Mastemyr Kaidonis
》 Son of Aelig 《
Date
Yaralon had not been kind to Mastemyr. It had fed him until he overflowed, but with the intoxicating meals of chaos, the results had cracked his mind, peeling back the fresh scabs that protected his delicate mentality and reopened old wounds. It tore at his consciousness and the fractures of Yaralon called to him. Literally, he heard their voices, ranging from soft baritones to youthful sopranos. They ranged in emotion.
They’re watching. They’re watching you. I see you. They’re watching. They want to kill you.
Hushed whispers, some growled, some giggled like children in a field. They bounced around the room, distant and then beside him.
They’re watching. Mastemyr.
Where are you? There he is. They’re watching.
Run away. Run! They’re watching. Where are you?
They’re coming. It’s coming. He’s watching.
I see you.
The last sentence was like a sharp grumble, a voice snapping at the back of his neck. It felt so real, the Mortalborn jerked, seeing a figure at the corner of his vision. Dark and looming, he flinched, but no one stood at his heel. The room was empty, smelling like thatch and mud. Frost was built upon the window and he clutched his arms towards him, eyes darting to each corner.
“You’re not real. It’s not real.”
It’s real. They’re real. I see you. They’re watching.
He shook his head violently and squinted with vigor.
The door of the clinic opened and a young woman walked in. Dressed in traditional Yari leathers, her hair was pulled back in a warrior’s braid, and she began setting out the bandages and strangely carved vials. Her voice melded in unison to another in his head, a chorus playing between the real and imaginary, “Mastemyr.”
He nodded slowly, watching her pat the cot and smile, one of her canines missing. Her skin was a ruddy tan, she had a small mole on her left cheekbone. Her nose was pierced with bone and slung across her back was a battered spear, “C’mon den.”
“Ya watching?” he asked, before shaking his head again. She gave him a confused look, brows knitting. Before she could ask, he frowned at the voices, looked at the ground and trudged forward, “Sorry.” Bow in hand, the mortalborn slinked forward and lowered himself upon the mat and tucked his legs beneath him. She shifted to his side and he felt her hands slide up the back of his shirt and he hissed at the icy touch of her fingers. Immediately, he regretted it, pain shooting through his shoulder.
She was laughing, "Don'd be a baby."
"Ya cold."
She's watching. Watching you. She's angry. Hurt her! HURT HER!
Tense, the medic began tugging on his shirt until it was up and over his head. It took a great deal of willpower not to jump away, and he clutched his bow with white knuckles.