OoC: As I said before: I’m in a battle with Scott. *Passes out*

IC:
There was no darkness in this land. Long ago it had fled in terror.

Everything was picture-perfect, and lustrous valleys gave way to high hopes that knew not the wonders of the night. The only solace here was in the sun, because it was the only phase this world found itself in, perpetual-perfection. Such beauty was found only in this land, and there was no darkness, no black to stain it. Equilibrium had been flip on its edge, and had been swallowed by its own magnificence.

Standing upon a rock at the precipice of a cliff there was a figure. His eyes were closed solemnly, his hands folded behind his back. His shield lay on the ground, stained and bloody. His garments’ voluptuous folds cascaded down to his feet, which were bare and tattooed. His skin was pale, and intricate loops wrapped around his body, and they spoke of the darkness that no longer existed in this world. He boasted impressive, white wings that trembled at the slightest breeze, like instruments designed for the feeling of nature, not flight. Timaeus was the only balanced thing there, and he was out of place.

He contemplated.

The blue sky spoke of nothing but light, and the sun was an orange blot against the plain canvas. Vivid beams of thick light pierced through the air, tearing at the Demon’s skin, thinning the blood beneath it.

Timaeus could feel the emotions in this place, and all were hollow without darkness against which to compare.. The air was suffocating him, but he did not gag. He just watched with closed eyes, felt with numb hands. His hair was messy, tumbling in the wind.

Without opening his eyes, he gracefully stepped from the rock and lifted his shield into his hand. His eyes cracked open as he leapt from the cliff, hurtling towards the ground at an extraordinary speed. He did not flinch once as he spun slowly in the air, his feet smashing into the ground. Grass, dirt and stone were sent flying through the air, where they stayed only momentarily, before coming down upon the ground, crushing the flora beneath them.

Timaeus straightened himself, inhaling deeply. The breath came out calmly, yet Timaeus’ expression was exactly the opposite. His brow had deep trenches dug into them, and his eyes were worried. There was some beauty in the image Timaeus cast then, some handsomeness that belied a sinister, pain-wrought heart.

The Searcher could feel his thin blood slowly running through his veins, his soul tugged back and forth by the ebbing tide of his beating heart. He walked slowly, as if he carried some burden that was never intended for him. His heart screamed for battle, and his bloodlust soared. His eyes strayed to the horizon once more, before coming to rest on his shield, his only weapon and defence. He was encumbered forever by his love for war. It was his only desire and ambition. It was his only reason. Deep within him, always there would be a hunger unsatisfied, and he nurtured it quietly in the deep vestiges of his troubled soul.

The grass was greener here. The light was brighter. The taste was sweeter. All these exquisite things did not strike Timaeus as anything other than out of the ordinary. Glorious things existed here, but they were nought in Timaeus’ mind.

He walked a path rarely travelled upon by mortal feet. The grass on the ground stroked his feet soothingly, relieving him of some tension. The time he walked for was indefinite, and he knew not when it would end.

“And now, only battle shall alter my path,” he told the world about him, voice laced with doubt and concern. When will my path be altered, though? I shall find out some time. His thoughts echoed in his mind, bouncing back and forth, back and forth…

He heard the smooth movement of water nearby, and watched quietly the stream that flowed beside him, in no rush.

Silently, he cried. The tears were slow, and their bitter touch did nothing to stop the nauseating feeling that writhed in his stomach. It was a sharp moment, as those tears fell through the air, tumbling towards the ground. They shattered as they hit the soft earth, slowly absorbed to soon be forgotten. No more tears came.

He dipped his hands slowly into the cool water beside him, making sure that he still had feeling in his fingers. He was condemned to walk alone. Condemned to fight alone. Condemned to live alone. That was what war was about. That was what Timaeus was about. That was his life, and it was all he had left.

The world could shape him how it wanted to. But how he used himself was up to him. “I’m always going to be my own master,” he whispered, “For now, and forever.” Then, pathetically, he smiled.

The wind picked up, its gentle push and pull quickly evolving into a howl that tore up the dirt on the ground. Grass and earth was flung through the air, getting stuck in Timaeus’ hair, which danced with a rhythm of its own. Timaeus’ ears twitched, he looked behind him, and then upwards, but found nothing other than the perfection he found himself coming to terms with. His blood sang quietly, swaying through his veins. His grip upon his shield tightened, and he crouched.

He could feel it. In the soil, on the wind. He could taste it. That musty, familiar smell. It was a sound, too. The sound of his blood singing like a choir, his hand firmer on his shield, the sound of the wind in his hair, and it had a look. It looked like any world Timaeus found himself in, with him, exhilarated, in the middle. And he saw it in how the shine of Jeika’s blade was brighter. He knew battle. He knew it was coming.

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