like the ropes that bind your wrists, it tugs at you.
The call. A way out of the bastardized reality that had come to be, a sense of freedom despite how brief. That doesn’t matter. It’s a reprieve from the Hell he’s been subjected to; from the grotesque podium meant to be this damned souls waiting place. Recreation of a life once lived, set in place just as it was to be remembered. Sky basked in an orange glow, marking the setting sun. The midst of a town invested with ghostly murmurs of those that were called to watch, yet a physical form they did not carry. Flocked around a faded towns square, ready to mock and judge the King’s newly favored display.
Left to await the crushing embrace of a lingering rope, balance teetering on the small crate left beneath his feet. It would soon be kicked out and he would be left to dangle like the fool he was painted out to be -- but such a fate would never come. It would cease to be repeated... for there was that call. To break the repetition; to break the cycle that wished for his regret.
Weary eyes, once left to stare upon the faces of many before life could be stripped away, had risen to the skies. His vision would fade with the setting sun...
like the king who demanded your service, they call for you.
... and would rise again with the night kissed moon.
Void, distant; the stare he offered would provide so little. Far more interested in the first, new breath he could take to fill neglected lungs. A body freshly gifted to a soul seen as undeserving, a chance bestowed on one to take full advantage of the opportunities it offered. Within a burst of mana and wishful prayers, he would rise anew. Slow, deliberate... rising from a kneel; dropped from the noose and presented before a newly crowned ‘lord’.
Both in life, and death, the role of servant he would come to play -- time and again. To be given command and be expected to bow, to accept. The strings had been attached leaving him, once more, to play the part of acting puppet.
To swear fealty against better judgement.
again,with this one, you’ll weave your web of lies.
A hand against his chest; held prominently against a defective heart. Filled with selfish desire and new found greed for the power resting within possibility. Its presented with false purity as he takes a bow. Head is left to partially hang, draped in strands of azure that hung loosely in the lingering silence he gifted.
But the silence is temporary. For with the rising of eyes; a deadened pair of greens, he allows his mouth to open. Mentally, his jaw creeks, but to the one stood adamantly before him, it moves with flawless precision.
“Upon your summons... I pledge my allegiance. I am at your disposal, my lord.”
“... you can call me Saix.”
... you shall not fail.
You shall be free!
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