The snowy wind lashed out violently today, as if the Great Spirit Himself spurned the idea of any sane person heading out into the Drifts. The icy storm gales cut deep into my skin, sending rapier-thrusts of pain skittering through my nerve endings. My joints had frozen to the point that each movement brought with it the creaking, groaning sounds of my bio-muscle tearing itself apart. Each breath made it feel like a great beast had its claws embedded deep in my lungs, lacerating the tissue slowly but surely.
I must be mad -- that is the only rational explanation for why I'm putting myself through this frozen exercise in suffering. There must be something fundamentally wrong with me which pushes me into such masochistic acts as this. My brain spent the first two hours of my trek through this blizzard screaming those facts at me, begging me to renege on my vows, strike camp and head back to the warmer wastelands of Po-Koro. What a luxury it must be, to be able to listen to simple things like reason or logic. I foreswore such things the first chance I was given.
It's the same with regret; I don't feel regret anymore. I don't have the time, the energy, the willpower to tear myself apart for my past sins. I realized it was waste to do that, so I don't give myself the chance to whisper "If only I hadn't..." or "Bless me father, for I have sinned...". Those are words, and they don't do anything to rectify the situation my actions have placed me in -- only actions can do that.
And that's why I'm out here in the Drifts, putting myself at risk of collapsing and becoming a Rynekk-sicle.
I plod ever onwards through the thick, icy snow, no longer even wincing as the broken edges of the surface scrape my legs until they're raw and leaving a scarlet trail behind them. Hate, one of my last emotional states, burns like a waxy candle -- slow and constant -- pushing me further and further into this white blanket of death. Hate for the Makuta, hate for the Great Spirit, hate for this island, hate for the malice between villages, hate for Stendhal, hate for my guilt, hate for myself... that is my fuel. That is my identity.
With herculean effort, I crane my neck to check the surroundings, noticing the dark, jutting crag of rock ahead of me with stony dispassion, filing the information away with no more care than if I noticed a dead animal on the side of the road. I didn't stop moving, but the ghost of an effort, I sent a signal into the mask adorning my face. Within a moment, I was nothing more than a dark streak across the white landscape, marring the scene like a stripe of black paint on a blank canvas. Within another, I was standing before aforementioned crag of dark basalt, gazing into the shadowy, abyssal doorway carved into it.
I don't bother with a lightstone in this cave; even in the pitch-black, there's no way I could get lost in it. I mean, how many people have gotten lost in their own home. I know every nook and cranny in this place, the placement of each table and chair and vat and instrument. Every twist and turn was as familiar to me as the lines and wrinkles on the palm of my hand. I walk briskly to the end of the complex, barely even noticing the disrepair that this place has fallen into in my absence. I don't recall the former grandeur of the foyer; nor the gleaming piles of widgets lining the walls of the treasury; not the rows of shattered weapons and broken armour littering the trophy room. The cobwebs clinging to the obsidian idol of Makuta in my shrine lay forgotten; the residual stains of half-prepared chemical concoctions do not even enter my mind.
Only one thing matters to me in this place -- the last room. The room where the whimpers are; where the poor beasts begging for daddy to come back are. The breeding room. The room with the Parakuka.
I don't dare step into this one, but even in the door well, I can feel their own suffering radiate up like heat. Their grief, helplessness and rage pours out of these creatures; my "babies", who I had found and nurtured during my two months of madness, now writhed on the floor, all in various states of starvation and death. I can practically hear them begging for help from me, pitiable sobs emanating from their chitinous shells. For one earth-shaking moment, I feel a sense the parallels between me and them -- both creatures of the Makuta, now free and purposeless. I briefly wonder if I could even call myself superior to the Parakuka before me.
But that moment passes as quickly as it came.
I raise one hand, and watch coldly as the stone ceiling above these wretched slugs collapses. There's no other movement in my body, unless you count the slightest twinge in my heart. But like all things, that passes too.
I invert my previous path, and quicken my pace to avoid the rain of basalt which follows me. My gaze and my focus are centred solely on the exit as my dabbling in alchemy is rendered useless, my temple of shadows demolished, my prizes of victory wiped from existence and my riches returned to the earth. Without even a scratch to mar my image, I step back into the blizzard conditions of the Drifts, stoically enduring the wave of dust and grit which washes over me -- the last remnants of my old life taking refuge in my pockets and clogging my joints.
A small smile graces my face, and my shoulders rise just a little. With the ghost of an effort, a halo of brown light surrounds my mask and within a moment, I'm gone from this world of ice again.
OOC: Rynekk Simul to Po-Wahi.