gore descrip, mild//

Starre wheezed as the blade of the spirit passed through him for a second time, feeling ice-cold necrosis bleed into his skin further, biting deeply. He felt tired. He felt like he should go to sleep but he knew better.

This is a spirit.

He knew one of his daggers was supposed to be able to kill a spirit. Send it off to where it belongs, the astral plane. To find peace.

He reacted in spite of the pain, the dagger with the velvet-wrapped hilt buried quickly into the spirit's chest, Starre's fangs bared. This thing was a bitch, and he was Already not happy to be here. This was just, icing on the cake.

But it was a split second later and it felt like his skull was cracking open, but oh so slowly. One memory flooded into his head from this man - this… /thing./

Thousands of soldiers of Arendia were stuck in various tortures. Some impaled yards above the ground, still alive, still screaming and gasping in pain. Some held over fire pits, knives digging into tissue and fat to skin them while they begged and sobbed for mercy, for death. Some tried to fight. Some tried to run. All were shot down, cut apart, captured, mouths filled with hot coals, limbs slowly cut off while they screamed until they were unconscious, and skin branded over and over with marks painting them to be brutes, to be imperialistic beasts. He could feel himself in this brutish leader's body, and when he looked over, the still-bleeding head of a soldier - of /his/ fellow soldier - held by the hair in his hand. He felt him lift the head, giving a war cry, only for some sort of magic to bite into his back and for everything to go black.

Starre felt his entire body tiltshift, felt the colour completely drain from his face. One thought lingered from the feral leader. One thought stayed rooted in his head.
Iᴍᴩᴇʀɪᴀʟɪsᴛ sᴄᴜᴍ ᴅᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇs ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴇ.

His face burned, his heart was racing in his body, and he could feel tears prickling at his eyes. The thought stuck to his mind like rotten glue. He felt he deserved to die - he felt his entire /army/ deserved to /die./ The spirit grinned. Croaked out a smug word, "Mᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ﹗"

It was with his tail lashing that he'd cast a spell after light burst from behind him to poke little holes through its form, thunder echoing from where he once stood and repelling the spirit backward, protecting his platoonmates. His friends. Tʜᴇ ɪᴍᴩᴇʀɪᴀʟɪsᴛs.

He felt his magic warp, shift, surge unexpectedly, and he was flung a little further than expected. Turned back to see the wisp disintegrate. He didn't think, he just crumbled to his knees as he felt a shrub start to coil around his hand. Slowly. Encouragingly. The bird that lead the way here would flitter over and settle on his shoulder again. Nature returning to these dead lands and trying to press the impression he helped somehow.

He disagreed.

He felt nauseous. He felt terrified. That spirit was no man. That was a being well deserving its fate. And the images felt like they were burned in the back of his eyelids. All those soldiers. All their screams echoing in the back of his mind.

The feeling of dying.

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