I have always had a passion for expressing my love of games in a more literary or story telling capacity. Inspired By will be home to my original writing that was imagined after playing a game that sparked an idea.
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The silence was deafening. It was the kind of silence that resonates in your ears and forces concentration. The silence affected each participant differently. To some, the absolute vacancy of noise left them in a state for inner thought and mental preparation. It was a chance to connect with some guiding force or higher being, in search of wisdom and protection. To others, it was painful. The silence stabbed at their consciousness and forced a recollection of the choices that brought them here. Regret was a doctrine that stained the air, leaving the stale taste of inadequacy after every breath. Regardless of the side on which one settled, to claim sanity would be a stretch of the wildest and most vivid imagination.
As seemingly endless as the noiselessness felt, it was an abeyance, waiting to be shattered like a pane glass window. It didn’t matter how seasoned he became. When those initial shots rang out above, he knew Death was inching ever closer, thirsting for his soul like a starved wild beast. While the thought of an unknown darkness stalking your every move, teeth and claws eager to maim may strike fear into most, it empowered him.
The embracing of his ultimate demise was energizing; liberating; maddening. He began to focus and felt a warmth cover his body, providing a healing blanket carefully infused with hate and rage in every stitch. Flashbacks of his past trials filled his mind. The faces and screams of those who had fallen under his deadly expertise returned with disturbing clarity. He breathed each in and let them fuel his rapidly hastening descent into outright insanity. Control lost, he surrendered to himself to the games.
As he dwelled in this state of preparation, the boorish opening of a door pulled him back into consciousness. Barely clinging to reality, he saw the familiar hulk of a man enter the room. The man was worn down and covered in blood but far from defeat. He wiped the gore from his brow revealing no mark or wound, signaling it was not his own. A hearty smile stretched across his face as he noticed he was not alone in the room.
The man barked something in Russian with an unabashed vigor that seemed to shake the luxurious wooden paneled floor. It sounded more like a growl than actual speech, but remained warm and familiar. He took a long swallow of the vodka left out on the counter and slumped down in the plush leather chair, full with victory.
“It appears you are up next my old friend”, the man said followed by another swig from the bottle. His Russian accent saturated his speech so that it each word dripped with his heritage.
Without reply, the original inhabitant of the chamber rose and approached the entry way. After taking his final step before exiting the room, he heard the Russian give one last sentiment.
“This is one hell of a Club, eh comrade?”
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