Post-BG1 Ficlet. This is my truly first BG series fan fiction, and is all
done in one session so it's not perfect. This is my first really violent
piece of writing.
Warning: Violence, Angst stuff – we are talking about Kivan after all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He shuddered as the frosted winds tugged and attempted to tear the tattered cloak from his lithe body—but his mind did not take note of the chilled season, nor the crimson trickle that trailed down his cheek. With a soft crunch, the yew bow clattered into the fallen snow, as it's mate the quiver was plopped beside it, forgotten for the time.
Kivan moaned—a soft, ghostly whisper of a hollow soul, lamenting and yet unable to cry. The elf gently extended a gloved hand reached out; the slender, callused fingers reached and grasped at the frigid air, searched in, and caressed the emptiness. His hunter hued eyes were no where in the forest, no where in the time he resided in, and in no place where any can pull him from.
Again, a shade of a sound tumbled past the chapped lips as he took a step forward, the elven form left neither track or echo to indicate his existence to the world. But what is the world to one such as he? He laughed bitterly as he finally brushed away the dried blood from his cheek, vaguely wandering as to its origins.
"Oh yes......... the gnoll.........." Kivan murmured as he scanned the horizon, before he laid himself upon the cold, cloud-like blanket. Not caring of the chill his body will no doubt receive, even the possibility of hypothermia and frostbite seemed to be a comforting proposition—anything would be—anything that will dull the acidic bile that had threatened to consume his heart and his sanity for so long..........
"Damn you Tazok......... damn you to the abyss.........." The harsh, husky voice hissed as the rough hands balled into impossibly clenched fists, as the ranger stared defiantly into the velvet heavens, the diamonds dancing and laughing in spite of it all.
Why didn't it ease his soul? Why didn't the bastard's death give him the release he craved for so long? The elf had laughed in triumph, in crowing and morbid delight as he watched the bandit leader's eyes went feral and bulging as the silent foot pressed upon the bloodied throat. Oh it was so sickeningly sweet to feel the resistance of muscle and bone gave way under his foot. Of how the fiend's desperate pleadings turned into gurgled shrieks and croaked groans as the very air was stamped out of the throat, the cracking and snapping of the bones became pleasant melodies to his pointed ears.
Kivan smirked as he remembered his voice whispered cruel words, parroting everything that ogre had tortured his beloved with, mocking every cry and plead, and at the crucial moment, feigning mercy, and removed his foot from the mangled windpipe.
However—as soon as the monster made the slightest attempt to leave, the point of a spear plunged through his torso. The weapon was twisted around, and slammed against the floor, tearing up every thing that was in the way—cloth, flesh, bone and heart, the blood spurted and gushed from the terrible wound, and had soaked the smaller elf almost completely in the warm, metallic-scented liquid. Not even a vampire could share the rapture Kivan had felt when he tasted Tazok's blood on his lips, tasting the remnants of the pathetic fool's foul life. With a sickening splurt, he tore away his spear, and much to his delight—saw the bloodied black heart was stuck upon the tip, the final beats fainted into nothingness—and left it as nothing more then just another piece of meat.
Crippled by his raven-fletched arrows and felled with his own hands, Tazok no longer existed, and his long-awaited hunt was finally over after all those long, wretched years. He had left the ruins with the pride of an Ancient Red Wyrm, even as his comrades became horrified and afraid of him. Why should he be concerned with such a thing? He had what he wanted; nothing else mattered to him.
Or did it...? His bride has been avenged, the foulest of mortal beasts is rotting in the city of the undead, and yet... the hurt remained, it has dulled—but in dullness it was somehow more piercing, more... twisted and even harder to ignore. What now? What was he to do? Is there a life after this?
He won......... however, he didn't win at all, the brewing, burning desire became frozen, and bleak like the touch of Auriel......... the winter had crept in without his consent, without his warning. He was the victor, but like a winner of a one-man sprint......... it held no meaning, no glory......... it was just a fleeting moment of happiness, but only to be cruelly plunged into a glacial chasm.
I would never though I would have actually enjoyed the ideal of that beast being the one to deliver a killing blow! The elf smiled sardonically to himself as his dark eyes glazed over with the meditative sleep of his kin, as his lithe body sank into the crisp snow.
And in coldness the ranger's soul remains..........
FIN
Warning: Violence, Angst stuff – we are talking about Kivan after all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He shuddered as the frosted winds tugged and attempted to tear the tattered cloak from his lithe body—but his mind did not take note of the chilled season, nor the crimson trickle that trailed down his cheek. With a soft crunch, the yew bow clattered into the fallen snow, as it's mate the quiver was plopped beside it, forgotten for the time.
Kivan moaned—a soft, ghostly whisper of a hollow soul, lamenting and yet unable to cry. The elf gently extended a gloved hand reached out; the slender, callused fingers reached and grasped at the frigid air, searched in, and caressed the emptiness. His hunter hued eyes were no where in the forest, no where in the time he resided in, and in no place where any can pull him from.
Again, a shade of a sound tumbled past the chapped lips as he took a step forward, the elven form left neither track or echo to indicate his existence to the world. But what is the world to one such as he? He laughed bitterly as he finally brushed away the dried blood from his cheek, vaguely wandering as to its origins.
"Oh yes......... the gnoll.........." Kivan murmured as he scanned the horizon, before he laid himself upon the cold, cloud-like blanket. Not caring of the chill his body will no doubt receive, even the possibility of hypothermia and frostbite seemed to be a comforting proposition—anything would be—anything that will dull the acidic bile that had threatened to consume his heart and his sanity for so long..........
"Damn you Tazok......... damn you to the abyss.........." The harsh, husky voice hissed as the rough hands balled into impossibly clenched fists, as the ranger stared defiantly into the velvet heavens, the diamonds dancing and laughing in spite of it all.
Why didn't it ease his soul? Why didn't the bastard's death give him the release he craved for so long? The elf had laughed in triumph, in crowing and morbid delight as he watched the bandit leader's eyes went feral and bulging as the silent foot pressed upon the bloodied throat. Oh it was so sickeningly sweet to feel the resistance of muscle and bone gave way under his foot. Of how the fiend's desperate pleadings turned into gurgled shrieks and croaked groans as the very air was stamped out of the throat, the cracking and snapping of the bones became pleasant melodies to his pointed ears.
Kivan smirked as he remembered his voice whispered cruel words, parroting everything that ogre had tortured his beloved with, mocking every cry and plead, and at the crucial moment, feigning mercy, and removed his foot from the mangled windpipe.
However—as soon as the monster made the slightest attempt to leave, the point of a spear plunged through his torso. The weapon was twisted around, and slammed against the floor, tearing up every thing that was in the way—cloth, flesh, bone and heart, the blood spurted and gushed from the terrible wound, and had soaked the smaller elf almost completely in the warm, metallic-scented liquid. Not even a vampire could share the rapture Kivan had felt when he tasted Tazok's blood on his lips, tasting the remnants of the pathetic fool's foul life. With a sickening splurt, he tore away his spear, and much to his delight—saw the bloodied black heart was stuck upon the tip, the final beats fainted into nothingness—and left it as nothing more then just another piece of meat.
Crippled by his raven-fletched arrows and felled with his own hands, Tazok no longer existed, and his long-awaited hunt was finally over after all those long, wretched years. He had left the ruins with the pride of an Ancient Red Wyrm, even as his comrades became horrified and afraid of him. Why should he be concerned with such a thing? He had what he wanted; nothing else mattered to him.
Or did it...? His bride has been avenged, the foulest of mortal beasts is rotting in the city of the undead, and yet... the hurt remained, it has dulled—but in dullness it was somehow more piercing, more... twisted and even harder to ignore. What now? What was he to do? Is there a life after this?
He won......... however, he didn't win at all, the brewing, burning desire became frozen, and bleak like the touch of Auriel......... the winter had crept in without his consent, without his warning. He was the victor, but like a winner of a one-man sprint......... it held no meaning, no glory......... it was just a fleeting moment of happiness, but only to be cruelly plunged into a glacial chasm.
I would never though I would have actually enjoyed the ideal of that beast being the one to deliver a killing blow! The elf smiled sardonically to himself as his dark eyes glazed over with the meditative sleep of his kin, as his lithe body sank into the crisp snow.
And in coldness the ranger's soul remains..........
FIN