"The greatest battles are not fought on bloodied fields, but within the mind and soul. To conquer others is strength. To conquer oneself is torment. Fail, and the monster wins." — Excerpt recorded from Neghand Pheud after the Battle of Shattering.
.......
A sudden shift in sensation.
He felt himself slowing gaining control over something.
A foreboding feeling of anxiety creeping up his spine, as a feeling of deep existential crisis followed shortly after.
Who was he?
Vance, Azarel or N..negein?
The names plagued his mind, slipping through his grasp like water.
He found them slowing slipping away from his conciousness the more he thought about them, becoming completely irrelevant gradually before he came to a conclusion.
He was Vance...Vance Vecro
This realization did not last long however, as following a seemingly resounding click from somewhere far deeper than the consciousness, he phantom waves of pain, and then....more pain.
Though not uncommon for Vance, this time, it came with cripplying confusion.
Taking deep, forceful breaths, he felt his lungs erupting with a fiery zeal.
His eyes followed after, a blurry world of red and smoke greeting his vision.Covering a sky littered with countless stars and a few too many moons to count.
"where am I?"
A feeling of unsettlement quickly begin to take root in his being.
And as if answering his unspoken question.
Sounds of clashing steel and shouts of horror and thrill resounded from a distant yet unnervingly close area.
The air carried the sounds of battle, despairing cries, clashing steel, and the unmistakable scent of death.
Then, a voice shrill with terror, pierced the chaos:
"The city is lost! The Empire has abandoned us!"
"Drakei hold! The Ascendant's will be here any minute!" Another voice, steadier yet strained, bellowed above the din, offering a sliver of hope.
Time seemed to stall as a flood of questions crashed into Vance's disoriented mind.
The city? Empire?
Am I in a play?
Instinctively, he tried to turn his head, desperate for a better look at his surroundings. But even that simple movement felt foreign.His body sluggish, and unresponsive in a delayed fashion.
There he lay sprawled on the ground in a contorted position, like a chalk outline.
A ridiculous thought. One that almost made him chuckle, if not for the sheer agony tearing through him as he became lost in the sensation that his body was seemingly recovering overing time. A unsettling wet, sticky sensation clung to his back.
He could feel it.
Gradually he could feel more!
A experience that he found eerily similar to wearing clothes that became more comfortable over time.
Then, something even more unsettling dawned on him.
"My body...?"
"Wait... this isn't my body!"
Panic surged as he forced himself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. His breath came in ragged gasps. His vision steadied, and he finally took in his form.
Thin arms, pale white skin, skin that clung to his bones, and a innate dissonance between his movements.
This body was too small. Too weak.
What is this? 15? 16, maybe?
A body that he was sure wasn't his.
A bitter chuckle almost escaped his lips.
Had he finally lost it?
Then, like a switch flipping, a strange sense of euphoria and clarity overtook his panic, a survival instinct honed from years of pushing himself to the limit.
His nerves steadied.His breathing evened.
Expectation and intrigue settling in.
Bracing against the pain, he pushed himself up from the ground. His limbs trembled under the effort, pain lancing through him like molten needles.
Taking a strange posture as he stood up, all over his back he could feel a dissipitating feeling of pain, as he finally took a glance at his surrounding.
Towering flames consumed wooden buildings, their flickering glow casting long, eerie shadows across cobblestone streets slick with blood. Bodies littered the ground, some whole, others mutilated beyond recognition.The street bordered by collapsed buildings made of a cobblestone like material with street lamps periodically place along a sidewalk.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning wood, blood, and something far....far worse.
He could feel danger coming, an almost innate sixth sense acutely sending a wave of dread, excitement and anticipation coursing throughout his body as the body he found himself in quickly entered a flight or fight response despite the grievous injuries riddling his form.Posturing without a doubt not an option, the bodies of toddlers and adults lining the streets making him acutely aware of this fact.
He could feel it approaching, something that would cement his arrival into this new reality.
Beneath his feet, the earth seemingly trembled.
This city, or what little remained of it, was no dream. The constant, searing pain in his body made him aware of that.
This was when he saw it.
A figured entered the street before him with slow deliberate steps that promised a future without life.
Hulking.
Monstrous.
Unstoppable.
Even at a glance, Vance knew the figure stood at least 6'7 feet, a beast of rippling muscle that would make even the most elite athletes seem frail.
It's dark green skin glistened under the fire's glow.
Fangs jutted from its mouth. A long, dark ponytail hung over its broad back. And in its grip, a massive club lined with barbed wire dragged something.
No.
It was someone.
The figure donned in a strange mix of medieval armor, broken and battered.
A bloody trail mixed with fragements of flesh, and shards of metal lining the cobblestone that pave the street.
Vance couldn't help but recall the shout of despairing cry from an individual earlier.
"Was this figure by any chance this person?"
The orc stopped. It sniffed the air.
Once.
Twice.
Then, slowly, it's head turned toward Vance.
A wicked grin stretched across its face. Emerald green eyes glowing amid the haze of fire and smoke.
Vance recognized the look instantly.
Predator.
Prey.
It was the same gaze a wolf had before striking its helpless game. The same expression his father used to wear when lining up a fresh kill on their hunting trips. A look filled with cruel amusement, the thrill of the chase, and a deep love for the inevitable slaughter.
A expression he, Vance, was all too familiar with.
And now, confused, disoriented, and expectant, Vance was the hunted.
The realization struck like a hammer. His pupils shrank, as his breath sped up, his heartbeat thumping with a vicious rhythm.
His breath hitched. A familiar rush coursed through him, that exhilarating terrifying high he had felt countless times in extreme sports and on the frontlines.
Fight?
Run?
Where would he even go?
He could barely stand! And there's no way he could outrun that thing!
Then, it hit him.
Where he was.
A bitter, almost hysterical chuckle escaped his lips. This was no accident. No mere disaster.
This was a battlefield.
A massacre.
And somehow... he was right in the middle of it.
Standing face to face with death itself.
"Where the fuck on Earth...Earth?"