11-24-2017, 03:39 PM
MAKE ME A HERCULES  There are so many accounts of death, and from so many who have not seen it themselves, that he does not know what to think. They say death is the next great adventure, or death is eternal rest, or death is merely the gateway to new life. Or death is nothing, nothing at all, and perhaps that's the most frightening. His mother told him of Valhalla, of Fólkvangr, the sacred halls of the Gods and the mortal souls within. Warriors slain on the battlefield, glory painted red across the ground where they fellâ€â€Âtheir war-rough hands would be taken, gently, reverently, and the Gods would welcome them as Their own. Feasting, drinking, merry-making. An indulgent end to one's tale. He never thought to ask one thing: if this is the warrior's death, what happens if you're not a warrior?
What happens to me?
Funny, then, for a man come back to life wondering what end awaits the quieter souls, to remember so very little of death. An indistinct haze of monotony, one failed attempt as a ghost (how funny) to seek out family, and not much else. Then he woke up, and clarity came crashing back through. He did recallâ€â€Âand perhaps this is what he misses mostâ€â€Âthat, in the brief time spent searching for his mother, he had felt no fear. Only the vaguest sense of urgency, like all feeling had been replaced with cotton clouds and thick glass. In another time, that may have scared him more than spirits. To feel nothing, or almost nothingâ€â€Âhow is that mortal? How is that right? But now...all he wants is to forget how to be afraid.
Despite noting of the clear disadvantages present on both sides, he feels agitation tickle the back of his neck. Everything feels like a threat nowadays. The strange feline in front of him appears no more friendly than he feels, but the gruff address catches him off guard nevertheless. He straightens up, drawing his head back, an expression of unamused scorn scrawled across his features. "Is that how you talk to everyone on the other side of this border? It's no wonder this place looks abandoned." He wants to take back the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Hold your tongue, Blair Caddo, before you bite it off! he scolds himself. This isn't the time. He grits his teeth. Before Sami can even begin to make a reply, he snaps, "Whatever. Forget I said anything."
He jerks back at Sparrow's arrival, eyes darting from her to Sami. They don't seem to get along, if that glare means anything, at least on Sparrow's part. He doubts it's one-sided; Sami's abrasiveness speaks for itself. He can tell Sparrow's doing her best to be civil, but he's already on edgeâ€â€Âhe's one feline against two, and considering the circumstances and his (lack of) skills, he doubts a fight will end well for him. "My name is Morse," he allows, still keeping a cautious eye on them both. "Just Morse." He knows the drill; he's been party to several joinings himself. But only once before has he been the joiner. He didn't give his real name then, either. "I don't know where the hell I am, but wherever it is, I'd like to stay awhile."
What happens to me?
Funny, then, for a man come back to life wondering what end awaits the quieter souls, to remember so very little of death. An indistinct haze of monotony, one failed attempt as a ghost (how funny) to seek out family, and not much else. Then he woke up, and clarity came crashing back through. He did recallâ€â€Âand perhaps this is what he misses mostâ€â€Âthat, in the brief time spent searching for his mother, he had felt no fear. Only the vaguest sense of urgency, like all feeling had been replaced with cotton clouds and thick glass. In another time, that may have scared him more than spirits. To feel nothing, or almost nothingâ€â€Âhow is that mortal? How is that right? But now...all he wants is to forget how to be afraid.
Despite noting of the clear disadvantages present on both sides, he feels agitation tickle the back of his neck. Everything feels like a threat nowadays. The strange feline in front of him appears no more friendly than he feels, but the gruff address catches him off guard nevertheless. He straightens up, drawing his head back, an expression of unamused scorn scrawled across his features. "Is that how you talk to everyone on the other side of this border? It's no wonder this place looks abandoned." He wants to take back the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Hold your tongue, Blair Caddo, before you bite it off! he scolds himself. This isn't the time. He grits his teeth. Before Sami can even begin to make a reply, he snaps, "Whatever. Forget I said anything."
He jerks back at Sparrow's arrival, eyes darting from her to Sami. They don't seem to get along, if that glare means anything, at least on Sparrow's part. He doubts it's one-sided; Sami's abrasiveness speaks for itself. He can tell Sparrow's doing her best to be civil, but he's already on edgeâ€â€Âhe's one feline against two, and considering the circumstances and his (lack of) skills, he doubts a fight will end well for him. "My name is Morse," he allows, still keeping a cautious eye on them both. "Just Morse." He knows the drill; he's been party to several joinings himself. But only once before has he been the joiner. He didn't give his real name then, either. "I don't know where the hell I am, but wherever it is, I'd like to stay awhile."