Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20190114001113/@comment-30014014-20190210035802

"Yes...what path with you thread?" Prad's vision...darkens. His eye, situated to Jorge's side, remains untouched, dull in its gray.

His other eye, haped to Marcus' side, flushed in violet, possessed.

"That is quite the balance you've been presented to, poor little one..." His vision abstracts the sight of either. The titan of metal. The hound of war. Both, dissipated.

Instead, a reflection, before him. One of him sitting.

Prad.

Prad without his hood, saddened, but content, to taste the fruit of joy once more.

Prad, sheltered behind his shroud, yet sorrowful beyond relief, forever masked behind the blurs of a second layer. Armor.

Both of them. Gray. Violet. Split by the middle. Gazing back, each offering a facet of misery. Both speak "What branch will you thread?/What coin will you side with?"

The mirror collapses, showering the young man in reflections of his self, the two facets speaking over each other.

And then...him.

He gazes back at Prad, a mirror of likeness poised in the same posture, his eyes radiating alien light. Ancient light.

"Once again, you're at a threshold. Two facets of you watch back. Both from different planes. They wait. They see. Which will forget existence? Which will thread in misery?"

The man in the wall brings two lights from a hand. One of fire. One of lightning.

The serrated cup flashes brightly "This one speaks of goodbyes and farewells. A breath of contentment, for but a fleeting moment, akin to an ember seeking to cling to life, only to be snuffed out..."

The flame dies, choked by his hand, burrowed away. The galvanized hand sparks with violence "This one whispers disappearances. A goodbye that never came. A promise never made. A delusion never shattered, nonexistent. Forever masked from the world, faded without notice, like a bolt that only ever strikes once...."

The bolt breaks and crashes, its spark, gone.

The man in the wall flashes before the young man, his cold gauntlets implanted on his shoulder before a reaction can spurn out "Tell me...tell them...tell they...w̦͉͇̟̞̘͈h͍̬͙͔a̼̙̼͖͔̙t͕̤͙ͅ ̲̪̠f̧o͇̦̫͚̦l͚̹̼d͘ ̺̤̹͕͖̬w̡̞̲͚̤̬̮i̵l̶̲̯͔͎̺̞̤l̹̯͔͉̰̩͡ ̡̗̯̹y̵̹̼̯̗̱o̶̗̖u̧̻̰͎ ͕̭̫̯̥̫̭͜w̗̗̤a̭͔͢l҉͈k ̖͇̖͚̮͓i͕̱͉̳͈n͙͓̗?̣͓̠͘ ̸͉̺Ẁh̪̪̱̙̲̼a̗͖̣̭̤̯ͅṱ̞̪̪͔͚̝ ͔̥p͏͙̞͔a̻̩̹t̢̜̗̜͕̜̥h ̼̤͍̙͟w͎̟͇̫i̘̯̳͉l͖̭̤̫̙͍̤l ̷̪͖y̘̼͙͜o͉̭̲u͝ ͢t͉̻a͏̮̖̞k̵̞̱e̡?̹̫͕"

What choice had he? Both would result in suffering. Both, misery. A different slash of sorrow and solitude. He gazes back agt the man in the wall's empty sockets, bleeding in malice. He enjoyed it. Whichever the path he'd walk, pain would follow. Pain always followed behind.

"Misery...always follows..." His sight is returned to the material world. He...gone. Prad turns to Jorge, his eyes returned. A mixture of joy and sad merge in one voice "I might as well take the traditional armor. I've already entranched the path of pain..."