by one power.
That was the vision, wasn't it? Everyone had one. That was his, granted to him by another, pushing him to murder, to gain power by any means necessary. Maybe that's where his bloodthirst started - or maybe it was the other way around. He didn't know anymore. All he knew was that it was time to stop hiding. He couldn't just ditch his purpose. Not many could. It was in his blood, at this point. A meme that controlled his very being.
So he put on his scarf, slipped on the bandolier that carried his knives, eyeing his beret before deciding to leave it, and leaving. Leaving the little cabin he had built himself to live out the rest of his days in peace. A metaphorical gesture, it occurred to him. Peace was over.
Now was his time to shine.
He was reminded him of a legendary archetype, as he walked along the railroad connecting to the Typhoon - he had heard of it, in his youth. Some sort of extant group. Thieves and rogues, the lot of them, isolated to the sea. Pirates, one could say. He didn't know, didn't have an opinion, really. He couldn't trust the rumors, and even if he could - well, he knew a little something about criminality, about violence for some goal, or even for just the sake of violence. A relatable goal. It took him hours for his lithe form to reach the end of the track and the beginning of the rest of his life.
With just a thought, he send a small wave of telekinesis to hit the bells that greeted him, glancing one of his steely grey eyes at the basket of black mambas. Go figure. Of course there would be more snakes everywhere he went. He sat and waited, curling up his spotted tail around his feet, patient, the little sheriff's badge he had pinned to his scarf glinting in the light of morning.
tags - "speech"