03-02-2016, 06:02 PM
lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all.
but lend me your heart and i'll just let you fall.
but lend me your heart and i'll just let you fall.
The buds were just beginning to the blossom with new life, and green threads of grassland were starting to rise up from where the soil had once been covered with a sheet of ice and snow. The sky would soon drench the land, nourishing it with its pounding rain, accompanied by its jarring thunder and startling lightning, but the lands were painted with the blood of the living and the dead. It would trickle, tainted crimson, across the blooming foliage - copper against the bright, youthful emerald of spring. A dreadful reminder of the brutality taking place.
The war had been inevitable. The tension in the air was thick, the air static with the electricity of loathing and hatred across unseen borders. The pressure had grown unbearable, finally breaking out into a battle of broken skulls, crackling bones and spilled blood. Though he had managed to maintain neutrality - he had few enemies, but the alliance between his dwelling and the Amazonians had potential to wreck havoc on the lives of himself and his brothers. He had seen rotting, bloating carcasses strewn about, their eye sockets barren and their limbs picked of their sinewy tendons and flesh by scavengers - many of their faces had been destroyed. Crush. Split. No longer recognizable.
The scent was overwhelming, enveloping the otherwise fresh, invigorating air in a sickly sweetness that only comes from death's salty embrace. Though he had once turned away from its grotesque reality, breathing in short gasps to avoid the invasion of his every sense, he had since grown numb. He breathed deeply, now unaware of the stench that had lingered for days - for months. He had never flinched at the sight itself; in a century of life he had seen much. Much carnage, much death, and this was not unlike those times. Though his body was still youthful, albeit scarred (grievously so), his heart and soul ached with a weariness that could only come from living far beyond what he should have.
The deteriorating masses only reminded him of what he could not have, and he tried often to forget that his existence was eternal. He did not want to remember, and so he pressed it to the very dark recesses of his mind, not allowing the gloom of winter nor the bloody, vile slaughter that surrounded him to draw out those morbid thoughts to the forefront. And so remained. Stoic, staring out onto the rather empty land. No one mingled now. They were too afraid; the shadows were the only remaining place of solace. He does not shy away, however, now standing as a towering presence of marred obsidian, stark against the flourishing meadow.
Suddenly, his flesh felt alight with fire - it was not often that he felt someone else pressed against him, and her abrupt presence stuns him momentarily. He had not heard her approach, nor had he seen her, but here she was. Her dark eyes spoke of pain, of suffering, and he remained still, his own crimson gaze boring deeply into hers. Searching. Though he could not read minds, he could empathize, and he could see beyond the mask placed by others. His many years taught him to trace the very details of a face; to listen to the breathlessness and pitch of spoken word.
He can feel her frantic puffs of warm air against his chest plate as she pleads him, but for what, he does not know. Her doe eyes search his, and in return, he swings his thick neck, peering around for the presence of another. Had she been chased? Attacked? Her brilliant mottled bay pelt was not stained with blood, and she did not appear harmed.
Finally he speaks, his deep baritone rumbling from deep within his chest.
"What is it? What hurts? What can I do?"
It was not often he felt helpless, but standing before her in all of his might and stature, he was not sure he had ever felt more so.
The war had been inevitable. The tension in the air was thick, the air static with the electricity of loathing and hatred across unseen borders. The pressure had grown unbearable, finally breaking out into a battle of broken skulls, crackling bones and spilled blood. Though he had managed to maintain neutrality - he had few enemies, but the alliance between his dwelling and the Amazonians had potential to wreck havoc on the lives of himself and his brothers. He had seen rotting, bloating carcasses strewn about, their eye sockets barren and their limbs picked of their sinewy tendons and flesh by scavengers - many of their faces had been destroyed. Crush. Split. No longer recognizable.
The scent was overwhelming, enveloping the otherwise fresh, invigorating air in a sickly sweetness that only comes from death's salty embrace. Though he had once turned away from its grotesque reality, breathing in short gasps to avoid the invasion of his every sense, he had since grown numb. He breathed deeply, now unaware of the stench that had lingered for days - for months. He had never flinched at the sight itself; in a century of life he had seen much. Much carnage, much death, and this was not unlike those times. Though his body was still youthful, albeit scarred (grievously so), his heart and soul ached with a weariness that could only come from living far beyond what he should have.
The deteriorating masses only reminded him of what he could not have, and he tried often to forget that his existence was eternal. He did not want to remember, and so he pressed it to the very dark recesses of his mind, not allowing the gloom of winter nor the bloody, vile slaughter that surrounded him to draw out those morbid thoughts to the forefront. And so remained. Stoic, staring out onto the rather empty land. No one mingled now. They were too afraid; the shadows were the only remaining place of solace. He does not shy away, however, now standing as a towering presence of marred obsidian, stark against the flourishing meadow.
Suddenly, his flesh felt alight with fire - it was not often that he felt someone else pressed against him, and her abrupt presence stuns him momentarily. He had not heard her approach, nor had he seen her, but here she was. Her dark eyes spoke of pain, of suffering, and he remained still, his own crimson gaze boring deeply into hers. Searching. Though he could not read minds, he could empathize, and he could see beyond the mask placed by others. His many years taught him to trace the very details of a face; to listen to the breathlessness and pitch of spoken word.
He can feel her frantic puffs of warm air against his chest plate as she pleads him, but for what, he does not know. Her doe eyes search his, and in return, he swings his thick neck, peering around for the presence of another. Had she been chased? Attacked? Her brilliant mottled bay pelt was not stained with blood, and she did not appear harmed.
Finally he speaks, his deep baritone rumbling from deep within his chest.
"What is it? What hurts? What can I do?"
It was not often he felt helpless, but standing before her in all of his might and stature, he was not sure he had ever felt more so.
OFFSPRING
@[jenger] - sorry for the wait, he needed new HTML. :| <3 hahah.