C.DEX
Art Fart
Sans clicked his tongue. Inside, he deliberated. He had all the time in the world for that now, didn't he? Waiting. Collapsed, he sat on the cold floor, hands draping loosely at his side. His eyes fell on her. He felt pity. But perhaps it wasn't the best place to tell his story. His hands grasped the bars, testing their strength by pulling on them. It didn't really matter what he said, did it? Just like him, the Undead around him were behind the same bars. He was sentenced to life, and there were no amendments to that. So, he forced a smile toward her. It was the untrained smile of a boy who'd spent most of his life giving another one; one of contempt. Then, pain contorted his gaze. The realization dawned upon him by her words - that he would spend his life in that cell, huddling up to the rank piss-scented walls, scraping for food, and if he'd dared revolt... Being beaten and left for dead in his cell again.
"I'm sorry. No, there are worse acts. I haven't committed them, but there are worse. Perhaps my only sin was to be born into a family that'd drawn the ire of another." His lip curled up, curiously. "To put it simply. Gods, I am used to holding my tongue so severely, but it doesn't matter any more, does it? You're either to be killed or strung up with me for the rest of our days, and we're not in intelligent enough company to even risk ourselves by our words - any more than we already have."
He chuckled, but it was a defeated laugh. One that was rife with the tones of a sob. The confused display of emotion didn't spur anything from the woman, who had seen it all before. "No ... you're right. What you say, it doesn't matter. But people don't get put in this place for doing nothing. Please ... tell me your story. Words are all we've left." she replied. "You look small. Sometimes I imagine how my boy might look, happen he wasn't taken away the way he was. I think he might look quite like you."
"You'd not compare me to a boy. I'm twenty-three. And if he looked like me now, you might want to stop thinking of him for your own sake." he said, with a small laugh. "I suppose it's not as bad as the filthy people amongst us." His words were biting, the first verbal show of disdain he'd had for another person. "If you could call them people, that is."
The woman curled her own lip, unsure of how to respond. "I don't have the energy anymore to have hate for them." she said. "You're going to have to let go of that here. The hate ... it'll fester. The man in the cell before you - he let it happen. It festered in him. Grew like lung-mold, from the inside out, and expelled at every chance. The guards'll not have a patience for it, as they didn't for him, and that's why you're where he is. And if they've had as much patience for you now as I think they have -" she started, regarding his appearance. He was bedraggled, with a gash lining the front of his face that'd been no doubt been from the end of a nightstick. His hair was matted with blood and tressed into his wounds. The rags he'd donned were ripped, making him look quite like the rebellious prisoner. "Well, you're in for a bad time. In their eyes, we're just as good as them. In my eyes? We're just as blessed as them."
"That is to say, not at all." he replied, curtly.
"I'ven't mean to put us in the subject. Whether or not you like them, they'll be living much longer than you, here." she said. "Tell me of your family. Recently, I've closed my eyes, and all I can imagine anymore is the rot they serve us here, clinging my tastebuds like leeches. You'll know the same thing soon, when you close yours. I want to savor the thoughts of someone who can still imagine the blue of the sky." Her neutral expression slowly crept into a frown, and mist filled her eyes. He allowed her to take a moment to herself. Dread and hate filled him, though mostly for himself. The last thing he'd wanted was to become like her, and the reality hadn't quite set in that it was an inevitability. To stave off her emotions, he began speaking quickly, unwanting of the dread that'd begun to take hold of him.
"Okay, okay. Spare me your tears. I've enough stress of my own." he said. Then, he began crafting a tale.
"Imagine a room. Not a peasant's. It was more of a gathering place - a room where the topmost would convene. At the back of it sat an obsidian throne, its ores acquired from the deepest, darkest depths, inlaid with Abyssal gemstones of every color. The glint of the stones would often bounce off of the draperies hung from the ceilings. Even the coattails of those great masts were clean, for every day, servants would shift around my home like shadows. Imagine the great, high ceilings. The pitter patter of an active home, bursting with life. I'd pass through it every day to adjourn to the courtyard, where I'd meet my swords instructor. On that particular day..." he closed his eyes in thought. "He wasn't wearing his standard fare. Instead, he'd dressed well, for we'd expected the company of my sister, Eyell, who had an immaculate eye and favored servants who had shown her a more beautiful world than was truly out there. His name ... his name was Instructor Dairn. But you asked of my family, and not of my friends, so I suppose I'll move on."
He cleared his throat. When he'd opened his eyes, the woman across from him had closed hers. He wondered if she'd seen it in the brilliant detail he'd imagined in his own head. "My sister had bright blue eyes and hair that tressed golden, like mine. That day, she wore a gown I didn't particularly care for - but then again, I don't care for any gown. I'd expected the same drivel she'd attempted to gouge me with on the daily basis, but there was ... there was a worry in her eyes. She'd called me by name - Sans - which was peculiar. We'd been both summoned to the presence of my father."
He stopped.
"I realize now that this particular day wasn't pleasant."
The woman across from him shifted her view, and gave a defeated laugh. "Nothing here is. But go on anyways. Tell me what happened. What you did."
"I sheathed my practice sword and came to his company. There was a temperament to my father that warned us all - daughter, son, wife - that not coming to his call would result in ... most unfavorable circumstances. It far surpassed the line of avoidance and delved into obeyance. With haste, I'd left Dairn away and came to his side. There, I'd seen him sitting in his chair, away from the main chamber and deep into his study." Sans said, then hesitated. "The conceptions you've had of the chamber before, the ones I told you ... Imagine the opposite. Not in cleanliness, but in mood. He preferred to bathe himself in darkness. It reminded him quite of his domain. Lit by candle-light, he'd brought my sister in and sat us down at our desks. I wonder if I'll ever see him again, even." He breathed a sigh. "Well, he'd told us that the Guard was coming. A gasp escaped my sister's lips, but knowing her, she'd been overreacting to appease my father. He'd instructed us to wait in the cellar of our home, and he'd come get us later. To turn off the torchlights on the walls. He'd instructed me to hide my sister, and ... concentrate. Concentrate like he'd shown me so many times before. And meld. For, on this occasion, if I were to be seen, I'd be killed."
"...Why?" the woman asked, interest peaking in her eyes. "And ... meld?"
He nodded, slowly. His hand raised from draping loosely at his side. He closed his eyes, and breathed out. His fingertips began to slowly disappear from place, leaving only the backdrop behind them for the woman to view. Then, they quickly returned, and Sans had quickly lost what little vigor he'd shown before. A deep grimace crossed his mouth.
"Magicks." she stated. "You'd be of interest not to do those here. What are you? Your ... father taught you these?"
"They're not 'magicks'." He said, with disgust. "Magic is what the corpses use. He'd taught me it for the very same reason the Guard had been coming." he said, scowling. "Power ran deep in my family. A deep, forbidden power. I've got a ripple of what he had, and he's dead for it. He is in Artorus now, using the power he'd gained in life to revolt against the vile Queen and befall Saray. As the Walkers are to do."
The woman fell silent. His words carried a connotation that she hadn't wanted to invoke. Her interested gaze had turned into one of worry. "You must be insane. Your father wasn't an Abysswalker."
"I must be, then. If you'd been outside of this cage, you might've heard of the Fellhearths." he said, with a laugh.
"Well, what did you do?" she asked.
"They came, like he'd said. I wasn't able to concentrate. They had taken one look at me, and decided capture over killing wasn't a task they'd have trouble with. They took me, and the entirety of my family. They'd killed my father and my mother, citing murder, treason, blasphemy, occultism to my family. Compared us to the likes of the filthy Children who adorned these halls. That's where it leaves me, with a bit cut out in the middle, beginning and end." There was a long silence. "Any more questions?"
"I'm sorry. No, there are worse acts. I haven't committed them, but there are worse. Perhaps my only sin was to be born into a family that'd drawn the ire of another." His lip curled up, curiously. "To put it simply. Gods, I am used to holding my tongue so severely, but it doesn't matter any more, does it? You're either to be killed or strung up with me for the rest of our days, and we're not in intelligent enough company to even risk ourselves by our words - any more than we already have."
He chuckled, but it was a defeated laugh. One that was rife with the tones of a sob. The confused display of emotion didn't spur anything from the woman, who had seen it all before. "No ... you're right. What you say, it doesn't matter. But people don't get put in this place for doing nothing. Please ... tell me your story. Words are all we've left." she replied. "You look small. Sometimes I imagine how my boy might look, happen he wasn't taken away the way he was. I think he might look quite like you."
"You'd not compare me to a boy. I'm twenty-three. And if he looked like me now, you might want to stop thinking of him for your own sake." he said, with a small laugh. "I suppose it's not as bad as the filthy people amongst us." His words were biting, the first verbal show of disdain he'd had for another person. "If you could call them people, that is."
The woman curled her own lip, unsure of how to respond. "I don't have the energy anymore to have hate for them." she said. "You're going to have to let go of that here. The hate ... it'll fester. The man in the cell before you - he let it happen. It festered in him. Grew like lung-mold, from the inside out, and expelled at every chance. The guards'll not have a patience for it, as they didn't for him, and that's why you're where he is. And if they've had as much patience for you now as I think they have -" she started, regarding his appearance. He was bedraggled, with a gash lining the front of his face that'd been no doubt been from the end of a nightstick. His hair was matted with blood and tressed into his wounds. The rags he'd donned were ripped, making him look quite like the rebellious prisoner. "Well, you're in for a bad time. In their eyes, we're just as good as them. In my eyes? We're just as blessed as them."
"That is to say, not at all." he replied, curtly.
"I'ven't mean to put us in the subject. Whether or not you like them, they'll be living much longer than you, here." she said. "Tell me of your family. Recently, I've closed my eyes, and all I can imagine anymore is the rot they serve us here, clinging my tastebuds like leeches. You'll know the same thing soon, when you close yours. I want to savor the thoughts of someone who can still imagine the blue of the sky." Her neutral expression slowly crept into a frown, and mist filled her eyes. He allowed her to take a moment to herself. Dread and hate filled him, though mostly for himself. The last thing he'd wanted was to become like her, and the reality hadn't quite set in that it was an inevitability. To stave off her emotions, he began speaking quickly, unwanting of the dread that'd begun to take hold of him.
"Okay, okay. Spare me your tears. I've enough stress of my own." he said. Then, he began crafting a tale.
"Imagine a room. Not a peasant's. It was more of a gathering place - a room where the topmost would convene. At the back of it sat an obsidian throne, its ores acquired from the deepest, darkest depths, inlaid with Abyssal gemstones of every color. The glint of the stones would often bounce off of the draperies hung from the ceilings. Even the coattails of those great masts were clean, for every day, servants would shift around my home like shadows. Imagine the great, high ceilings. The pitter patter of an active home, bursting with life. I'd pass through it every day to adjourn to the courtyard, where I'd meet my swords instructor. On that particular day..." he closed his eyes in thought. "He wasn't wearing his standard fare. Instead, he'd dressed well, for we'd expected the company of my sister, Eyell, who had an immaculate eye and favored servants who had shown her a more beautiful world than was truly out there. His name ... his name was Instructor Dairn. But you asked of my family, and not of my friends, so I suppose I'll move on."
He cleared his throat. When he'd opened his eyes, the woman across from him had closed hers. He wondered if she'd seen it in the brilliant detail he'd imagined in his own head. "My sister had bright blue eyes and hair that tressed golden, like mine. That day, she wore a gown I didn't particularly care for - but then again, I don't care for any gown. I'd expected the same drivel she'd attempted to gouge me with on the daily basis, but there was ... there was a worry in her eyes. She'd called me by name - Sans - which was peculiar. We'd been both summoned to the presence of my father."
He stopped.
"I realize now that this particular day wasn't pleasant."
The woman across from him shifted her view, and gave a defeated laugh. "Nothing here is. But go on anyways. Tell me what happened. What you did."
"I sheathed my practice sword and came to his company. There was a temperament to my father that warned us all - daughter, son, wife - that not coming to his call would result in ... most unfavorable circumstances. It far surpassed the line of avoidance and delved into obeyance. With haste, I'd left Dairn away and came to his side. There, I'd seen him sitting in his chair, away from the main chamber and deep into his study." Sans said, then hesitated. "The conceptions you've had of the chamber before, the ones I told you ... Imagine the opposite. Not in cleanliness, but in mood. He preferred to bathe himself in darkness. It reminded him quite of his domain. Lit by candle-light, he'd brought my sister in and sat us down at our desks. I wonder if I'll ever see him again, even." He breathed a sigh. "Well, he'd told us that the Guard was coming. A gasp escaped my sister's lips, but knowing her, she'd been overreacting to appease my father. He'd instructed us to wait in the cellar of our home, and he'd come get us later. To turn off the torchlights on the walls. He'd instructed me to hide my sister, and ... concentrate. Concentrate like he'd shown me so many times before. And meld. For, on this occasion, if I were to be seen, I'd be killed."
"...Why?" the woman asked, interest peaking in her eyes. "And ... meld?"
He nodded, slowly. His hand raised from draping loosely at his side. He closed his eyes, and breathed out. His fingertips began to slowly disappear from place, leaving only the backdrop behind them for the woman to view. Then, they quickly returned, and Sans had quickly lost what little vigor he'd shown before. A deep grimace crossed his mouth.
"Magicks." she stated. "You'd be of interest not to do those here. What are you? Your ... father taught you these?"
"They're not 'magicks'." He said, with disgust. "Magic is what the corpses use. He'd taught me it for the very same reason the Guard had been coming." he said, scowling. "Power ran deep in my family. A deep, forbidden power. I've got a ripple of what he had, and he's dead for it. He is in Artorus now, using the power he'd gained in life to revolt against the vile Queen and befall Saray. As the Walkers are to do."
The woman fell silent. His words carried a connotation that she hadn't wanted to invoke. Her interested gaze had turned into one of worry. "You must be insane. Your father wasn't an Abysswalker."
"I must be, then. If you'd been outside of this cage, you might've heard of the Fellhearths." he said, with a laugh.
"Well, what did you do?" she asked.
"They came, like he'd said. I wasn't able to concentrate. They had taken one look at me, and decided capture over killing wasn't a task they'd have trouble with. They took me, and the entirety of my family. They'd killed my father and my mother, citing murder, treason, blasphemy, occultism to my family. Compared us to the likes of the filthy Children who adorned these halls. That's where it leaves me, with a bit cut out in the middle, beginning and end." There was a long silence. "Any more questions?"
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