[center][size=4][b]Day 4[/b][/size][/center]
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Again and again and again and again.
Over and over and over and over.
How splayed apart does he have to be?
Stelsora has died.
[i]But the rotting husk still heaves.[/i]
[b]Stelsora? has not surpassed the Infection. 19 days remain.[/b]
Day 4
Again and again and again and again.
Over and over and over and over.
How splayed apart does he have to be?
Stelsora has died.
But the rotting husk still heaves.
Stelsora? has not surpassed the Infection. 19 days remain.
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[center][size=4][b]Day 5[/b][/size][/center]
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The husk's spluttering finally stops.
For once, it spends a day without being torn open; it finally pulls itself up, albeit not to move. Simply to stop laying in a desperate heap, to prove that it is [i]alive.[/i]
There are no Necromancers close enough to truly bear witness to the writhing form's victory, though.
His section has been abandoned, closely watched by dragons distant but above.
He is alive once more, and a moment without agonizing fever brings what is left of him back into clarity.
Today, Mother's festering plague did not win.
He did.
A battle isn't the war, but it's something in this case.
[b]Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 18 days remain.[/b]
Day 5
The husk's spluttering finally stops.
For once, it spends a day without being torn open; it finally pulls itself up, albeit not to move. Simply to stop laying in a desperate heap, to prove that it is
alive.
There are no Necromancers close enough to truly bear witness to the writhing form's victory, though.
His section has been abandoned, closely watched by dragons distant but above.
He is alive once more, and a moment without agonizing fever brings what is left of him back into clarity.
Today, Mother's festering plague did not win.
He did.
A battle isn't the war, but it's something in this case.
Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 18 days remain.
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[center][size=4][b]Day 6[/b][/size][/center]
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He has continued to win the fight.
Tendons once rend apart repairing themselves as the divine pox etches through him, a body one malformed and unidentifiable stitching into a form ever so slightly more recognizable.
He becomes whole again, his body repairing itself indefinitely.
He is not quite the individual he was. He will forever remain changed.
His body is forever tainted, torn apart by his endeavors, torn apart by the trial.
He will not become a Lich. He knows that much, by the magic-sapping ichor that leaks along his body.
But perhaps he can outlast the divine plague.
Perhaps he can become something [b]worse.[/b]
[b]Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 17 days remain.[/b]
Day 6
He has continued to win the fight.
Tendons once rend apart repairing themselves as the divine pox etches through him, a body one malformed and unidentifiable stitching into a form ever so slightly more recognizable.
He becomes whole again, his body repairing itself indefinitely.
He is not quite the individual he was. He will forever remain changed.
His body is forever tainted, torn apart by his endeavors, torn apart by the trial.
He will not become a Lich. He knows that much, by the magic-sapping ichor that leaks along his body.
But perhaps he can outlast the divine plague.
Perhaps he can become something
worse.
Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 17 days remain.
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[center][size=4][b]Day 7[/b][/size][/center]
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After so much agony, he has clawed himself anew. For a brief moment, he is allowed self-realization, whatever scrap pieces of himself survived scrounging themselves together and putting the pieces back together.
It is a distorted image. He knows that much.
He knows his mind has been twisted by the Shade, that those he once cared for are nothing but twisted shadows, unrecognizable in his new formation.
He's not able to bring himself to care.
In pursuit of power, he has corrupted into an ungodly entity.
He looks across the Wyrmwound. A Necromancer stands nearby, weary; not many liches are so obviously noted, let alone so horribly torn apart.
Let alone survive such an absolute consumption.
He looks them in the eye.
And through a crooked, cracked grin,
He laughs.
[b]Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 16 days remain.[/b]
Day 7
After so much agony, he has clawed himself anew. For a brief moment, he is allowed self-realization, whatever scrap pieces of himself survived scrounging themselves together and putting the pieces back together.
It is a distorted image. He knows that much.
He knows his mind has been twisted by the Shade, that those he once cared for are nothing but twisted shadows, unrecognizable in his new formation.
He's not able to bring himself to care.
In pursuit of power, he has corrupted into an ungodly entity.
He looks across the Wyrmwound. A Necromancer stands nearby, weary; not many liches are so obviously noted, let alone so horribly torn apart.
Let alone survive such an absolute consumption.
He looks them in the eye.
And through a crooked, cracked grin,
He laughs.
Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 16 days remain.
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[center][size=4][b]Day 8[/b][/size][/center]
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His disease continues to spread, and his recovery is going well.
It's going [i]horribly[/i], really, because he shouldn't have survived at all. The cracked flesh around his smile at he sat up, alive, unwavering, still diseased but now no worse than any other necromancer at the trials.
No worse, of course, aside from the sheen of black ichor still lining his flesh, binding what was left of him together and hiding the terrible pustles and poxes that still festered underneath. Like a second skin, protecting that terrible gnashing scar that threatened to split him apart. Hiding Mother's most horrible weaponry, he sat and he [i]grinned[/i].
He had beaten pestilence's reign over his mind, and the shade on his body lapped happily at every energy around him.
Were it not for this field, this ward of terrible ichor that snapped at any energy nearby, he would've been slaughtered by the Necromancers nearby.
Were it not for how terribly torn apart he was, and [i]recovered[/i], he still may have been hunted.
But he died a hundred times, and came back every last one.
Those who presided over the trials watched with a bated breath, hoping the creature self-cannibalized before it learned to walk again.
[b]Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 15 days remain.[/b]
Day 8
His disease continues to spread, and his recovery is going well.
It's going
horribly, really, because he shouldn't have survived at all. The cracked flesh around his smile at he sat up, alive, unwavering, still diseased but now no worse than any other necromancer at the trials.
No worse, of course, aside from the sheen of black ichor still lining his flesh, binding what was left of him together and hiding the terrible pustles and poxes that still festered underneath. Like a second skin, protecting that terrible gnashing scar that threatened to split him apart. Hiding Mother's most horrible weaponry, he sat and he
grinned.
He had beaten pestilence's reign over his mind, and the shade on his body lapped happily at every energy around him.
Were it not for this field, this ward of terrible ichor that snapped at any energy nearby, he would've been slaughtered by the Necromancers nearby.
Were it not for how terribly torn apart he was, and
recovered, he still may have been hunted.
But he died a hundred times, and came back every last one.
Those who presided over the trials watched with a bated breath, hoping the creature self-cannibalized before it learned to walk again.
Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 15 days remain.
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[center][size=4][b]Day 9[/b][/size][/center]
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He thrives.
He still festers to rot and decay, but he [i]thrives[/i].
He is a terrible amalgamation of ichor and rot and the skeleton of what once was alive.
...
Somehow, thriving is more boring than dying.
He waits. He hopes that he will succeed soon.
[b]Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 14 days remain.[/b]
Day 9
He thrives.
He still festers to rot and decay, but he
thrives.
He is a terrible amalgamation of ichor and rot and the skeleton of what once was alive.
...
Somehow, thriving is more boring than dying.
He waits. He hopes that he will succeed soon.
Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 14 days remain.
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[center][size=4][b]Day 10[/b][/size][/center]
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It is difficult to tell what is numbness, wrought by the Shade's ever-present consumption, and what is recovery, mastery of the infection.
But the cracking of boils beneath ichor-skin reminds him that he is still ill, no matter how little he feels it.
There is little else to do now but wait, and see which claims him first; the boils or the Shade.
[b]Stelsora has not surpassed the Infection. 13 days remain.[/b]
Day 10
It is difficult to tell what is numbness, wrought by the Shade's ever-present consumption, and what is recovery, mastery of the infection.
But the cracking of boils beneath ichor-skin reminds him that he is still ill, no matter how little he feels it.
There is little else to do now but wait, and see which claims him first; the boils or the Shade.
Stelsora has not surpassed the Infection. 13 days remain.
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[center][size=4][b]Day 11[/b][/size][/center]
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He figured that for most dragons, this was the worst part.
It somewhat was, for him, at first. The agonizing wheezing, straining, struggling under the divine plague Mother had given them.
But that divine plague wanted him dead, and the Shade was not willing to give up his pact so easily.
Even when, he figured, it was costing more to keep him alive than to consume him itself.
He wondered, for a brief moment, why.
No matter. The agony of a thousand deaths made weathering the illness feel miniscule. He felt almost as though he was still taking the first trial, even as it tore across him; coughs and lesions felt like nothing, not anymore.
He could only sit and watch those around him.
He almost felt a pang of pity.
They didn't realize they were accepting a weaker gift.
He would bear this burden to see what the outcome was, but one thing he knew for certain:
[i]Mother could not kill him. Not anymore.[/i]
[b]Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 12 days remain.[/b]
Day 11
He figured that for most dragons, this was the worst part.
It somewhat was, for him, at first. The agonizing wheezing, straining, struggling under the divine plague Mother had given them.
But that divine plague wanted him dead, and the Shade was not willing to give up his pact so easily.
Even when, he figured, it was costing more to keep him alive than to consume him itself.
He wondered, for a brief moment, why.
No matter. The agony of a thousand deaths made weathering the illness feel miniscule. He felt almost as though he was still taking the first trial, even as it tore across him; coughs and lesions felt like nothing, not anymore.
He could only sit and watch those around him.
He almost felt a pang of pity.
They didn't realize they were accepting a weaker gift.
He would bear this burden to see what the outcome was, but one thing he knew for certain:
Mother could not kill him. Not anymore.
Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 12 days remain.
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[center][size=4][b]Day 12[/b][/size][/center]
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Nothing lasts forever.
His divine infection fought and fought, and it learned and learned.
It learned how the Shade preserved him, how it kept him from falling apart.
How foolish was he, to assume himself high and mighty?
All the sanity he regained, the mind he rebuilt for himself, began to crumble once again.
The divine infection had learned his ways, and it now lacerated his flesh once again.
He was faltering.
He was waning.
He was not bound to survive, was he?
[b]Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 11 days remain.[/b]
Day 12
Nothing lasts forever.
His divine infection fought and fought, and it learned and learned.
It learned how the Shade preserved him, how it kept him from falling apart.
How foolish was he, to assume himself high and mighty?
All the sanity he regained, the mind he rebuilt for himself, began to crumble once again.
The divine infection had learned his ways, and it now lacerated his flesh once again.
He was faltering.
He was waning.
He was not bound to survive, was he?
Stelsora has not surpassed the infection. 11 days remain.
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[center][size=4][b]Day 13[/b][/size][/center]
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And so he is undone, again and again and again.
He fades, he falters.
Death begins to claim him, one by one by one.
His mind is sunk to nothingness again.
Can he reclaim himself before the infection consumes him?
[b]Stelsora(?) has not surpassed the infection. 10 days remain.[/b]
Day 13
And so he is undone, again and again and again.
He fades, he falters.
Death begins to claim him, one by one by one.
His mind is sunk to nothingness again.
Can he reclaim himself before the infection consumes him?
Stelsora(?) has not surpassed the infection. 10 days remain.
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