It was defiance. It was futile. Perhaps she wouldn’t have done it if she knew that the last survivor was looting her horse. Perhaps she wouldn’t have done it if she was the sort of person that would ever look behind. But those were never possibilities, not for Ettamri Belarence, the descendant of a knight that fought the King of Corpses, who fought the Ogres of the Mist-Shrouded Nation, who fought and fought and never gave any quarter. Love was death, and death was destiny. Her time simply came earlier than her forebearers, but that too was fate. How many buds were crushed before they could bloom? How many lives were lost before one rose above that mound of death? It was inevitable. [s]She let go.[/s] She never let go. And though it was nothing but an empty show of defiance, nothing but wretched futility before the unkind world that would surely grind her to dust, Ettamri raised her bracers regardless. To deflect a spear that she wouldn’t be able to deflect. To rebel once more. The rending of steel, the cracking of bone, the shearing of flesh was proof enough of what happened afterwards. Miracles were miracles, after all, because they rarely happened. [hider=Ash] She was used to the pain. She was used to the abuse. She was used to the emptiness. She was used to the disgust of others. She was used to being seen as nothing more than a pest. She was used to all this, so she crawled up the steps of that Church, her sprained foot no longer able to support her, her hands blistered from gripping that rusted sword so tightly, her back aching from being hunched forward this entire time, her knees scraped and bleeding upon the stony steps. Truly, there was nothing left for her now. What could she even do, without her standard weapons? What use was a ranger that could not hunt? What use was a soldier that could never fight, not when it mattered? She had no use. Her ascent slowed. Stopped. She wobbled backwards, unsteady, rising up. If she fell now, the pain would only last a second. After that, she’d be nothing but a bloody pulp with tangled limbs. After that, she’d truly have nothing. All she needed to do was… [b]“Welcome back, Ash.”[/b] His embrace was warm. His vestments smelled like the sun. [b]“It must have been hard.”[/b] She couldn’t climb up, not any more. So the Father came down instead. Came down, and helped her up. Ah. Ahah. Her shoulders shook. Her lungs felt on the verge of collapse. Her spirit was already in so many little pieces. Her weapons were gone, her armor lost, her party completely dead, everyone she knew lost again. But a single act of kindness was enough to pick her up once more. Each step gave her life meaning, gave her mind purpose. Even though everything was broken, her heart still beat. And as long her heart continued to beat, she could remake herself, continuously, without end. With the Father by her side, Ash continued to ascend. This time, she did not fall. [/hider][hider=Muu] No regrets. It was a knife in her back. No regrets. It was a spear through her chest. No regrets. It was a club against her skull. No regrets. It was the sword in her stomach. She killed herself, again and again, hollowing out the contents of her soul as she ran, clutching goods that were not her own. A coward. A thief. A weakling. A pest. An orphan. Unwanted. Unneeded. Unloved. Unfortunate. Was it alright for her to live, when others greater than her died? Of course it wasn’t. Muu had only known Gwyn for half a day, and there was absolutely no chance that she’d ever be as useful to the world as that priestess. After all, who was it that could miraculously heal injuries? Who was it that could smile so kindly? Who was it that stood up to that cold-hearted bitch? Who was it that showed such kindness to a ragtag group of soldiers with no prospects and no money? It certainly wasn’t the moron who immediately went into debt to a guild that didn’t even provide her with the combat skills necessary to [i]break[/i] someone’s bones. It certainly wasn’t the moron who had every opportunity to become a priest herself, but never even chose to. How about the moron who couldn’t even finish a goblin off without making herself bedridden for an entire week? Or the moron who blinded herself on her very first attack against an oversized frog? But here she was. Alive. Breathing. Heart beating. She lived, while better people died. No regrets. It was an arrow in her side. So she will kill [i]herself[/i] to atone for the sin of surviving. And she will live on, for all the souls she carried on her shoulders. [/hider][hider=Ettamri] She died. It hadn’t even been a contest. Her body had failed her. Her anger had failed her. Her desperation had failed her. This was her fate, wasn’t it? To die without accomplishments, on a land not her own, without anyone she loved nearby, not ever knowing if her family would learn of her demise. To succumb to the curse of the King of Corpses, to become a wretched monster by herself and undo all that she had previously fought for. To become nothing but a desecrated corpse, a puppet bending to the will of a long-dead monstrosity. She resented that. She raged against that. Even in the darkness, she fought still, until that blackness turned red, and she tore through the veil of her mind to expose the monster that dwelled inside, shackled by great irons that seemed still oh-so insufficient in holding it down. If this was her fate, she would defy it all the same. A snarl became a smirk, all fang and bloodlust, hunger and violence unending as the monster within her mind extended a finger. As thick as a tree, with a nail as sharp as a stake, all the color of a deep, murderous crimson. It placed the tip of its fingernail over her heart, and left it there. If she would not become one monster, she would have to become another. One that rebelled against the Gods themselves. One that would never again receive their Holy Benedictions, no matter how much she fought for her fellow man. One who would be denied even the same afterlife that waited her parents and her siblings. One who may never even be able to face them again, lest she be ascribed as naught but a lying fiend. It was an easy decision. She drove that monster’s nail through her stomach and, bending down, bit into its knuckle, purple blood seeping between her teeth as she obliterated her human self, partaking in the flesh of the atrocity, the ichor of the abomination. She drank and died. Drank and died. Drank and died. Repeated it over and over again, until she no longer died. Until she was no longer herself at all. Until she... …opened her eyes. To gray clouds abundant with snow. To the mouth of the mine, devoid of life. To a world no longer her ally, gods no longer her confident. And, like a child tearing out of its mother’s womb, she cried. Ettamri was no longer human. Ettamri was no longer Belarence. [/hider] [center][i]But life goes on. And they live on. No matter what they have to become. No matter who they must depart from. For that alone is their duty. Their sole deliverance from this unkind world.[/i] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H23tJk5zGG0]~✦~[/url][/center]