In the freezing and shivering night, a shadow wandered between the woods before entering Oxyn, a vast community of powerful witches built from its heroic ancestors who managed to control the fire element.
Although magnificently fragile, Novah was th...
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Firmly holding onto the sharp spike, his reluctant, almost meaning, adverse gaze, toys and dances with the object he keeps trying to contain under the ripped skin of his thumb and index finger, as the cold wet red liquid covers the hems of his sleeves. It is pointless – craving for pain isn't something an immortal would often ask for, let alone find himself resort to a mere futile, lifeless and static object to satisfy his abnormal frustration – but while he managed to trick his own thoughts, openly replacing the thunder inside his head with confident spirits, the light grey color his eyes held, quickly pumped with oxygen, soon were shinning reminiscing a diamond when kissed by the sun, so, after a second or two, he had twisted it, the spike bended, then was disposed of, tossed to the ground.
It did not matter how much blood he had lost, his heart was already frozen in the first place, his body's a mere machine which is constantly working and does not reinitiate. As far as Leon, he remembered he once used to joyfully dream about not having to die, because it meant he would get rid of something that shorts and scares a dignified life, in his eyes, that meant winning a big treasure, but when his initial transformation ritual was over, the starting off a permanent change on one's body and soul, is something he now wishes he never had the guts to fight for in the first place.
He succeeded, yes. He had become a Witcher. None of his other brothers survived, whereas Leon triumphed in contrast to them and to others. He is feared among the best male witches in Oxyn and the Four Empires, even his popularity reaches thousands of miles of unknown land, his direct competition is virtually inexistent and well, he never lost any combat, not one, although being powerful does not make up for every void one can feel, this, he certainly knows it very well. That thing – imprinted on his back, like a parasite kludged to its prey – still gives him nightmares up to this day, 101 years later, and if one could make it a thousand, he would only feel the loneliness and tiredness growing larger.
The suffering he had to put up with was intolerable as the mark tested his organism to its limits, almost making him fall to his knees, while he grunted in pain, the sweat, and the long-lasting screams. Now that he thinks about it, his last breath as a human being was wasted in agony and convulsion, nothing properly positive came from the handprint that ghostly wicked witch had left on him more than a century ago.
Perhaps it would be a different scenario if he thought about it the other way around, right? Once he completed the ritual, he no longer felt the horrifying pain and, certainly, he became stronger. Nevertheless, the demons, they were there. Those bloodsuckers can never leave him completely, can they?
His hand, still covered with red liquid, grabbed the cup, and brought it close to his lips. At least he can drink liquor, that is, the richest pleasure for both humans and creatures. The substance enters this throat quicker than expected, so he uses his other hand to manipulate the wind element, boringly moving the wooden, black pieces of the chess, so he may find some temporary amusement.
