[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/6GpRval.png[/img][/center]
[center][color=254f28][u][b]Location[/b][/u][/color]
💀 [i]Recollection.[/i]
💀 Silvermist Academy.
💀 Art Room.
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[center][color=254f28][u][b]Interactions[/b][/u][/color]
💀 Open.
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[hr]

He could still recall it, Connor’s obsidian gaze landing on a display of his very own making. Flakes of white slowly drifted towards the ground, a chilling cold piercing his skin, and clawing its way towards his core, and yet, it had remained ignored. Every moment was fresh within his mind, mist-like energy as if ghosts moving at his behest. Six fallen farmers rose to their feet, death only a matter of inconvenience as abyssal black overtook their faded eyes. Limbs cracked, and twisted into life as a snowy blanked beneath their frames shifted in tune with every sickly motion. 

Hearts had been pierced, throats cut, and blood drained from open wounds. Villagers sought to reach their loved ones, women struggling against their husbands in an attempt to hold their fallen children one last time. Brothers and sisters called out for their elder siblings, tears streaming down their cheeks, an icy cold chill enveloping them beneath snowy winds. “You do not blame a wolf for eating sheep,” came the voice of a man who stood amongst his group of raiding bandits. 

Fittingly known across the countryside as ‘The Wolves’, they were notorious for attacking small, barely defended villages where pillaging soon followed. It had become an issue stretching further than domestic murder, when traveling merchants fell victim to highway blades. It had become a contract when enough wealth was hampered, for those of a high-standing position to finally act. 

Overtaken by hubris, and basking in the presence of fear, the group of ten bandits had fixed their attention on tears and screams which acted as nourishment all on its own. [color=254f28]”I grant you vengeance..,”[/color] a quiet, ghostly voice trickled through a gathering crowd. A calmly extended hand revealed black claws where fingers ought to have been, and accompanying every spoken word, as if a passing breeze, a mutant’s power came into view. 

It was not often that Connor, the boy known as Corpse Walker, or in some venues considered something as bombastic as The Reaper, was treated to a warm bowl of soup. It was not often that he found joy, and shared smiles within the comfort of a warm home, where stories were offered, revealing the grand beauty of Cloud’s Reach. No, it was not often that mutants of a less appealing presence were afforded such compassion by those they were sent to protect.

Little can be compared to the shock conjured from a corpse sinking its teeth into the neck of an unexpecting victim. Less so, when the murder now was a thing of the past. Slowly exposed from the crowd, a boy dressed in notably finer garb than a humble villager emerged. The cloak he wore clearly attempted to protect the scrawny, fragile frame beneath from winter’s unforgiving touch, and an insignia upon the fabric revealed his position as a Silvermist Mercenary. 

Each step was a calm progression, and a keen eye would have been able to spot the melancholy expression beneath the boy’s dark, grey hood. He raised his eyes to witness a panicked skirmish between the living, and the dead, where uncoordinated attacks left wounds on unfeeling carcasses. Fear quickly turned from sheep to wolves, and the hunters would soon know themselves as the very prey they had attempted to subjugate. Behind the mutant, silence reigned, and with every fallen bandit, another rose to attack his once-beloved brethren.

Amidst blood-soaked snow, a once confident leader was forced to his knees, held in place by teeth and nails forcing themselves into exposed areas of his flesh. Deadweight was a difficult thing to move, and more so when sentience occupied it. Indeed, where panic had previously taken center stage, deathly silence now replaced its loud screech. “You’re the Devil..,” a trembling attempt left bloodied lips. 

[color=254f28]”The Devil..,”[/color] Connor repeated, his voice enough to pierce a grown man’s state of comfort, as if a poltergeist had made itself known. [color=254f28]”I aim to afford you an exchange with him.., and you will know who to prefer.”[/color] Black claws gently found their way to the man’s chin, where they raised his gaze towards Connor’s own, their eyes meeting as pain proceeded to overtake the bandit. Once more, screams echoed through the village, empty black eyes witnessing the sight of a man’s flesh withering, and melting, until the visage Connor had once known decayed into memories. 

[hr]

Clenching his teeth, Connor’s grip of the brush tightened for a brief spell, the small creature’s stature stiffening, before he released a shaky breath. Gently retracting his trembling appendage, the mutant lowered his hand, and shut his eyes tightly. “Connor?” A woman’s voice trickled past the many rows of canvases stretching their way across the room, paint, and supplies scattered in an organized mess. “Are you well, sweetheart?” She continued, her hand finding home on the boy’s shoulder.

[color=254f28]”Y-yes, lady McOwan.., apologies..,”[/color] the petite mutant offered, forcing a faint smile as he once more opened his eyes to meet the nearly glowing, purple orbs staring back at him. He had always adored the art teacher, Lady Jenna McOwan. A motherly figure who more often than not reminded the boy of his peers. 

“That is beautiful, Connor,” she continued, shifting her attention towards the painting before her. “Is it the rabbit you saw this morning?” 

[color=254f28]”It is,”[/color] the boy offered, his previously forced smile mellowing into a somber, if genuine expression once focus of his [url=https://i.pinimg.com/originals/53/9b/f7/539bf76274a28f089c0a691f5c0b85a7.jpg]painting[/url] blanketed every sense. Little else offered comfort quite like the art of breathing life into a canvas. It was where he could pretend like nothing else mattered, nothing but the world he had created. [color=254f28]"I hope he’ll be alright, out in the cold..,”[/color] the boy finished, feeling Jenna’s hand tenderly squeezing his shoulder.

“You are a sweet boy, Connor,” she finished.