[Because it's pretty self-explanatory, too—and not something about which anyone just asks.
Sieghart opens his mouth to move on from the subject of memories when one of his own takes them by storm:
The ashen smoke and stench of burnt flesh choke your throat, leaving a rancid aftertaste, as you navigate the burning ruins of your second home. What was once a warm refuge attended by the kind souls of your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere like ragdolls. There are so many of them, yet nary a one so much as utters a cry while the fire claims their limbs. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, growing increasingly desperate as you call out their names, hoping against hope for a response.
You cough into your excoriated arm, damaged from a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. How long have you been in here now? If you don't hurry, you may collapse before you can get anyone out.
Your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Dropping to your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, with nothing but kindness in his eyes and who later accepted your nameless self into the fold as family, is gone.
Everyone is gone. The fire is just meant to bury what's left of them.
Ignoring how the same fire pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin, you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the immortal Highlanders? The question rattles harshly within your mind, piercing the deafening roar of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the pain in your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault. It's your fault—all of it. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—]
no subject
Sieghart opens his mouth to move on from the subject of memories when one of his own takes them by storm:
The ashen smoke and stench of burnt flesh choke your throat, leaving a rancid aftertaste, as you navigate the burning ruins of your second home. What was once a warm refuge attended by the kind souls of your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere like ragdolls. There are so many of them, yet nary a one so much as utters a cry while the fire claims their limbs. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, growing increasingly desperate as you call out their names, hoping against hope for a response.
You cough into your excoriated arm, damaged from a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. How long have you been in here now? If you don't hurry, you may collapse before you can get anyone out.
Your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Dropping to your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, with nothing but kindness in his eyes and who later accepted your nameless self into the fold as family, is gone.
Everyone is gone. The fire is just meant to bury what's left of them.
Ignoring how the same fire pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin, you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the immortal Highlanders? The question rattles harshly within your mind, piercing the deafening roar of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the pain in your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault. It's your fault—all of it. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—]