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 "Reflections"

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PostSubject: "Reflections"   Sat Jul 20, 2013 7:38 am

In his posh home, Fidheliss Unterminox sits alone across from a roaring fireplace.  A glass of Zhentil Red in hand, he sips the bitter wine.  For all the comforts he now enjoys, he ignores them, and his mind is drawn elsewhere.

The North Ride.  That was where Emma Robison waited for him.  She allowed herself to be seen, knowing word of her presence would reach him, and he would come.  What he found instead was the ghost of the young woman he'd loved, one called Krysdan. Her words were brief, she hadn't come to talk, but to end his life or her own.  He remembers her message, though her exact words elude him now.  Only one mattered.  "Father." He remembers looking toward the sky as well, and asking the Dreadlord if he must now slay those he loves as well.  No answer came that day.  It never did.

Fidheliss closes his eyes, hard, picturing the girl's face.  Already it was fading.  He opens them, and finishes the glass.

Emma never stood a chance.  Maybe she knew that and came to him anyway.  Before one of her blades could find him, she lay on the ground, dead, her life's blood dripping from Dreadstar's many spikes.  The weapon hung in his hand, heavier than ever, burning with Bane's hate.  What he did next...

Fidheliss closes his eyes again, trying to force the thought from his mind. Drunk, he stands, and walks to the bar. He takes the bottle, emptying its final drops into the glass, and drinks them. They offer no respite.

His mind turns to his Songbird, who he loves so dearly, who had sacrificed her very freedom - all that she desired - to save him. Audrey, quickly becoming the image of the tyrant herself, who brought their name honor. Niobara, whose ambition was unmatched, only months ago he'd begun to reveal the secrets of alchemy to her, and soon her skills would exceed his own, which made him all the prouder.

If he had to, could he kill them as well?

Fidheliss sets the empty glass down and wanders the apartment. He soon finds himself before a gilded, standing mirror, staring into it. The mirror reflects a man in his early thirties, clothed in black, his visage horribly scarred.

Instead he sees a man - was it a man? It seemed something more... or was it less? Its face is hidden from the world by a black cloth mask, and it wears a suit of armor. He'd seen this figure before - it was him. The armor he wore was one of contempt. Only now, something had changed.

Fidheliss places his hand on his chest, feeling the black cloth of his tunic, searching out what he now sees. The figure in the mirror copies him, a black gauntleted hand running over its own armored chest. It stops, finding what he'd seen.

Cracks had begun to form.
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