Good old Gil was enjoying retirement. And by enjoying, this meant his eyes opened to the thick crust of dirt resting on his brow.
The first breath of resurgence translated into a deep coughing fit. The world swirled around him. A canopy of trees above. Their looming branches clawing as they swirled as though reaching out to touch him.
How much time had passed? What was the last thing he remembered?
Oh, death.
Gildarts brushed off the thick layer of brush on him, loose soil had half-covered him. How long have I been out? His groggy mind echoed the most convenient thought.
A stint of fear prickled in him at the thought as his eyes crept slowly down to his lifeless arm. His brown eyes rested there, gaging the time that had elapsed by the deterioration of rusted metal that was his missing limb. The once magically-laced, perfectly formed metal to his skin was no longer strong and fit for battle.
Like him, it had withered and aged.
The orange, sandpaper textured metal crumpled into a fist as he regained his magic through the dextrous metal. Like sewing him back together, he did the same for his hollow leg. As he regained his sense of self within his body, a pang of bristling sensation shot through him. He winced, grasping his flesh hand toward his back.
As he continued through the motions of rebirth, he gulped, feeling the absence of saliva on his tongue. He felt this rebirth deeper than all the rest. Something must’ve kept calling him back. Or else he’d have stayed dead.
Whatever magic pulsed within him, he answered for himself. Was his reason for life.
It made a little sense, his magic must’ve been slumbering within him. Much like a coma, resorting to just keeping him in stasis until the time was right for him to return. Or until something stirred him awake.
Pieces of logic came flooding back to him. He eyed his good hand, stained with brown dirt, noting the dry wrinkle of age on his skin.
The mage sat up fully and looked down. He hadn’t been buried in a suit and tie, at least. He grunted to himself in a pleased smile and looked down. The bandages that had once held the pieces of his scars intact, were now too withered to be anything but threads died with the yellow tinge of age.
His eyes glided down at the reminder of the old wounds carved into his flesh. His muscles had stayed plump. Must’ve been his magic, he rationalized. The shorts covering his waist down were completely frayed, moths had carved tattered holes in it.
Nothing he wasn’t used to. Scraps of clothing were his thing.
Gildarts grunted gathering the strength to hoist himself off the ground. He came to his knees and pressed up against the gravity that had once served him so well.
His head pounded, his ears rang, shadows formed around the corners of his eyes as he grew faint with the suddenness of his moment.
As the objects around him grew still, his tender gaze rested on a piece of wood propped into the ground above the partial hole he’d dug himself out of.
The etched wood that once towered above his supine body. Timestamped with fresh moss and the assortment fungi. The veteran noted the paleness of the stained dead wood and its distinct lack of life.
Was this… A grave?
Was this his grave?
The man was still too woozy, he found his hand reach out, leaning against the grave’s stability as he caught his breath. Air revitalizing his lungs. Still desperately heaving overhead, his eyes made out the word, “Stranger” marked on the grave. Whoever had taken the time to dig it hadn’t left it blank.
“Am I back from the dead?” How long have I been dead? His eyes wandered, seeing a set of footprints the same size as his imprinted in the ground. There was a magical sense to this…
Following this sense, Gildarts knelt to touch the indent in the ground. However, the indent was flat.
Illusion magic? Gildarts questioned himself. No. This is the magical trace of something I’m inextricably bound to.
Whatever it is. He knew it wasn’t good.
The first breath of resurgence translated into a deep coughing fit. The world swirled around him. A canopy of trees above. Their looming branches clawing as they swirled as though reaching out to touch him.
How much time had passed? What was the last thing he remembered?
Oh, death.
Gildarts brushed off the thick layer of brush on him, loose soil had half-covered him. How long have I been out? His groggy mind echoed the most convenient thought.
A stint of fear prickled in him at the thought as his eyes crept slowly down to his lifeless arm. His brown eyes rested there, gaging the time that had elapsed by the deterioration of rusted metal that was his missing limb. The once magically-laced, perfectly formed metal to his skin was no longer strong and fit for battle.
Like him, it had withered and aged.
The orange, sandpaper textured metal crumpled into a fist as he regained his magic through the dextrous metal. Like sewing him back together, he did the same for his hollow leg. As he regained his sense of self within his body, a pang of bristling sensation shot through him. He winced, grasping his flesh hand toward his back.
As he continued through the motions of rebirth, he gulped, feeling the absence of saliva on his tongue. He felt this rebirth deeper than all the rest. Something must’ve kept calling him back. Or else he’d have stayed dead.
Whatever magic pulsed within him, he answered for himself. Was his reason for life.
It made a little sense, his magic must’ve been slumbering within him. Much like a coma, resorting to just keeping him in stasis until the time was right for him to return. Or until something stirred him awake.
Pieces of logic came flooding back to him. He eyed his good hand, stained with brown dirt, noting the dry wrinkle of age on his skin.
The mage sat up fully and looked down. He hadn’t been buried in a suit and tie, at least. He grunted to himself in a pleased smile and looked down. The bandages that had once held the pieces of his scars intact, were now too withered to be anything but threads died with the yellow tinge of age.
His eyes glided down at the reminder of the old wounds carved into his flesh. His muscles had stayed plump. Must’ve been his magic, he rationalized. The shorts covering his waist down were completely frayed, moths had carved tattered holes in it.
Nothing he wasn’t used to. Scraps of clothing were his thing.
Gildarts grunted gathering the strength to hoist himself off the ground. He came to his knees and pressed up against the gravity that had once served him so well.
His head pounded, his ears rang, shadows formed around the corners of his eyes as he grew faint with the suddenness of his moment.
As the objects around him grew still, his tender gaze rested on a piece of wood propped into the ground above the partial hole he’d dug himself out of.
The etched wood that once towered above his supine body. Timestamped with fresh moss and the assortment fungi. The veteran noted the paleness of the stained dead wood and its distinct lack of life.
Was this… A grave?
Was this his grave?
The man was still too woozy, he found his hand reach out, leaning against the grave’s stability as he caught his breath. Air revitalizing his lungs. Still desperately heaving overhead, his eyes made out the word, “Stranger” marked on the grave. Whoever had taken the time to dig it hadn’t left it blank.
“Am I back from the dead?” How long have I been dead? His eyes wandered, seeing a set of footprints the same size as his imprinted in the ground. There was a magical sense to this…
Following this sense, Gildarts knelt to touch the indent in the ground. However, the indent was flat.
Illusion magic? Gildarts questioned himself. No. This is the magical trace of something I’m inextricably bound to.
Whatever it is. He knew it wasn’t good.