Whitter
hell is empty
and all the devils are here
and all the devils are here
Whitter stands motionless, silent, with a facade void of emotion. His mind had silenced as well; in this moment of reality, there was nothing but his soul (dark, withered) and the surroundings (cold, bright, revealing). It was perfection and nightmarish wrapped into a singular instant.
It was a supreme moment for Whitter, but he blinked the realization away. Profoundness exhausted the winter-ragged brute and he was not prepared to disintegrate into oblivion in lands he was not the least bit familiar with. To his mild relief, the scent of another invades his soft nares. Whitter drinks it in deeply. It is a woman approaching; he notes her sweet scent and briefly closes his eyes as a rush of delectation pulses through his being. It had been many a moon since his last encounter with a female, and as her grey body appears a thread of smugness threatens to tug at his lips. His icy eyes glance over her, finding it pleasing.
Her posture tells him she is unimpressed at his presence - as if he were a fly relentlessly buzzing at her crown. She approaches with confidence and Whitter continue to eyes her; he himself would not be sure what expression his face told. He was as still as the rock he stood beside. “Who are you?” The imperious woman started, her words entering the dappled stag’s sooty ears as birdsong. “Whitter,” he responds, simply, though boldly. His expression remains unchanged, but he continues to gaze at the brightly marked mare in a strangely macabre manner. He wondered what her vulnerable self looked like. “And what is your business in Loess?” An answer. He was currently in a land dubbed Loess. “To meet you, it looks like,” Whitter does not query the woman’s name, as pleased as he was for her to be near him, his cares fall into few categories that include others; names of pretty girls are not one of those.
His answer to his intrusion into Loess was slightly truthful, though completely impossible. He has never been here before, but it seemed as though something intended the instance to happen. At the thought, Whitter finally breaks his statue-posture to give his heavy skull a quick toss, as if to throw the vagueness of his thoughts away. His blue eyes land once more on the indifferent female - what did she want from him? “Why are you here?” An open ended question that the greyed mare could answer as she pleases.
It was a supreme moment for Whitter, but he blinked the realization away. Profoundness exhausted the winter-ragged brute and he was not prepared to disintegrate into oblivion in lands he was not the least bit familiar with. To his mild relief, the scent of another invades his soft nares. Whitter drinks it in deeply. It is a woman approaching; he notes her sweet scent and briefly closes his eyes as a rush of delectation pulses through his being. It had been many a moon since his last encounter with a female, and as her grey body appears a thread of smugness threatens to tug at his lips. His icy eyes glance over her, finding it pleasing.
Her posture tells him she is unimpressed at his presence - as if he were a fly relentlessly buzzing at her crown. She approaches with confidence and Whitter continue to eyes her; he himself would not be sure what expression his face told. He was as still as the rock he stood beside. “Who are you?” The imperious woman started, her words entering the dappled stag’s sooty ears as birdsong. “Whitter,” he responds, simply, though boldly. His expression remains unchanged, but he continues to gaze at the brightly marked mare in a strangely macabre manner. He wondered what her vulnerable self looked like. “And what is your business in Loess?” An answer. He was currently in a land dubbed Loess. “To meet you, it looks like,” Whitter does not query the woman’s name, as pleased as he was for her to be near him, his cares fall into few categories that include others; names of pretty girls are not one of those.
His answer to his intrusion into Loess was slightly truthful, though completely impossible. He has never been here before, but it seemed as though something intended the instance to happen. At the thought, Whitter finally breaks his statue-posture to give his heavy skull a quick toss, as if to throw the vagueness of his thoughts away. His blue eyes land once more on the indifferent female - what did she want from him? “Why are you here?” An open ended question that the greyed mare could answer as she pleases.