Neurosis

By: Alvente Posted on: August 31, 2011

I watch the meteors take shape and fall across the medina. As they land, their bursts are barely audible through the mess of shouting and dying, and I wish the cacophony could for one minute, just long enough for me to savour the blazing streaks and incandescent finales.

The young Paladin impaled on my longsword bleeds out while trying to pull himself off the blade, dying as unimpressively as he fought and pulling me out of my flimsy ponderings. A dull battle, this one, as the Shallamese defend their position fiercely and our leaders refuse to charge in on the enemy's terms. But Mhaldor's dragons will be gathering soon, and we will clash in yet another impressive battle... And it will still not be enough to sate me. But then, nothing is, these days. Not the fights, not the women, not even the drugs a Knight of the Maldaathi should never even know.

I used to fight with such fierce dedication, savouring each kill and feeling most alive at the sight of a Dwarven battleaxe being swung at my head. And now? Now I fight because it is my duty, and because it is all I know. Decades of training and killing see that each blow falls in perfect time, that I parry the right spot at the right moment, and that I always seal the deal perfectly. But never a drop of satisfaction. Not anymore. And when this fight sees me to Maya's Halls - and it will, I realise, as Cyrene's reinforcements rush towards us - for the first time in two decades, what will I pray for? Will Her judgement see the stark emptiness, and will She find my pleadings too feeble to grant me new life?

The flash of death streaks across my mind. Once. Twice. Three times... Fools caught out of place, unwillingly starting the slaughter as orders are being barked... Converge. Kill them all, every last one of them. Mhaldor will be the day's victor, they tell us. I charge into the fray.

I don't want to die.

Slash and slash and slash again. Parry, and move, and lunge. There is no sense anymore, the raging slaughter drowning out most orders. Kill and kill, and

then I fall, a blade through my gut. I refuse. Writhe free of the blade, and slash again, not knowing who the blade clips as it arcs... The holocaust globes

catch me off guard, clashing against an infuriatingly robust Runewarden, and for a few moments, the world is nothing but fire and pain. It kills me, for the

briefest moment, before my caged soul is forced back.

I don't want to die.

So I run. Cold dread clenching my stomach, a bizarre, unwelcome feeling... A needle's prick away from death. No elixirs, no more healing moss to soothe my

broken body. To the pit with Honour and the Maldaathi way. Oblivion is for Babel's fools, and I am not yet ready to give this existence away. If my will is

too weak for Maya's judgement, then I will not have Her audience yet.

Fear is a strange motivator.

Lunge, and kill, and slash and kill again. Frantically deliver each blow... Not here, not now. I will my form to change and disperse, I become the black wind

and my scattered being floats unseen among the Shallamese, softly moving through the streets until I am safe. I coalesce into my Rajamalan form... Inhale...

Exhale...

Eyes half closed, I tilt my head upwards into the wind, exhausted but invigorated. The sounds of the dying battle can be heard sporadically throughout the city, as only a few fanatics remain swinging while the rest lick their wounds. I fall to a half-kneel heavily, still drunk on the rush, and drown them out by dipping my head into the Khafre fountain. My mind clears and my eyes stop burning... I emerge feeling reborn, and grin as I squint at the bright sun.

I am alive.

I yearn to kill.