JACK
Wherever Jack goes, wherever what's left of him exists currently, he certainly isn't staring down at Remi to watch him dither over sewing his soul back into his body. Not everyone flirts with death and speaks to ghosts on the regular, you know, and for the captain, this is an unpleasant first that cements itself right against the marrow of his bones. Jack dies without magic, without the strength to even spit in the face of his killer. He dies alone in his head. He dies afraid.
And he rages against it.
If there's peace to be found in Mort's halls, the captain wants no part in it, turning his back on the smell of the sea and the sound of a woman's sweet singing voice, as if he might shred the barrier between life and death by virtue of willpower alone. Heat flares against his chest and, though it's distant, he thinks he can hear voices. One takes the shape of his name, and he chases it like a man possessed, throwing the essence of himself into the ether to seek it out.
Gods, but he hasn't accounted for the lack of pain in death, or the way it returns tenfold as he rakes in a gasp of air, one that catches on all the blood in his throat. Gagging immediately and curling in on himself, the magic that detonates around him is entirely involuntary; frost shrieks out of Jack's body in an uneven ring, coating the forest floor and driving jagged spikes of ice into air that grows fiercely cold.
But the flare of power vanishes almost as soon as it appears (that's probably no bad thing), and though the ice and snow remain, there is nothing left in Jack to sustain it. He reels towards unconsciousness, all impotent fury and raw panic, but thoughts start to patter along the delicate strands of his telepathy. Ambivalence from the Bastion, protectiveness from the Knight, and Flora, all of Flora is there, and if that's the last thing he can grasp before he passes out, it's more than enough.
And he rages against it.
If there's peace to be found in Mort's halls, the captain wants no part in it, turning his back on the smell of the sea and the sound of a woman's sweet singing voice, as if he might shred the barrier between life and death by virtue of willpower alone. Heat flares against his chest and, though it's distant, he thinks he can hear voices. One takes the shape of his name, and he chases it like a man possessed, throwing the essence of himself into the ether to seek it out.
Gods, but he hasn't accounted for the lack of pain in death, or the way it returns tenfold as he rakes in a gasp of air, one that catches on all the blood in his throat. Gagging immediately and curling in on himself, the magic that detonates around him is entirely involuntary; frost shrieks out of Jack's body in an uneven ring, coating the forest floor and driving jagged spikes of ice into air that grows fiercely cold.
But the flare of power vanishes almost as soon as it appears (that's probably no bad thing), and though the ice and snow remain, there is nothing left in Jack to sustain it. He reels towards unconsciousness, all impotent fury and raw panic, but thoughts start to patter along the delicate strands of his telepathy. Ambivalence from the Bastion, protectiveness from the Knight, and Flora, all of Flora is there, and if that's the last thing he can grasp before he passes out, it's more than enough.
it's not your fault that you're always wrong
the weak ones are there to justify the strong
the weak ones are there to justify the strong
- Secret Telepath
- Functionally Immortal (Forever 35)
- Two small star tattoos beneath his left eye
- Click for The Ark!
