FA+
Shop
635
Views
Views
35
Favorites
Favorites
Category
Artwork (Digital) / Fanart
Species Charr
Size 2082 x 1235
File Size 2.95 MB
Report this content
More from Rivelta
Listed in Folders
Three gunshots ring out, and four bodies drop.
Reave Dustwake falls hard on his knees, sword as his crutch for the hundredth time in the last half-eternity. Droplets of pitch seep from one of many black scars that mangled his skin and armor, the cracks threatening to widen and take one of his limbs. Another fight finished, but there would be no time to rest. Not when his very essence threatened to break and dissolve into nothingness across this blasted emptiness. Rocks, void, and an invisible-red thrum of background radiation, pulsing. The heartbeat of this unknowable nightmare.
Truth be told, he was faring much better than his compatriot, because he wasn’t the one-of-four that hit the ground a moment ago.
Archuk Swampmoss heaves himself upwards, equal parts tired and angry. His corruption is significantly worse than Reave’s, with entire sections of his body covered in the same black crags which then terminate into opaque blackness. He spits out a tooth from the remaining half of his jaw, and checks his revolver. Even on the brink of dissolution, he was still a crack shot, Reave mulls. The three remaining spirits that jumped him earlier were the tail end of a brawl involving as many as forty. Not too long ago, Archuk would’ve been elated at another opportunity at wanton violence, but both boredom and decay set by the hundredth fight.
Despite the damage, Reave could still understand Archuk through his disfigurement. “Better not be any more fuckers up ahead,” he mutters, slamming three fresh rounds into the revolver’s cylinder.
Reave turns, facing the pillar of light that lay ahead, stretching out into the dead sky and illuminating the surrounding landscape with white and red. The first indication of something in this barren landscape of floating islands, but the mooks grew in ferocity as they approached, made all the worse with the revelation of their decaying souls. But now, they laid less than half a klick to its surface. As to whether it would mean anything if they reached it…
Well.
“No cover for the final stretch,” Reave says between tired breaths. “Worst we can get is another eruption from the ground, so it should be a straight shot without issue. Do you think you’re going to have another episode or-“
Another thunk stops Reave’s train of thought. Yeah, Archuk’s having another one of those…moments.
Reave doesn’t turn around out of a sense of modesty, but Archuk writhes on the ground, swearing and grunting. Long seconds pass as Archuk’s exertions kick up a cloud of dust, and eventually the hole where his liver would be widens and ejects a knuckleduster, hand-axe, and a deluge of pitch. The hole does not return to its original size.
Archuk spits out a few more curses before getting up again, axe now in hand. “’least it’s not another damn focus,” he half-snarls, trying and failing to hide the pain. “Let’s go.”
The pair marches across the grey desert, like ants on the surface of an enormous statue. With every step forward, Reave could feel the actinic pulses wash over his brain and spine, growing alongside the light’s intensity. The black scars flared in rhythm, aching like stab wounds that stole your life with every heartbeat. There were no additional foes to face, thank iron. Most of these ambushers would crawl up from the earth with far too much ease, as if the ground was conspiring against them. Behind him, Reave heard Archuk’s breathing grow even more laborious, and more splashes of pitch hit the ground. Either this beacon of light was their way out, or the cessation of their very existence. Moths to a flame. Regardless, something was ending soon enough.
The last ten metres felt more like swimming rather than walking. The air itself is thick with energy, and Reave could barely hear himself talk over the ringing in his ears, let alone notice a squelching snap and the clatter of an axe on the ground. Reave’s words catch in his throat as he turns yet again, seeing Archuk crumpled, a pool of blackness seeping from an ankle that lost its structural integrity. Reave was never a medic, and there wasn’t a surgeon in the universe that could operate on a ghost, so that foot was good as gone. But dutiful as ever, Reave turns Archuk over, at least making sure he doesn’t choke on his own discharges.
“You okay?” Reave asks, almost regretting having asked as such. No, he’s not okay. Nothing about this is okay. Archuk is about to die in the truest sense; the last vestiges of his identity, scattering into nothingness. The enemies they felled on this odyssey, their bodies didn’t rot or dissolve. Somehow, going out like this felt worse than a spear puncture or a bullet to the head.
Archuk coughs and sputters something insensate, jaw flapping uselessly. At least he’s not completely gone. Not yet, at least. “I’m going to check on that pillar. Be back soon,” Reave assures, mustering up as much compassion as he could. Archuk nods weakly, eyes unfocused.
So, this is it. The end of the journey. A small ball of anger flares up within Reave as he reaches out, which is swiftly quelled with hopefulness. He was never one for retribution, and it’s not like there’s anyone who was worth to receive such vengeance in this place. Everything before, they were merely becoming equalized with the universe, like ice melting in water. No one gets to live forever.
Reave’s palm hovers tantalizingly close to the pillar’s surface, a twinge of uncertainty, but then he steps forward.
The world goes white.
Reave Dustwake, Archuk Swampmoss © me
Art ©
pejntboks
GW2 and charr © ArenaNet
Reave Dustwake falls hard on his knees, sword as his crutch for the hundredth time in the last half-eternity. Droplets of pitch seep from one of many black scars that mangled his skin and armor, the cracks threatening to widen and take one of his limbs. Another fight finished, but there would be no time to rest. Not when his very essence threatened to break and dissolve into nothingness across this blasted emptiness. Rocks, void, and an invisible-red thrum of background radiation, pulsing. The heartbeat of this unknowable nightmare.
Truth be told, he was faring much better than his compatriot, because he wasn’t the one-of-four that hit the ground a moment ago.
Archuk Swampmoss heaves himself upwards, equal parts tired and angry. His corruption is significantly worse than Reave’s, with entire sections of his body covered in the same black crags which then terminate into opaque blackness. He spits out a tooth from the remaining half of his jaw, and checks his revolver. Even on the brink of dissolution, he was still a crack shot, Reave mulls. The three remaining spirits that jumped him earlier were the tail end of a brawl involving as many as forty. Not too long ago, Archuk would’ve been elated at another opportunity at wanton violence, but both boredom and decay set by the hundredth fight.
Despite the damage, Reave could still understand Archuk through his disfigurement. “Better not be any more fuckers up ahead,” he mutters, slamming three fresh rounds into the revolver’s cylinder.
Reave turns, facing the pillar of light that lay ahead, stretching out into the dead sky and illuminating the surrounding landscape with white and red. The first indication of something in this barren landscape of floating islands, but the mooks grew in ferocity as they approached, made all the worse with the revelation of their decaying souls. But now, they laid less than half a klick to its surface. As to whether it would mean anything if they reached it…
Well.
“No cover for the final stretch,” Reave says between tired breaths. “Worst we can get is another eruption from the ground, so it should be a straight shot without issue. Do you think you’re going to have another episode or-“
Another thunk stops Reave’s train of thought. Yeah, Archuk’s having another one of those…moments.
Reave doesn’t turn around out of a sense of modesty, but Archuk writhes on the ground, swearing and grunting. Long seconds pass as Archuk’s exertions kick up a cloud of dust, and eventually the hole where his liver would be widens and ejects a knuckleduster, hand-axe, and a deluge of pitch. The hole does not return to its original size.
Archuk spits out a few more curses before getting up again, axe now in hand. “’least it’s not another damn focus,” he half-snarls, trying and failing to hide the pain. “Let’s go.”
The pair marches across the grey desert, like ants on the surface of an enormous statue. With every step forward, Reave could feel the actinic pulses wash over his brain and spine, growing alongside the light’s intensity. The black scars flared in rhythm, aching like stab wounds that stole your life with every heartbeat. There were no additional foes to face, thank iron. Most of these ambushers would crawl up from the earth with far too much ease, as if the ground was conspiring against them. Behind him, Reave heard Archuk’s breathing grow even more laborious, and more splashes of pitch hit the ground. Either this beacon of light was their way out, or the cessation of their very existence. Moths to a flame. Regardless, something was ending soon enough.
The last ten metres felt more like swimming rather than walking. The air itself is thick with energy, and Reave could barely hear himself talk over the ringing in his ears, let alone notice a squelching snap and the clatter of an axe on the ground. Reave’s words catch in his throat as he turns yet again, seeing Archuk crumpled, a pool of blackness seeping from an ankle that lost its structural integrity. Reave was never a medic, and there wasn’t a surgeon in the universe that could operate on a ghost, so that foot was good as gone. But dutiful as ever, Reave turns Archuk over, at least making sure he doesn’t choke on his own discharges.
“You okay?” Reave asks, almost regretting having asked as such. No, he’s not okay. Nothing about this is okay. Archuk is about to die in the truest sense; the last vestiges of his identity, scattering into nothingness. The enemies they felled on this odyssey, their bodies didn’t rot or dissolve. Somehow, going out like this felt worse than a spear puncture or a bullet to the head.
Archuk coughs and sputters something insensate, jaw flapping uselessly. At least he’s not completely gone. Not yet, at least. “I’m going to check on that pillar. Be back soon,” Reave assures, mustering up as much compassion as he could. Archuk nods weakly, eyes unfocused.
So, this is it. The end of the journey. A small ball of anger flares up within Reave as he reaches out, which is swiftly quelled with hopefulness. He was never one for retribution, and it’s not like there’s anyone who was worth to receive such vengeance in this place. Everything before, they were merely becoming equalized with the universe, like ice melting in water. No one gets to live forever.
Reave’s palm hovers tantalizingly close to the pillar’s surface, a twinge of uncertainty, but then he steps forward.
The world goes white.
Reave Dustwake, Archuk Swampmoss © me
Art ©
pejntboksGW2 and charr © ArenaNet
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fanart
Species Charr
Size 2082 x 1235px
File Size 2.95 MB
Comments