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RP Threads / Re: Omen War
« Last post by MAT on April 13, 2025, 01:15:36 am »Yorick Tsipras
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I do not die
Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium
He was lying on a futon in his cheap studio apartment with a book in his hands. Theogony. Then his vision blurred and his eyes fluttered shut for just a moment. When he opened them again, he was lying in the grass. It was cold and wet; a sharp contrast to the dry warmth from the previous moment. The late morning light was gone in a single blink. It was so dark. How many hours had passed?
Yorick pushed up on his elbows, trying to likewise push away the grogginess in his mind. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t real. He grasped at liquid threads of thought and memory, trying to grasp something familiar. When he took hold of one of them, he was suddenly standing. He was six paces behind another man; a man with his height, build, and even the same colored hair.
Grabbing the man’s shoulder, he turned him about, and felt like he was looking into a mirror. Like a twisted carnival funhouse. Like one of the mirrors that showed alternate versions of himself. This one clad in a deep crimson cloak and wool breeches, with dark leather boots and a short bow in his hands and a quiver at his back.
“Wh-wh-wh-what.” The word fell out of his mouth like water tumbling roughly over stones. He didn’t know what he was looking at - or who - and yet also somehow did know. The man he looked at was hale and healthy. Had a quality that almost seemed cherubic. It was astonishing and bizarre. It made him anxious.
The man with the horses got a casual glance, and a name came to Yorick’s lips. Sebastian. A brother in name only. A servant, a friend, a thrall. The one who walked in the day and handled the household affairs. Beloved, but also property. An unsettling dichotomy.
Then He looked over at the horizon, recognizing Cathedral Reach. The chantry. He instinctively knew that it was out of place. It had been overlaid atop something else. Another chantry. Foul wizards. Profane. A dark irony. Or the twisted strands of fate.
When Yorick turned his gaze back, the cloaked man was gone. Because it was him. Now he was clad in the soft wool and cotton clothing from an age long past. He pushed the brick-colored hood back and squinted at the bow in his hands. An archaic weapon. One he’d only learned - or rather, the other man had learned - from his friend.
Geoffrey approached, as if on cue, looking very pleased. It was a strange expression; one Yorick really hadn’t seen before.
“Wh-wh-what I was looking f-for.” He drew in a deep breath and pinched his eyes shut. He refused to be a slave to his impediment. His strength of will sort of bent the space around him and then radiated outwards. It was only a momentary flicker. But he suddenly felt a lot more confident. Able to control what was happening.
“What now?”
I am not there, I do not sleep
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I do not die
Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium
He was lying on a futon in his cheap studio apartment with a book in his hands. Theogony. Then his vision blurred and his eyes fluttered shut for just a moment. When he opened them again, he was lying in the grass. It was cold and wet; a sharp contrast to the dry warmth from the previous moment. The late morning light was gone in a single blink. It was so dark. How many hours had passed?
Yorick pushed up on his elbows, trying to likewise push away the grogginess in his mind. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t real. He grasped at liquid threads of thought and memory, trying to grasp something familiar. When he took hold of one of them, he was suddenly standing. He was six paces behind another man; a man with his height, build, and even the same colored hair.
Grabbing the man’s shoulder, he turned him about, and felt like he was looking into a mirror. Like a twisted carnival funhouse. Like one of the mirrors that showed alternate versions of himself. This one clad in a deep crimson cloak and wool breeches, with dark leather boots and a short bow in his hands and a quiver at his back.
“Wh-wh-wh-what.” The word fell out of his mouth like water tumbling roughly over stones. He didn’t know what he was looking at - or who - and yet also somehow did know. The man he looked at was hale and healthy. Had a quality that almost seemed cherubic. It was astonishing and bizarre. It made him anxious.
The man with the horses got a casual glance, and a name came to Yorick’s lips. Sebastian. A brother in name only. A servant, a friend, a thrall. The one who walked in the day and handled the household affairs. Beloved, but also property. An unsettling dichotomy.
Then He looked over at the horizon, recognizing Cathedral Reach. The chantry. He instinctively knew that it was out of place. It had been overlaid atop something else. Another chantry. Foul wizards. Profane. A dark irony. Or the twisted strands of fate.
When Yorick turned his gaze back, the cloaked man was gone. Because it was him. Now he was clad in the soft wool and cotton clothing from an age long past. He pushed the brick-colored hood back and squinted at the bow in his hands. An archaic weapon. One he’d only learned - or rather, the other man had learned - from his friend.
Geoffrey approached, as if on cue, looking very pleased. It was a strange expression; one Yorick really hadn’t seen before.
“Wh-wh-what I was looking f-for.” He drew in a deep breath and pinched his eyes shut. He refused to be a slave to his impediment. His strength of will sort of bent the space around him and then radiated outwards. It was only a momentary flicker. But he suddenly felt a lot more confident. Able to control what was happening.
“What now?”
