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05-31-2010   #6 (permalink)
PedroRomero
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IGN: Seasoning
Class: Cleric & Knight to_gambler
Level: E
Guild: Hardcore
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There was no point in sleep. Everywhere he turned was a type of darkness that penetrated every inch of him and into his armor. The dungeon was all he ever knew, and all he could care to know. Why should he ever want more? There was no inclination that he deserved it.

The people that ventured down there knew not what they sought. Was it honor? Was it treasure? He felt each strike and he countered with strong ones of his own. He left piles of bodies and felt no remorse except for the fact that he still lived. Perhaps it was the fallen traveler who really deserved to keep breathing and yet once he'd been engaged he couldn't allow himself to fall. He fought until their death. His armor became worn and yet his spirit, though down, raged brightly within. The golden rays of his core threatened to seep through the newly made puncture.

He felt shame at his exposure. Nobody could see that his dark shell actually contained light. He relied on others like him to mend his broken exterior. They gave him a book to study and aid him to become proficient like they were.

So he wandered through the dungeon, drifting with the others. As a whole they called themselves Formors. He called himself by no name. They called him Blanche. Though he could not accept their name he understood that when residing with others there would always be a need for titles.

"Blanche..."

The word stood for something he could never embrace. Perhaps it was additional punishment for sins he knew not of except for that he committed them. On the off times he would sleep he could see them. He could see the hazy battle grounds. He could feel the feeling of having loved and been loved. He could see rivers of blood and he could sense the very bloodthirstiness of his soul. The screams of his enemies and comrades were like orchestral music and yet somewhere the him that was existing now recoiled where his dream form didn't.

He would awake and vow never to sleep again only to break his promise again.

He was roused from such a dream by the jostle of metal against metal. As his consciousness retook control of his metal form he could see a man swinging his duel wielded blade against his seemingly inanimate form. He crushed the intruder and his friends but the mark was done. There was a gash in his shoulder that no formor had the materials to mend. He could only be thankful that it was in a place that revealed little of his inner form.

The only way to reform his armor then was the journey upwards and collect the needed materials but the world was unwelcoming towards his type. He resigned himself to wallowing around in the dark, loathing now both himself and his iron shell.
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