Title:
Host
Characters: Jack of Blades, the Hero,
the Guildmaster
He couldn't deny that he was tempted at that moment, not with the mask pulsing with that otherworldly power. Definitely not with Jack's smooth, dark voice speaking in his head, words rebounding much more prominently than the old Guildmaster's. It was right there, in his hand, in his hand. Power, instant power, and all he had to do was place it over his face.
The mask was cold.
It wasn't an ordinary cold, of course. Not when he could feel it so easily piercing through his gloves. It was a cold that enveloped his whole hand when only his fingers were touching the material of the mask. It sent shivers down his spine, the very idea of wearing something so cold. Would it spread over his entire body? Would it freeze his heart? Would it freeze his heart until it no longer beat, enabling him to continue living just like Jack? Centuries, they could all be his.
"Put it on." Jack commanded. "Come on hero, put it on."
His voice was confident, powerful, and it was completely collected. Like he knew what the young hero was thinking and was unconcerned.
"Hurry up!" The Guildmaster pleaded. "Toss the mask into the fires, be rid of it forever!"
His voice was shaken, desperate, and held an edge of true terror. Like he knew what the young hero was thinking and was alarmed.
Why, it was as though the old Guildmaster had no faith in the Hero's strength of will. As though the man couldn't bring himself to believe that there was no chance of his top graduate from the Guild turning to the power of the mask. The terror in his voice spoke volumes far louder than his words. He believed that the Hero couldn't stand his ground in the face of true power.
His fingers curled tighter around the mask until he had brought it into his palm. The cold of the strange material spread, seeping further up his arm until it felt like he was frozen from finger to shoulder. The power that it radiated was truly intoxicating.
It was as though Jack of Blades was the only person with confidence in him. As though the centuries old hero could see just what the man holding his mask could do and was certain that the younger hero would choose power. That smooth, resounding confidence made him hear the immortal's words. He believed that the Hero would rise above the ground in the face of true power.
There was an echoing clink as his helmet hit the cracked stone of the ground. It rolled, stopping at the base of the ruined stairs by the gate. The Hero paid this no mind. His arm was rising, mask in hand, towards his face. The Guildmaster's desperate yells (which were becoming quite hoarse) faded to a dull roar in the back of his mind.
He shoved the mask on his face, pushing it hard enough that his head tilted backwards and flung his hair in every direction.
And instantly a wave of cold overcame his body, chilling him to and through his bones and seeming to penetrate even his deepest organs. His heart thudded furiously, steadily declining in speed. It slowed to long, drawn out beats every few seconds until it eventually ceased completely.
The Hero straightened and raised his head, revealing that the mask had merged with his face. His dark hair fell back into place, presenting a sharp contrast to the bone white mask that the black hair framed. Cold blue eyes, flecked with gold, peered from the eyeholes at the infernos in their surroundings. He saw the fire, but felt none of the warmth.
And in his mind, Jack of Blades cackled in satisfaction. It was only a matter of time.
(AN: A bit longer than my last one, it took me awhile to make it come out how I liked. I really wanted my first piece centered on Jack's mask to be good, and hopefully I succeeded. Here it is, until next time. See ya!)