If Nicolas was a colour, he would be black. Void of all emotion, all feeling, a shell of a being. Black, the shade of nothing. Lacking of any light, like a shadow spreading wide across the baron plane known as life. Such is a life without meaning. Without purpose. Nicolas Delacroix. A shadow, without purpose.
The steward sat in his chair. Looking out into the empty room. The advisors have been fired. The bureaucrats have no reason to be there any longer. And there the eunuch sits, alone. The only company is a glass jar. The steward stares at the jar, foggy and expressionless. How can such a being even exist? Without purpose. Without care. A blackness so dark that it blots out any life. The steward rises from his seat, approaching the jar. Without speaking a word, he lifts it and exits the Norrvakt estate entirely. How can this be life? There is no reason to be alive.
Nicolas Delacroix now arrives at a familiar location to himself and his jar companion. An empty warehouse in the harbor. He steps into the center of the room and sets the jar down, taking a seat beside it. Without a moments hesitation, the Delacroix draws his dagger from its sheath and brings it to his throat. What even is life without purpose? At that thought, the blade is brought across his neck, dropping from his hands as they both, blade and man, fall onto the warehouse floor. There he lay. The blood flowing slowly from the fresh wound.
An hour or two pass, from the perspective of the Delacroix it very well could have been days. Despite his years of medical practice he had failed to sever his jugular. He was more so annoyed with himself than wishing for the deed to be done with. Alone in the warehouse, bleeding out. Thoughts flowed through his mind. What reason was there to die? Despite his life being without purpose, what purpose was there to end it all? Truly there was more to accomplish. Even if he did successfully die, he hadn't redeemed his sins against the Great Way so should he die he would only return as a lesser race. The purposeless would not end. Then he thought of his oaths. He had promised to serve his Lord Einarr. How can he do so if he is dead? What good is a dead servant to a master? Perhaps that is why the blade had failed. There was a purpose to his life. Why let it all fade into blackness when there was more to accomplish. Deeds to be done.
In a moment of pure survival, the Delacroix wraps his cape across his bleeding throat, forcing himself into the streets of the harbor. He only made it a few steps before collapsing. There. Now someone will find his body and take him to a clinic. They will repair his damaged throat and he will continue to serve. He draws out his card from his pocket. 'No Magic.' And with that, the world fades to black.
If Nicolas was a colour, he would be black. Black as the moments before death. Black as the moment before birth. When a newborn prepares to see the world for the first time. With new eyes, the Delacroix will see the world. A world full of blackness, but none as black as he.
@AtticCat @Stark_Trek
The steward sat in his chair. Looking out into the empty room. The advisors have been fired. The bureaucrats have no reason to be there any longer. And there the eunuch sits, alone. The only company is a glass jar. The steward stares at the jar, foggy and expressionless. How can such a being even exist? Without purpose. Without care. A blackness so dark that it blots out any life. The steward rises from his seat, approaching the jar. Without speaking a word, he lifts it and exits the Norrvakt estate entirely. How can this be life? There is no reason to be alive.
Nicolas Delacroix now arrives at a familiar location to himself and his jar companion. An empty warehouse in the harbor. He steps into the center of the room and sets the jar down, taking a seat beside it. Without a moments hesitation, the Delacroix draws his dagger from its sheath and brings it to his throat. What even is life without purpose? At that thought, the blade is brought across his neck, dropping from his hands as they both, blade and man, fall onto the warehouse floor. There he lay. The blood flowing slowly from the fresh wound.
An hour or two pass, from the perspective of the Delacroix it very well could have been days. Despite his years of medical practice he had failed to sever his jugular. He was more so annoyed with himself than wishing for the deed to be done with. Alone in the warehouse, bleeding out. Thoughts flowed through his mind. What reason was there to die? Despite his life being without purpose, what purpose was there to end it all? Truly there was more to accomplish. Even if he did successfully die, he hadn't redeemed his sins against the Great Way so should he die he would only return as a lesser race. The purposeless would not end. Then he thought of his oaths. He had promised to serve his Lord Einarr. How can he do so if he is dead? What good is a dead servant to a master? Perhaps that is why the blade had failed. There was a purpose to his life. Why let it all fade into blackness when there was more to accomplish. Deeds to be done.
In a moment of pure survival, the Delacroix wraps his cape across his bleeding throat, forcing himself into the streets of the harbor. He only made it a few steps before collapsing. There. Now someone will find his body and take him to a clinic. They will repair his damaged throat and he will continue to serve. He draws out his card from his pocket. 'No Magic.' And with that, the world fades to black.
If Nicolas was a colour, he would be black. Black as the moments before death. Black as the moment before birth. When a newborn prepares to see the world for the first time. With new eyes, the Delacroix will see the world. A world full of blackness, but none as black as he.
@AtticCat @Stark_Trek
