Reborn
Algernon woke, disoriented, from the world he'd glimpsed- that which, in his panic, he'd forgotten to explore. He
had meant to explore it, but blindness had frightened him. He supposed, looking on the shifting mass of bones and raw magic that had become his familiar, that it must have been the afterlife.
He furrowed his brow, watching the pile of bones carefully. It seemed much more familiar with him than he was with it. While it rarely spoke, it was faithful to him and his unspoken wishes. Even so, he felt nervous as it drifted lazily near him. Another pile of bones possessed by the violet light. This one seemed to be the skeletal remains of a dead Hainu, bits of flesh still clinging to the bones.
He resisted the urge to hurl as the wind blew its dead stench into his face.
It turned to eye him, thrumming with its strange aura, an unhappy sound ringing in the air as it turned its sightless sockets to him.
Why are you so upset with me?
He turned away from it, swallowing and swallowing as nauseated saliva coated his mouth. "Can you please find bones that haven't got the stink of death on them?" He asked it without the tonal quality of a question, but the spirit shrugged off the remains in compliance.
Does this better suit you?
"Yes. Actually can you go around without bones at all?"
Not easily.
He swallowed again, seeking space away from the recently cast off corpse.
He read, for the seventh time, the entries from his journal; entries that had been written just before his brush with death.
"Thundercrack: Week 2, Day 6, Year XXXX.
I have arrived in the Hewn City. The ruins seem to shun the warmth of the sun; even when I am in the direct sunlight, I feel the chill of death. The Longnecks who roam here are more companionable than other creatures I've met, but even as I write this, I hide for my life from the monsters lurking in the darker regions of this once-great citadel. The Wendigos seem to sniff out my location within minutes of flying to a new location.
I'm not sure where I'll sleep.
I can't fight these things. The spirits here seem to watch me with suspicion. Even as I write I can feel the sight of a Somber Spirit upon me. It feels that it is only by their graces that I've not been... That I'm not dead."
He stared at this and the rest of the scrawl, trying to decide what was paranoia and what was true. After... Whatever had happened, after his familiar had recovered him (how he loathed to think the violet specter was now his familiar,) he certainly hadn't felt so weak as to be unable to recover from a few blows of the Wendigo's limbs.
The spirit was at his side, a fresh collection of pristine white bones in the murky globule of soul.
You were much more fearful, despite your need to adventure. At least one of these things did not change.
It spake its observation with jawbone clacking merrily; he tried to remember if it did this often. He couldn't remember it being there at all, before his death.
His... Death.
Despite his having fled to a warmer, forested area, he felt chills as he considered having died already.
Don't worry about your having died. It happens to everyone.
He leered at the spirit. Was that a joke it had made?
(Aaaagh. Hopefully this is ok; I'm not great at prompts. :') )
