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[4e] Fallen - Prologue: The Crucible (Full)
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<blockquote data-quote="Kobold Stew" data-source="post: 4951165" data-attributes="member: 23484"><p><strong>Crucible Challenge IV</strong></p><p></p><p>When Pirx first was captured, he was not surprised that any of the brood were being spared. He should have been, but his mind was on his hand. The tendon had been cut, between his first and second thumb, slashed as a blade came down on him, and he had had nothing else with which to defend himself, save for his hand. </p><p></p><p>Beneath the arena, it didn’t heal well, and as pus and blood clotted the stench from his swollen fetid fist continued. His grip was gone, as was any fine motor control. It itched and he scratched away the fur, and pulled at it with his teeth even though that brought the reek closer to his nostrils, sharpened with his hunter’s training. He would never hold a bow again, he was sure. </p><p></p><p>Stopping the bleeding was fine, but it was clear to any with eyes or a nose within those cold stone walls that the hand wasn’t healing, the tendons and ligaments were fusing wrong. The goblin’s hand was rotting. Even holding a stick to drill for bugs in the dirt walls was more than Pirx could comfortably tolerate. Had Thorgil not found him, taken pity, and – unexpectedly -- rebroken his hand, Pirx would now be dead. Instead, Thorgil took him to one of the gladiators (an elf, or half elf, Pirx recalls hesitantly, though at the time he was screaming in a lot of pain) and coaxed a healing spell from him (a cleric or paladin, then, Pirx deduced later). Had he not done this, Pirx would have lost the hand completely. </p><p></p><p>Pirx learned gratitude that day, though he only ever thanked Thorgil, and not the dimly remembered figure who actually healed him. But he also learned what he fears most. </p><p></p><p>Every time Pirx looks at his hands and sees that scar, he summons an image. The image is of him, in a room, staring at his two wrists, ending in stumps. He stares in amazement at what simply isn’t there. He wants to bite away at the nuisance, but he can’t. His hands are gone (not cut off and bleeding but apparently cauterized, healed), and time slows because Pirx knows now he is nothing. No one keeps a goblin around for his conversation. Pirx is a professional hunter, but he can barely balance himself now were he to lean down and smell for tracks. No touch – the sensation of his long elegant fingertips is a memory. And above all, Pirx is an archer. As the goblin looks at the stumps, he sees the bow that isn’t there. A goblin’s grasp may be, proportionately, the strongest of all the humanoids, and some goblins have been known to weigh no more than fifty pounds but still have the grip strength of the mightiest dwarf. That’s not Pirx, of course, but nothing is now – no fingers, no thumbs, no hands, no touch, no fur on the back of his hands to be warmed by the setting sun at the end of a very long watch. And the absent grip fails to hold the bow Pirx now imagines lying vainly on the ground. Pirx screams in his image, though the image stays silent. No means to climb or to scramble or to guide his eyes as he would try to read a map or a scroll. And no archery. No means to defend the brood back when he still had a brood and no means to defend himself now when he needs to. All that is gone, in Pirx’s imagined vision of himself. There is simply him, staring at his hands, and trying to think of a way to kill himself if only he could open that door. </p><p></p><p>A goblin might fear many things, but this wee one appreciates terror. Pirx knows what it is that he fears the most. And he has decided how he will end it all, if he should ever find himself alone in a room with no hands.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Kobold Stew, post: 4951165, member: 23484"] [b]Crucible Challenge IV[/b] When Pirx first was captured, he was not surprised that any of the brood were being spared. He should have been, but his mind was on his hand. The tendon had been cut, between his first and second thumb, slashed as a blade came down on him, and he had had nothing else with which to defend himself, save for his hand. Beneath the arena, it didn’t heal well, and as pus and blood clotted the stench from his swollen fetid fist continued. His grip was gone, as was any fine motor control. It itched and he scratched away the fur, and pulled at it with his teeth even though that brought the reek closer to his nostrils, sharpened with his hunter’s training. He would never hold a bow again, he was sure. Stopping the bleeding was fine, but it was clear to any with eyes or a nose within those cold stone walls that the hand wasn’t healing, the tendons and ligaments were fusing wrong. The goblin’s hand was rotting. Even holding a stick to drill for bugs in the dirt walls was more than Pirx could comfortably tolerate. Had Thorgil not found him, taken pity, and – unexpectedly -- rebroken his hand, Pirx would now be dead. Instead, Thorgil took him to one of the gladiators (an elf, or half elf, Pirx recalls hesitantly, though at the time he was screaming in a lot of pain) and coaxed a healing spell from him (a cleric or paladin, then, Pirx deduced later). Had he not done this, Pirx would have lost the hand completely. Pirx learned gratitude that day, though he only ever thanked Thorgil, and not the dimly remembered figure who actually healed him. But he also learned what he fears most. Every time Pirx looks at his hands and sees that scar, he summons an image. The image is of him, in a room, staring at his two wrists, ending in stumps. He stares in amazement at what simply isn’t there. He wants to bite away at the nuisance, but he can’t. His hands are gone (not cut off and bleeding but apparently cauterized, healed), and time slows because Pirx knows now he is nothing. No one keeps a goblin around for his conversation. Pirx is a professional hunter, but he can barely balance himself now were he to lean down and smell for tracks. No touch – the sensation of his long elegant fingertips is a memory. And above all, Pirx is an archer. As the goblin looks at the stumps, he sees the bow that isn’t there. A goblin’s grasp may be, proportionately, the strongest of all the humanoids, and some goblins have been known to weigh no more than fifty pounds but still have the grip strength of the mightiest dwarf. That’s not Pirx, of course, but nothing is now – no fingers, no thumbs, no hands, no touch, no fur on the back of his hands to be warmed by the setting sun at the end of a very long watch. And the absent grip fails to hold the bow Pirx now imagines lying vainly on the ground. Pirx screams in his image, though the image stays silent. No means to climb or to scramble or to guide his eyes as he would try to read a map or a scroll. And no archery. No means to defend the brood back when he still had a brood and no means to defend himself now when he needs to. All that is gone, in Pirx’s imagined vision of himself. There is simply him, staring at his hands, and trying to think of a way to kill himself if only he could open that door. A goblin might fear many things, but this wee one appreciates terror. Pirx knows what it is that he fears the most. And he has decided how he will end it all, if he should ever find himself alone in a room with no hands. [/QUOTE]
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