Vex (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vexingmesmer) wrote2021-04-08 06:37 pm
vexingmesmer) wrote2021-04-08 06:37 pm
[OOM] Survivor, sans guilt. [Post Season 2, Episode 21.]
As he left the Morrigan in a heap in the Red Cap's dive bar, Vex thought that he was probably going to pay for that later. Instead, he found himself locked into a front row seat for Garuda this and World Shaking Evil that, with ra-ra-save-the-world-ra being chanted among the Succubitch's Light Fae friends.
Vex was less enthused. All this pretending that this was about some noble cause, this fight for justice -- bollocks, top to bottom. They were fighting like any animal did before a larger predator. Grouping up, baring their fangs, pretending they had a chance. The Dark knew what was up -- those that hadn't fled down were living large, feeding heavily, having parties, and using stolen Barnacle Goose juice to get their freakiest freak on.
Vex was supposed to be one of them. Instead here he was, with Bo and her friends. This was not ideal. They hated him, and the Garuda fed on conflict. Not ideal, he kept telling himself. Not ideal at all.
The thing was: he didn't want to die. He'd spent nine centuries clawing out a place for himself, ripping his nails to the nubs to do it. He had stolen each year of his life, each precious day, knowing that someday, they would find him. Then they would kill him, and the mesmers would be no more. The last of his kind, with no progeny and no desire to sire any. But he still wanted another year. Another after that, too, and on and on until he was wizened and gray.
So he did what any survivor did: he did whatever it took, even if what it took meant sleeping on Bo's couch and tried not to think about tomorrow, or the next day, or the next -- or what he'd have to do to keep counting them.
Vex was less enthused. All this pretending that this was about some noble cause, this fight for justice -- bollocks, top to bottom. They were fighting like any animal did before a larger predator. Grouping up, baring their fangs, pretending they had a chance. The Dark knew what was up -- those that hadn't fled down were living large, feeding heavily, having parties, and using stolen Barnacle Goose juice to get their freakiest freak on.
Vex was supposed to be one of them. Instead here he was, with Bo and her friends. This was not ideal. They hated him, and the Garuda fed on conflict. Not ideal, he kept telling himself. Not ideal at all.
The thing was: he didn't want to die. He'd spent nine centuries clawing out a place for himself, ripping his nails to the nubs to do it. He had stolen each year of his life, each precious day, knowing that someday, they would find him. Then they would kill him, and the mesmers would be no more. The last of his kind, with no progeny and no desire to sire any. But he still wanted another year. Another after that, too, and on and on until he was wizened and gray.
So he did what any survivor did: he did whatever it took, even if what it took meant sleeping on Bo's couch and tried not to think about tomorrow, or the next day, or the next -- or what he'd have to do to keep counting them.