"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
A curious little rock, wrinkled in nature. A peculiar shade of turquoise. She had been traversing her favorite quiet spot by the lake. It always seemed so alive. And yet, she had never seen a soul. Hazel eyes stared out over the glassy water, concentrated on the tree line that was on the opposite bank. Quiet, but alive.
As if something lurked beneath the depths…
And yet, as often as she found her solace here in the mud, she had never seen a rock wash up upon the shore like this. It was so odd looking.
She peered down at it once more. Covered in a slimy sheen of pond scum. She kicked it, and it rattled a little. A dead thing. She liked dead things.
Looking around, she checked her surroundings to make sure that nobody was looking, and delicately picked up that odd turquoise rock with her teeth, and gingerly set it behind a rock. Her treasure trove full of dead things. And yet, she could show no one. For who likes a girl who is so fascinated by death that she collects its remnants?
The water ripples slightly, making a lazy lapping noise, as a lover caressing his partner’s skin. More than a child, and not yet a woman, Deathwish knows little of intimacy. Her mother’s ability to conjure death to whatever suited her whims had lain with her daughter, and her father’s ability with everything made her a bit odd to the other children; growing up alone with her odd quirks suited her just fine.
What she did not yet know was that she was a stunning beauty of lavender grey and deep hazel eyes, slim and muscular, with purple and silver threads woven into her hair. Athletic build, and tall, she would one day learn to command the dead things as well as she could command their hearts—with little more than a flick of her tail.
A coy little smirk rested upon her lips as she peered once again at her collection. Dead things.
something has been taken from deep inside of me; the secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see.
The sun is as bleak as it is blinding; its rays shrouded within the evening fog that has begun to settle in. Shedding its last remnants of light between dense, brittle branches, the sun begins its destined descent behind the mountain that looms off in the distance, leaving darkness in its wake. The fog does not stay at bay, soon weaving its way through the dense foliage and settling mere feet above the frigid forest floor.
Gently, it laps along the hardened lines of his muscled, scarred form, which scarcely moves within the shadows aside from the occasionally drawn out shifting of his chest as he breathes. Hardened with resolve, his piercing red eyes are the only source of color as a starless night has begun its descent, and soon there is nothing left to see but dried, fallen leaves and small, residual piles of snow.
A shallow breath emerges from the depths of his lungs, and a light cloud of carbon dioxide lingers before the darkened line of his mouth as the girth of his body presses firmly between two oak trees. A shudder follows the hardened line of his spine as he pushes forward, his powerful limbs parting brittle branches which bend and break easily against the obstinate lines of his massive body. The dry, brittle bark scratches at his skin, agitating the puckered, pink scars that mars an otherwise smooth surface of black, but soon he is released from the grasp of the prickling branches and exposed to a vast, open clearing.
Before him, a crystalline body of water, pristine and pure – so much unlike the rest of the land, which is still tainted with spilled blood, forgotten memories, and well kept secrets. A peculiar figure looms near the waters’ edge – dark in appearance and riddled with youthful curiosity, peering at something too miniscule for his roving red eyes to see from such a vacuous distance.
After an indecisive moment, his own inquiring mind relinquishes control of an otherwise stoic, disinterested façade, and quietly, he advances – thick, refined muscle moving seamlessly beneath the dark canvas of his masculine form with each step forward. Mere feet away, his burning, blistering gaze follows the gentle curve of her shoulder, down the length of her leg and to the small collection of .. things.
With a low chuckle, his voice (rough from neglect, rattling within his throat carves into the silence. ”I can’t say that I have ever seen anyone look at a rock like that before,” he muses. ”and I have seen a lot of things in my time. Why that one?”
wounds so deep they never show; they never go away. like moving pictures in my head, for years and years they've played.
03-21-2017, 01:50 PM (This post was last modified: 03-21-2017, 01:54 PM by Deathwish.)
Deathwish
im a DIY pioneer, they tryna get involved
She couldn’t have heard him coming if she tried. Little did she know, but the man before her had had more than a lifetime’s experience of practice in sneaking up on people. Deathwish, barely two years old, though born of power of her own, would only come into such abilities through practice and dedication—and being old. Like him.
And so, when he speaks to her, in that gruff tone… she startles. Deathwish jumps back, her look anything but friendly and open, and on instinct, she wills the flesh on his body to begin rotting away…a state that only lasts for a few seconds as she collects herself and her ears rotate forward curiously and she restores him. His words croon to her, his voice graveley, and she is immediately embarrassed, though she does not allow herself to show any emotion. Grandmere would not be pleased if she did. Composed, serene, perfect.
And purple.
You will not embarrass the family.
Though her parents probably would not care what she did.
Cold perfection rests upon her face and she rolls her shoulders back and straightens her posture. Smooth lavendar grey pelt blends into the shadows, and she looks at the man, and at her rock, and back at him again. Abandoning her collection—with a silent promise to return and put them away hiden behind her rock again—she gives her attention to the man who had broken her reverie.
“It’s a dead fresh water clam that has washed up on the shore,” she croons dismissively, appearing far less interested in the mysterious little object than she actually was. She looks up at him, her gently curving body stepping forward to examine his body in what little light there was to see. He was so dark, except those scars… and those eyes. Her father had eyes like that.
So she took a step back, noting his sense of quiet power, and roved her eyes over his body. Those scars. “Did I cause those? I am… still learning.” she makes contact with his eyes again, trying to ignore the lump in her throat. “Don’t sneak up on me.” She coughs a little, and settles her features once again. Cool serenity. Nothing less than perfection.
