14th day of the First Astral Moon
I am ill today. Mentally. Physically.Â
Today should have been a day of reflection. A time to take stock of what was lost but to celebrate the time I had shared. Instead, it was interrupted. Infringed. Violated.Â
Every Valentione's Day, I lunch with my slain husband, my marvelous White Stream, at the lichyard of the church of Saint Adama Landama. It is an annual tradition that I've always held dear and has helped me maintain connection to him in some way. It's a simple affair--a small picnic with a fine red and some small talk to the wind, in hopes that my voice will carry to his hearing. I tell him how I feel about things, tell him I love him. Today, instead, he would witness me at my worst.
As I sat outside of the lichyard, a pair of cutthroats approached me. Perhaps it was because I was dressed simply, or that my arms weren't apparent from where they stood, but they believed me an easy mark. I dare not repeat the offenses they were wishing upon me here, but needless to say, it was not only gil that they were drawn to.
I felt a rage that I have not felt in a long time grow within me. I turned around to face them, and I must have been lit aflame, as the two vagabonds stepped back, their wicked smiles melting away. I had my sword buried in the ground behind me, and produced it. I did not bother to bring my shield. I did not need it.
I charged. The first tried to raise his knife, and all I heard was a small, pitiful whimper before my blade bit into his face, slicing him open. It silenced him, but I still stabbed downward into his back as he fell to the ground to ensure he was slain. By this time, his compatriate was attempting to flee, even though he carried an immense axe. I walked after him. I didn't bother to run, or charge...his footsteps were panicked, and the ground was uneven. He stumbled, looking behind him and yelling out in panic.
I let him. I let his fear utterly flood into him.
And then, I closed the distance, cutting his leg off at the knee. He wailed and fell onto his back, grasping at his thigh. His screams were piteous and horrible, but not agonizing enough for me. I stood over him. I locked my eyes to his and drank in his shock. And then I dragged my sword across his throat and watched him bleed to death.
I have killed bandits before and not batted an eye. I have no compunctions against taking the lives of the wicked. But never have I felt such righteous fury. Worse yet, I feel vindicated. I felt just. I felt zeal and delight in their pain, that they would interfere with such an important day. No amount of drink will drown this feeling of this day.
I fear what I have done...or where it may lead me.
I am ill today. Mentally. Physically.Â
Today should have been a day of reflection. A time to take stock of what was lost but to celebrate the time I had shared. Instead, it was interrupted. Infringed. Violated.Â
Every Valentione's Day, I lunch with my slain husband, my marvelous White Stream, at the lichyard of the church of Saint Adama Landama. It is an annual tradition that I've always held dear and has helped me maintain connection to him in some way. It's a simple affair--a small picnic with a fine red and some small talk to the wind, in hopes that my voice will carry to his hearing. I tell him how I feel about things, tell him I love him. Today, instead, he would witness me at my worst.
As I sat outside of the lichyard, a pair of cutthroats approached me. Perhaps it was because I was dressed simply, or that my arms weren't apparent from where they stood, but they believed me an easy mark. I dare not repeat the offenses they were wishing upon me here, but needless to say, it was not only gil that they were drawn to.
I felt a rage that I have not felt in a long time grow within me. I turned around to face them, and I must have been lit aflame, as the two vagabonds stepped back, their wicked smiles melting away. I had my sword buried in the ground behind me, and produced it. I did not bother to bring my shield. I did not need it.
I charged. The first tried to raise his knife, and all I heard was a small, pitiful whimper before my blade bit into his face, slicing him open. It silenced him, but I still stabbed downward into his back as he fell to the ground to ensure he was slain. By this time, his compatriate was attempting to flee, even though he carried an immense axe. I walked after him. I didn't bother to run, or charge...his footsteps were panicked, and the ground was uneven. He stumbled, looking behind him and yelling out in panic.
I let him. I let his fear utterly flood into him.
And then, I closed the distance, cutting his leg off at the knee. He wailed and fell onto his back, grasping at his thigh. His screams were piteous and horrible, but not agonizing enough for me. I stood over him. I locked my eyes to his and drank in his shock. And then I dragged my sword across his throat and watched him bleed to death.
I have killed bandits before and not batted an eye. I have no compunctions against taking the lives of the wicked. But never have I felt such righteous fury. Worse yet, I feel vindicated. I felt just. I felt zeal and delight in their pain, that they would interfere with such an important day. No amount of drink will drown this feeling of this day.
I fear what I have done...or where it may lead me.
