Eban sat alone sequestered in his small locked room at the inn, sitting up against the headboard of unfamiliar bed with his vacant gaze locked on the bolted door before him. The sight of him is ..very different than it was a short time ago. He is pale, almost sickly, taking breath with noticeable effort and moving with the same encumberment. His hair, though still decorated with strands of gems and gold is matted, unkempt to match a beard that has grown shaggy and untended. His shirt had been disposed off to replace the bandages wrapped around his ribcage, along with new bandaging around his forearm, both spotted with blood from the exertions of the nights attack. His silver eyes no longer hold intent, but a hint of fear; when not focused they dart around the room, always checking his surroundings. He has the appearance of a wounded animal pressed to corner.
Too others, he would seem to himself, accompanied only by the flickering light of the candle that danced shadows across the room; but his mind was far from quiet. He had heard warnings that dealing with dark magics can begin to fray ones mind with prolonged use, make them selfish and cruel in attempt to cheat death, or gain strength; in time, some even become things that would no longer be considered human, the same thing he and his Empire hunts. Yet, he did not heed warning, and now ... after so long practicing in private, a few public moments, a few poorly timed spells lead to orders for him to stop. His supplies, and his spellbook was surrendered to the Empress. With each passing day, his craving grows worse. His condition falls a bit more unhinged. Voices from the past echo throughout his gilded cage, flashes or wisps float past his vision moving, and disappearing like spirits; then, there is always her, standing just out of reach with a coy, even amused smile formed upon lip watching with interest as he suffers.
A sharp pain brings him from his gaze back at the visage, it takes him a moment to realize that was himself who had caused it, a firm squeeze draws a bit of blood from the fresh stab wound on his forearm, the sudden rush of adrenalin again allowed him to focus, standing with a drunken, pain hindered motion to stand and recheck the locks on the door. He pressed his forehead against the cool reception of the wood, balling his fists in a moment of anger. He was hiding, and he could do nothing else.
Only two weeks ago, he seemed fit; his body strong, his casting a challenge on the field of battle, a true weapon of war; yet now, he could be bested by a strong breeze, the blade dulled, and threatening to break. And for what? An idea, a word, a virtue that he does not believe in, Honor; and duty to obey the Empresses command. Both values that have been proven in the past to be suspect.. at best. He knew one day he would have to stop, but before that day came he had a realization which gave him pause. If he tried to stop, and could not ... It would prove him unable, and set him down a path that there is no turning back from. In truth, he feared attempt; he would have prolonged until it was forced on him, and that moment had come. He know's what he would do for power, he knows the weakness of this leash called Honor. Only the passing of time will reveal which road he will travel.
A wobble of the knees, a laughter from unseen entity at his stumble. He grows weak, the alcohol makes his eyelids heavy, blood loss makes his head spin. One last lingering look into the corner of the room, setting sight once again upon lingering eye, he takes the large knife from the belt of his kilt, and hurls it at the enemy only his mind can see before collapsing back onto the bed as the song of metal follows the bouncing blade against stone. Whatever may come, he will fight.
Too others, he would seem to himself, accompanied only by the flickering light of the candle that danced shadows across the room; but his mind was far from quiet. He had heard warnings that dealing with dark magics can begin to fray ones mind with prolonged use, make them selfish and cruel in attempt to cheat death, or gain strength; in time, some even become things that would no longer be considered human, the same thing he and his Empire hunts. Yet, he did not heed warning, and now ... after so long practicing in private, a few public moments, a few poorly timed spells lead to orders for him to stop. His supplies, and his spellbook was surrendered to the Empress. With each passing day, his craving grows worse. His condition falls a bit more unhinged. Voices from the past echo throughout his gilded cage, flashes or wisps float past his vision moving, and disappearing like spirits; then, there is always her, standing just out of reach with a coy, even amused smile formed upon lip watching with interest as he suffers.
A sharp pain brings him from his gaze back at the visage, it takes him a moment to realize that was himself who had caused it, a firm squeeze draws a bit of blood from the fresh stab wound on his forearm, the sudden rush of adrenalin again allowed him to focus, standing with a drunken, pain hindered motion to stand and recheck the locks on the door. He pressed his forehead against the cool reception of the wood, balling his fists in a moment of anger. He was hiding, and he could do nothing else.
Only two weeks ago, he seemed fit; his body strong, his casting a challenge on the field of battle, a true weapon of war; yet now, he could be bested by a strong breeze, the blade dulled, and threatening to break. And for what? An idea, a word, a virtue that he does not believe in, Honor; and duty to obey the Empresses command. Both values that have been proven in the past to be suspect.. at best. He knew one day he would have to stop, but before that day came he had a realization which gave him pause. If he tried to stop, and could not ... It would prove him unable, and set him down a path that there is no turning back from. In truth, he feared attempt; he would have prolonged until it was forced on him, and that moment had come. He know's what he would do for power, he knows the weakness of this leash called Honor. Only the passing of time will reveal which road he will travel.
A wobble of the knees, a laughter from unseen entity at his stumble. He grows weak, the alcohol makes his eyelids heavy, blood loss makes his head spin. One last lingering look into the corner of the room, setting sight once again upon lingering eye, he takes the large knife from the belt of his kilt, and hurls it at the enemy only his mind can see before collapsing back onto the bed as the song of metal follows the bouncing blade against stone. Whatever may come, he will fight.