Oh? [well, now you have his attention, eyebrows raising--at least it's distracting from the excruciating pain--though said eyebrows do suddenly drop again as he cringes, taking a moment to ride out the spasms, before he pants, sucking in air--then addresses another question in his direction]
[The corner of his mouth starts to twitch upwards a bit--which is about the time his stomach decides to cramp, hard and his lungs seize. For a moment, Osvaldus is left with his fingernails scrabbling on the table as he reflexively curls in on himself. Somewhere, distantly, he hears a clay cup shattering on the floor as he struggles to breathe.
For a moment, it's blind panic, mind scrabbling to find a solution, and he hears his mother's voice, her warm tones reciting the Mourner's Kaddish, the prayer for the dead--יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא--and part of him wants to lean into that, to the comfort of her voice. Distantly, he almost thinks he can hear the sound of the shofar; the Day of Atonement is not yet long gone and he can see the shape of the ram's horn in his head, the texture of the bumps and ridges when the rabbi allowed the children to touch it, of the curving question mark it forms when turned on its side, ever asking the all-important question:
"I alone am left, and they are out to take my life."
...no.
No, he won't let it be taken. Not yet. Tzadok ben Gilda, Osvaldus, clenches his eyes shut and pushes the panic to the back of his mind and thinks and pushes and refuses to let his lungs do anything now but expand--]
[--and there's a gasp of air as his lungs flutter and twitch; he coughs again, twice, and then sucks in a deep lungful, pushing against pain and cramping. He's shaking with it; with the sheer amount of focus he has to put into keeping his lungs moving, even as other parts of his body--his stomach, his legs, his shoulders--clench and spasm in pain.
Osvaldus's mouth hangs open as he pants, forcing his lungs to keep expanding and contracting for several long moments...before the symptoms start to ease. The cramping in his back lessens, and some of the tension in his body starts to seep out as he slumps a bit over the table, still forcing air into his lungs with each breath.]
[There it is, Enygma thinks, and he's ready for it. All he had to do was wait. But the waiting ends, eventually. It always ends.
He rises from his seat, scythe finding its way into his hand in one fluid motion.
This mortal got further than he should have. It's commendable. But no further, now, and they both know it. It's not harshly that he pulls back with the scythe, ready to end this before it gets completely unbearable.]
The mortal lives. Pushes through, keeps going, keeps going, breathes again, as if it's nothing. Except he knows it wasn't nothing. The effort this must have taken should be impossible. One cannot just will themselves into living.
[He's trembling. He can feel it as he starts to slowly release that tight hold he had over himself for a moment, all that energy now expelling.
Osvaldus slumps back down, breaths starting to become less labored. He coughs, again, forcing himself to slowly it up. He swallows, hard, lifting his head to look Death--Enygma--in the face, and manages a small curl to the corner of his mouth. It's the closest he can manage to a smirk.]
[He's staring down. Eyes just a little too wide to look aloof, even as he dismisses his scythe. And he just... gapes, for a moment, before taking a step back.]
...Further still, then.
[So be it.]
Very well.
[He takes another step back, cloak enveloping him, almost getting darker than the night.]
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In my defense, I was told that the poison was less strong than it actually is.
But I need to be able to resist it, or my plan won't work.
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Yes, yes, we'll get to that. But in the mean time, tell me more about you. [he props his chin back on his hand] How long have you had this job?
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I can see why keeping track would be difficult--much less superfluous.
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...I imagine I may have been something else, before that.
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Before humans?
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There are those older than I that would know better.
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There's simply so much time.
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Bored?
[As if the concept is foreign.]
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I don't believe I'm capable of any such feelings.
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[The corner of his mouth starts to twitch upwards a bit--which is about the time his stomach decides to cramp, hard and his lungs seize. For a moment, Osvaldus is left with his fingernails scrabbling on the table as he reflexively curls in on himself. Somewhere, distantly, he hears a clay cup shattering on the floor as he struggles to breathe.
For a moment, it's blind panic, mind scrabbling to find a solution, and he hears his mother's voice, her warm tones reciting the Mourner's Kaddish, the prayer for the dead--יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא--and part of him wants to lean into that, to the comfort of her voice. Distantly, he almost thinks he can hear the sound of the shofar; the Day of Atonement is not yet long gone and he can see the shape of the ram's horn in his head, the texture of the bumps and ridges when the rabbi allowed the children to touch it, of the curving question mark it forms when turned on its side, ever asking the all-important question:
"?מַה־לְּךָ֥ פֹ֖ה אֵלִיָּֽהוּ"
"Why are you here, Elijah?"
...Why is he here?
":וָאִוָּתֵ֤ר אֲנִי֙ לְבַדִּ֔י וַיְבַקְשׁ֥וּ אֶת־נַפְשִׁ֖י לְקַחְתָּֽהּ"
"I alone am left, and they are out to take my life."
...no.
No, he won't let it be taken. Not yet. Tzadok ben Gilda, Osvaldus, clenches his eyes shut and pushes the panic to the back of his mind and thinks and pushes and refuses to let his lungs do anything now but expand--]
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Osvaldus's mouth hangs open as he pants, forcing his lungs to keep expanding and contracting for several long moments...before the symptoms start to ease. The cramping in his back lessens, and some of the tension in his body starts to seep out as he slumps a bit over the table, still forcing air into his lungs with each breath.]
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He rises from his seat, scythe finding its way into his hand in one fluid motion.
This mortal got further than he should have. It's commendable. But no further, now, and they both know it. It's not harshly that he pulls back with the scythe, ready to end this before it gets completely unbearable.]
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The mortal lives. Pushes through, keeps going, keeps going, breathes again, as if it's nothing. Except he knows it wasn't nothing. The effort this must have taken should be impossible. One cannot just will themselves into living.
...
And Death looks surprised, then.]
...How.
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Osvaldus slumps back down, breaths starting to become less labored. He coughs, again, forcing himself to slowly it up. He swallows, hard, lifting his head to look Death--Enygma--in the face, and manages a small curl to the corner of his mouth. It's the closest he can manage to a smirk.]
I did tell you, friend. You're a bit premature.
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...Further still, then.
[So be it.]
Very well.
[He takes another step back, cloak enveloping him, almost getting darker than the night.]
Next time.
[And...
he's gone.]
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Death--Enygma--pulls his cloak around him, and leaves behind a promise.
Next time.
....well. At least that gives him time to plan for it.]
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