Description
What could be taken for nothing more than walking robes reveals itself,
through a twist in its movement or a sudden shift in the breeze, as a man.
His hair is silvery and long, almost angelic, though completely neglected, it
is pushed back from his eyes and tucked into his long pointed ears. His face
could be quite handsome, a small perfect nose protruding above thin small
lips. But it is not ,beautiful. His skin may have once been darkened by the
sun though now is pale and almost faded looking. The ultimate gauntness of
his face and the way the skin seems to be pulled across his cheek bones till,
paper thin, only adds the absence of what might have once been elegant. His
eyes, a light blue in color with flecks of violet, could almost be considered
deep and yet, no, they may be the most empty eyes you have ever seen.
Constantly as he moves about whatever business his thoughts demand his
actions follow, something obscure seems to occur. Always he is moving items,
taking them, placing them, drinking, and eating, with his pale right hand.
Role
From Dust
Added Tue Jan 17 02:32:47 2006 at level 1:
Absence of light rides the skys. No, not the absence of light, merely smoke
so dark and black that it could be mistaken easily as such. They ride, they
ride so very hard and fast, not fast enough by the rising appendage of black
air that waves from a body of death and destruction. They ride fast and hard,
but they arrive too late for any. The bodies that are readily apparent have
obviously been hacked out by such fine weapons without abandon. That which
could not be cut, has been burned. Everything has been burned even many of
the bodies. What must be the head of this column of prestine knights mounts
his horse after a futile search for tracks and points to the west, further to
the west. The column turns and suddenly, almost carelessly, as though it has
been thrown for the mounted knights to catch. And then they are down, running
towards the rubble of a still burning building, collapsed on one side,
searching, desperately looking for the shrill yet near silent scream. And
then they have her, dragging her forth, naked and bleeding, burnt and
blackened, but breathing. She is covered in a spare cloak and the column
mounts once more, moving as quickly as it can in pursuit of what she said did
this. Of the black demons, the demons of night, white hair, shining blades,
death, they were death, they were death and they took from her everything.
Everything.
Flight, life.
Added Tue Jan 17 02:35:07 2006 at level 1:
They killed her!!!
Why did they do it?!?
Why did she let them???
Why didn't she run, stop, hide???
She made me hide.
I miss her already, I feel so cold, shivering
I can't
Can't be cold, can't shiver, can't make noise
They are still
Here
Still waiting, searching, wanting to take me
to
k
i
l
l
me
shhh, did they hear that? did they..
Make me, I will make me
I have to
to
....to
RUN!!!!!
Mending
Added Tue Jan 17 02:35:31 2006 at level 1:
Horrible would lightly describe the stench that proceeds a huddled, ragged
form. It moves almost as the dead would, if the dead could move of their own
accord. It moves, and those in its path shrink back in revulsion short of
terror. It moves on, down the alley, a man that moments before held himself
from spinning to flee looks back at the gross display of what must be a human
being wipes his brow and quickly hurrys down the street all thoughts of going
to market long forgotten. The end of the alley, it moves, here it stops. The
door, paint stripped and faded, bars its way. The sign, a faint rusty creak
dancing to your ears almost as though it rides the softest breeze, decorated
lovingly with a ring of herbs depicts an old woman with a curled cane. It
reaches forth with its right hand, almost seeming to stretch from its very
being, and then begins to scratch upon the door. Gently and slow at first,
almost in a careful carring manner, a caress. This turns almost maddeningly
into a rush and flurry of movement, until what was so careful now leaves a
red smear in its wake. As the door is slowly drawn inward the monster, for
that is what it must be Yes? The monster notices the results of its
questing, begging, pleading, and demanding of entrance. It notices its hand
and is instantly something else. A stumbled step, the once barred entrance
has been conquered and He has moved inside. The door closes. The sounds,
lost. The sights, lost. The smell even fades. Does your memory, or It.. no..
His, memory fade?
A path?
Added Tue Jan 17 15:37:32 2006 at level 6:
Why does it matter?
They have left me, Were they even truly there?
I could ask myself where to turn, what to do, where to go.
But what would it matter?
It is, yes, it is myself now that matters.
Myself, and what I can...
Giving oneself to save oneself.
Added Fri Jan 20 11:02:32 2006 at level 45:
Echoes,, reverberation of sound bounced back to the sounder,, scream into the
night as he wakes, sodden from the terrors that bounce back to the forefront
of his visions. An absurd phenomena to ponder over let alone experience, the
echoing sights and sounds mixing, and yet such unravels in a sweet drenched
instant. Faint light feathers through torn rents that teasingly allow mother
nature to brutally assault any that might still be alive within, without
being too overly bloodthirsty in her wanton need to quell anything man hath
hatched. Sounds drift, the corner, there, a dark shape is huddled over
something, almost seeming to shake it, to smother it, what is it... and then
the accoster backs away and ragged breath is somehow ingested into lungs that
almost instantly vomit forth hacking coughs. It struggles to move, something
fastened to its left wrist making an almost forlorn clang as it pulls tight.
A promise of more dances in the violent ones eyes as he turns lazyly and
takes a few steps, as if to show that he is free and that he can, and the he
stops. Imprisoned and hopeless the chained form drops its head as if it has
finally given up, as if this has happened time and again sinking back as far
as he.. no, as far as the world can remember, no end, no beginning. And then
a rusted bend dagger bounces once and lazily spins on the straw covered floor
under his gaze and hope springs forth, a blossom unbridled the most fruitful
spring. His gaze lifts, time almost seems to stop as their eyes catch, and
then the most wretchedly wicked grin.. a knowing grin.. a teasing and
tormenting grin, splays across his torturers faces as he gathers the bread
and water that awaited his prisoner and tosses them to the far side of this
rotting cell. Eyes falling, ever so slowly, the imprisoned feels a chill rise
as though a shadow of a shadow has sunk into him, he watches the dagger
slowly begin to cease its sickening turn.
As realization dawns
....and the mithril clasp on his wrist once more begins to playfully burn at
his half heritage,
the dagger stops.
His vision blurs for a moment and then he blinks away tears that should not
be there, that have long since dried?
Clarity returns in all her grandoisely awful splendur.
Brown mold covered hay wastes away around a single tipless dagger that has
rusted and dulled with time.