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Old 04-13-2010, 05:25 AM   #726
Eorl of Rohan
Ghost Prince of Cardolan
 
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Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Seoul, South Korea
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SCYRR

Everything was a-whirl. The fever that overtook Scyrr was nothing like any sickness he had known, the scalding heat and shivering chill alternating in turns. Every time he took a shuddering gasp, his slender frame was wracked by spastic coughs that yielded dark, coagulated blood. His breath was a dry rasp in his throat. The nervous and fitful rush of adrenaline that had enabled him to stand in the presence of Lord Wulfric only went so far; the moment he was out of sight, he collapsed. Blood from his crushed larynx spilled into his lungs in lieu of air. They called it drowning on dry land in the Mark, he remembered hazily. His vision blurred as he stared blankly up at the jagged outlines of green treetops silhouetted against the reddening sunset of the sky.

Did a minute pass, or a thousand?

Then a hand brushed his cheek. He almost pulled away with a cry because it seemed too icy a touch to his fevered brow. It jarred him awake from his half-trance, and with consciousness came back the feverish loop of nightmarish visions that danced before him, the searing pain in his lungs, now desperate for air, and the sharp metallic taste of blood. He wished he could fade once more. But the panicky buzz of conversation now pressed their claim to be heard, and the blurs focused themselves into recognizable features, and…

His eyes widened. For a moment he would have leapt to attention, abashed. However, his injured leg buckled under the sudden pressure, and he collapsed back down, pallid as a ghost and swallowing with difficulty a cry of pain. He had not wanted to be seen by Lord Athenar. Not like this. Not when he had let him down like this.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, a pleading look to his eyes, too weak to add the 'For letting you down'.

He had come off worst in a brawl with a craftsman, lowest among the commoners, who presumed to challenge not only his authority but dared to assault a rider of the Mark. And he got away with it. This insubordination, this wanton disregard of authorities, this vicious streak of violence, the baseborn tanner got away with all this because he did not have the power to check the cur's insolence. He had dragged the honor of serving under the banner of Lord Athanar through the mud. It was a shame which he would never live down. Looking into the ashen-gray eyes of Lord Athanar, Scyrr braced himself for disappointment, or even anger; he would deserve it and more. But there wasn’t a single accusatory look from his liege-lord, only concern. It took a moment before Scyrr realized - to his amazement and chagrin - that *Lord Athanar* was trying to comfort *him*, to ease *him* of his anguish, when he himself had a precarious political crisis on his hands. Not to mention that lord seem too preoccupied to even notice that his fine raiment was all bloodstained with his syrupy blood.

"Breathe now, don't fade, don't try anything. Breathe. Help is coming. Take it easy. Breathe." Lord Athanar said gently.

Abashed at this unlooked-for compassion in his lord, Scyrr momentarily struggled to disentangle himself from Lord Athanar's grasp. He didn’t deserve this. Besides, he had to track down that... But none of his sinews responded to his command. With a painful sigh, he let himself go limp, listening to the distant sound of the soothing words that his lord whispered. Before lapsing into a fitful sleep, it was with a flash of his temper that Scyrr snarled to himself, 'And as for you, Erbrand, you should count yourself lucky if you're the only person I kill over this.'
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Last edited by Eorl of Rohan; 04-21-2010 at 06:57 AM.
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