Thread: Shades of Gray

Sir, wait. Sir. Wait. Thomas stopped. His face firmed part of him, a large part, wanted to swirl around and snap at the woman for her volume. Calling to him! Now, as they made their escape! Normal voices were more than fine. Granted, it was likely they were too far for anyone to pick up on even shouting now, but just in case. Just in case. Search parties were not some unheard of thing. But she continued on. He stopped, and when he turned, seeing the quiet tears painting those soft, feminine cheeks, Thomas' entire body relaxed beneath the robe. His face returned to a cool, calm composure. He regarded her silently while she sobbed, paying attention to both Caroline's words and to how she said them. When she was finally done, his response was a simple one. No. Thomas' light blue eyes fixated on her face, specifically on her own soft orbs. His tone he spoke with was gentle, even if the words were unerringly firm, I understand the severity of what it is you request. You do not, Miss Caroline. ...To come with me is to be accomplice to me, and in time, inevitably recognized as such. And I could not entrust where I stay or how I get there to anyone who is not brimming with resolve as to my cause. You know so little of me, dear one. What is the worst you have achieved in the ivory tower of your birth? Stolen dessert before supper? Ridden your father's horse instead of your own? When I say that I am a murderer, I say that only as an introduction as to the sins I commit. They grow more terrible from there. Pausing for a breath, he continued that gaze right into her eyes, his steely cool expression somehow managing to be both firm and soft at the same time, To follow me is to abandon the light, it is to strut through the gates of Hell with a swagger in your step. It is to damn your soul eternally, in hope of what you might achieve before your earthly body finds its end - and that end is ensured to you, with the only questions being how soon, and how painful. Tied and set aflame, claimed to be a witch. Hanging by the gallows, or a trip to the guillotine's basket. Torn apart by horses, or the tried and true method of simply being hit with rocks by a swarm of peasants until your body twitches in response no longer. Vivisection, he continued after a moment, reanimation, murder, heresy, human experimentation... I have killed children. I have killed young women, very much like you, and I have killed men of all ages. Why? For this, as a hand reached into a deep side pocket of the robe, pulling forth a small vial of light green liquid. It is still far from incomplete. Weeks...decades. It is possible I might not even reach the end of my research in this lifetime. I am trying to cure death itself, Miss Caroline, and there are days where I feel tantalizingly close , those last words spoken with a soft, sad sort of excitement. His fingers enclosed around the vial. This research requires terrible acts, but by killing handfuls of people, of bad people, of only hurting the bad ones, I can do some sort of good. They call it the devil's work, but here! This! The enclosed palm raised slightly. Here are results! If I know sleep one out of every three haunted nights, then that is a good week, but this, this right here...I cannot cure those who are already dead, or whose bodies are plagued with ailment, not yet. But this concoction I've developed, he said excitedly, his face bright now with a smile, it temporarily increases the body's natural regeneration a thousand fold. Maybe ten thousand? Maybe fifty. It will close any recent wound, potentially saving the life of the injured who drinks it. In time, maybe I can cure sicknesses. In time, maybe even resurrect the dead... But, for now, I am a murderer, sought fervently for my gruesome, bloody, gore-filled experiments. And even were I to succeed, I believe my soul would still have a place waiting for it in Hell, as would any who chose to knowingly aid me. That is not quite everything, but it is most...so now you know why they call me 'necromancer.' Thomas reached his free hand into his robe. A short, slender blade shimmered with what moonlight peeked through the trees as he pulled it forth, the very sight of the weapon holding a regal sort of bearing. Two feet in length from tip to end, perfectly polished, Thomas tossed the cross-hilted short sword to her feet, its tip easily embedding some into the dirt. This is to be yours. It is my gift to you, and you may do with it as you wish, though if I may, I would like to offer two possible suggestions. His hands tucked into his robe. With a face that seemed unerringly calm he continued looking to hers, all this time. Consider the things I have said, and the choice you have before you. What road do you take, Miss Caroline? Will you swear an oath to me, all official-like? Speak your name and abandon your last, just as I did when I set out on this all, estranging yourself from your family and all that you know? Will you willingly become some heretic witch to the people and condemn yourself to Hell? I can do this without you. You do not need to traverse this path if it terrifies you. But, if you still wish to, after hearing all that I have said, Thomas pausing to take in a slow breath through his nose, then make your oath, and take to your knees before me. Then, take your life. Your throat. Your heart. Your abdomen. Whatever you have the courage for, if you indeed have courage enough to walk this dark path without looking back. ...If you do not, then simply keep the weapon. It is a gift, as I have said. It is also pure silver, which should sell for roughly thirty gold. That is enough to clothe yourself, supply yourself, buy yourself a horse and probably manage a month or two of food and lodging. There's a new life waiting in that blade, little one. Two new lives. But, you can only have one.