[h3][color=bedded][b][center]Thomas Richard Harrison[/center][/b][/color][/h3]
[center][indent][color=bedded][i]Location:[/i][/color] The Campgrounds.
[color=bedded][i]Interacting with:[/i][/color] Keystone, Sana, & the ground.
[/indent][/center]

Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.
[i]Then have my lips the sin that they have took,[/i]
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again, [i]You kiss by the book.[/i].

I have heard of star-crossed lovers, what but a lover-crossed star? What wordplay, what humor, how the Bard himself would turn at such a revelation, a revolution that came full circle. Now what of Thomas? Where did the shy and rambling boy go off to, and whereforth did this pretentious ball of grandiosity came into being? His syntax taxing to the mind and unpleasant to the ear, his insults dripping of arrogance and venom, but such highbrow common was uncommon indeed. Something about bread, cooking, gods, monkeys, undead, and fire, depending on how attentive the orcs were, if indeed Thomas was speaking loud enough to let the orc camp hear, which he may have in his crescendo of telling off Keystone. A soliloquy a day keeps the Bards paid and playing away, as they say. Although what exactly did the orcs understand of the didactic scolding Thomas dared venture against a man like Keystone is up for debate. Perhaps they did understand every word of it, or perhaps they merely obtain glimpses into a knowledge as vast as space itself and drew madness from it.

Yes, a deep and sweet madness. Like thickest honey mixed in with blackest ichor, vile and repulsive, difficult to swallow and digest, but oh so sickly sweet. Craving and longing, as it drips from your open mouth, the breath wanting more and more, forever to be weaned on the breast of the elders. The addiction, it gnaws, it bites, and nibbles away, nothing tastes better than to bleed it dry. Until your eyes weep of the very same, until your blood becomes the sacred bile. When does it end? Never. The torment is forever, it is the burden and curse of knowing, of power. And that is why perhaps the stars, as dark hearted as they are, are so alone.

It was too late to react. Far too late. Even preparing a spell would take longer, despite the dilation of time itself in such perception. Otherworldly was the feeling, as death comes from the astral seas, an invisible horror stalking and waiting. There as if everything happened in slow-motion, a dance done in the eyes as voices became silence, and footsteps faded into dust. A fist was a blur, a limb as defined as a tentacle, a face in frustration became shapeless mass. Bodies became clouds, vision became in limbo. What words could describe the experience? Was this it?

Another mass, another formless being, pushing him away from behind. The whipping tendrils of the astral reaper withdrawing, and now the star has fallen. Pushed into the earth, by the force of getting rear-ended. Which to be fair wasn't a bad way to go given the circumstances. Better a decently attractive woman to push you to the ground with that rather than a man smashing your face in with something of his. But how the prideful was served the dust, now, his life seemingly saved, and yet his ego bruised.

Falling at least with a bit of grace, although Sana might feel that Thomas was rather easily bumped about given his current phase and its detachment to the earth and earthly devices. So too may have Keystone felt his target slip from his grasp like a fish threw his fingers, not that the chef would probably have ever admitted such an event would occur. 

But now it was out of the frying pan and... Into the fire.

Or a least towards it, though his footing may be at a lost, landing into a fire would not be ideal. And thus perhaps attempting to shift his weight to one side over the other as to steady his descent and control his fall over to one side of the flames. Flames which brightly blinded his dark gaze, flames which threatened to consume his very being. Or at least his robes. Depending on how fast the flames could set Thomas alight. At which maybe he would need to fight fire with solar fire. But that would certainly not help his condition, as with fever and chills, he was not going to be in for a productive night.