world war { love } / raven vs zombie reese.
Feb 26, 2018 14:38:38 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 26, 2018 14:38:38 GMT -5
I’ve never accepted Ripred until yesterday, trudging through slush and snow, singing a plea to my feet to move, to kiss the frozen earth below firmly—and put a forbidden distance amid me and the misshapen horror.
Its stench turned my stomach into knots, so I clutched at it, a creaking movement of exhausted bones. The world was melting away as if it's drawn out of varicolored crayons that are exposed to flare—and are now beginning to thaw. Maybe, it was real — maybe it was illusory. Maybe it was a dynamic equilibrium of both.
The chatter-box made a noise — a constant sound that seemed similar to the echoes of a mantra, except it wasn’t draping my mind in serenity — it was sending my heart on somersaults.
Gabriel had left along with the others and I can remember the relief that bloomed like a flower within me. I’d promised myself that I would be a protector to them, a forest for them to find sanctuary within. A wall to shield them from the atrocities that the arena was so delicately enfolded in. Good company they are—Mercy and her ferocity, Gillian and her resemblance to Dove, my sister. Gabriel and his nine hearts.
But, somehow, our papered destinies had been written already and we’re bound to perish, forced to tear each other apart. I am bound to perish. I can already feel my body staging a rebellion against me—tired bones, a weak pulse and a bushfire in my lungs.
Spear dangling from a loose fist, I closed my eyes and clenched every single canines in my mouth. Then, I thought of shooting stars—and Caine—and the lilac-covered windowpane back at home—and Dove—and forests. A sea of forests; the echoes from their leaves whispered to me: run, Forrest, run.
And, I do.
The snow unfolds ahead of me, an ivoried expanse, and the twin moons haven’t faltered since the start, dangling above. What symbols are they, I wondered. Desolate planets guarding a lonely universe. They looked out of place, like us. Yet, as I treaded aimlessly, a solitary part of me started to appreciate their silvery company. The chatter-box thought better and refused to trail along—and it’s replenishing to breathe pristine air again.
But, there’s no moment for rest.
The silhouettes dancing in the shadows—dark movements that showed impending danger brightly—forced me to pick up a faster pace. There’s no safety net here, only chasms that devour when you least expect it. In a way, the arena has a distorted heartbeat of its own.
They were a mile—or a lifetime—away. Gillian stumbles through snow and throws her hands around me; the contrast in height don’t halt me from mimicking her. ‘I missed you.’ I winched at the syllables because Dove used to echo the same string of words—before she did not anymore. But, giving burial to the lump in my throat, I make a flash of pearly whites. “Missed’ ya’ too, Gilly,” Brown circles rise to meet Mercy’s and Gabriel’s. “Mercy. Gabriel.”
Sundown comes delicately in hushed sounds. The bonfire crackles in mockery of us as we lay, sprawled around its fiery edges in exhaustion. Embers sway in the air and I see the fireflies back at Seven in their scattered yet cohesive nature.
But, before I could even hope for a wink of sleep, a holographic screen explodes—and I look skyward to stare.
The anthem plays, a glorified song for violence, and dead eyes flicker in and out of sight. A girl from Five. Vesper Daisy. C’rizz Moon. Ghosts that’d been pushed down their rusty caskets.
And, C’rizz Moon’s blood is on our fingers—skins turned scarlet. I remember the cannon and how it resonated in my bones like a wail. But, the burden of guilt isn’t bearing me down—there’s not even a trace of it. Maybe, I am what they brand a madman. Mercy and Gillian’s chitchat is a muffled pitter-patter of rain. Hoarse throat, a bruised tongue and a hollow soul; it’s not the proper demeanor for me to pass time through words.
Tendrils of exhaustion draw near: cocooning, veiling, and burying me.
Dawn blares in the sky, streaks of lilac and cotton-candy drawing away the curtained sleep from my eyes. I stir up to ashen smolders of our fire. There’s more crispiness in the air than yesterday—but the assurance of an effortless day is nowhere to be found.
Soundlessly, I roll to my sides and rise to feet. Mercy breathes beside me, a heap of tangled brown threads and scabbed skin, her eyes closed in slumber. She has a sheen to her posture. A war angel, I’d thought back then. An aura of scarlet bordering her. Lioness blood through her veins.
But, there’re no butterflies in my stomach. No shiver in the scruff of my back. No fire in my loins. I can even look away with ease. Maybe, it’s because we’re exhausted beyond reproach. Or, maybe, my body already has achieved immunity—because this crescent moon of a body had found its missing arc previously, on a silver rooftop, in the silken hands of a boy from Ten. Star-lighted prince. He’s my altar and I’m praying for redemption. I can’t drown it out, can’t end the perpetual replay of memories. They’re what give me illusion of a soul deep within.
Fingers fish down for what’s become an extension of me, the silver-sprayed ski pole, and through light crunches in snow, I stray away from the path. And, telltales have always stressed about this—those who stray, stumble upon wolves in sheep skin. For a serene minute, I’m alone with the hundred ghosts swarming around my crown of leaves—and they’ve become tamer over time.
But, a movement sounds from somewhere, beckoning tendons and muscles to rise. A figure comes, a face that would’ve spoken to me of Seven if his cheekbones aren’t as enunciated as they are now. Surreality mocks the surprise in my features, hisses at the temporary paralysis of my bones. A chaos of brown locks, dead eyes and dead hands—yet recognition flashes in my gaze.
Another forested—and fallen—prince of Seven. There’s only one for the throne. I won’t let mine be thrown into peril by his spear. The glow in his eyes lingers even in death and it appears sweet to my eyes. I paint Caine behind my eyelids, trapped in a posture that brings forth shivers up and down my spine—blood rising and plummeting like paper planes.
“Sorry’, you’re cute’—just not the cowboy type’ that I like.” I let the butterflies in my stomach carry my spear forward.
vkCFcgl8spear
Its stench turned my stomach into knots, so I clutched at it, a creaking movement of exhausted bones. The world was melting away as if it's drawn out of varicolored crayons that are exposed to flare—and are now beginning to thaw. Maybe, it was real — maybe it was illusory. Maybe it was a dynamic equilibrium of both.
The chatter-box made a noise — a constant sound that seemed similar to the echoes of a mantra, except it wasn’t draping my mind in serenity — it was sending my heart on somersaults.
Gabriel had left along with the others and I can remember the relief that bloomed like a flower within me. I’d promised myself that I would be a protector to them, a forest for them to find sanctuary within. A wall to shield them from the atrocities that the arena was so delicately enfolded in. Good company they are—Mercy and her ferocity, Gillian and her resemblance to Dove, my sister. Gabriel and his nine hearts.
But, somehow, our papered destinies had been written already and we’re bound to perish, forced to tear each other apart. I am bound to perish. I can already feel my body staging a rebellion against me—tired bones, a weak pulse and a bushfire in my lungs.
Spear dangling from a loose fist, I closed my eyes and clenched every single canines in my mouth. Then, I thought of shooting stars—and Caine—and the lilac-covered windowpane back at home—and Dove—and forests. A sea of forests; the echoes from their leaves whispered to me: run, Forrest, run.
And, I do.
-
The snow unfolds ahead of me, an ivoried expanse, and the twin moons haven’t faltered since the start, dangling above. What symbols are they, I wondered. Desolate planets guarding a lonely universe. They looked out of place, like us. Yet, as I treaded aimlessly, a solitary part of me started to appreciate their silvery company. The chatter-box thought better and refused to trail along—and it’s replenishing to breathe pristine air again.
But, there’s no moment for rest.
The silhouettes dancing in the shadows—dark movements that showed impending danger brightly—forced me to pick up a faster pace. There’s no safety net here, only chasms that devour when you least expect it. In a way, the arena has a distorted heartbeat of its own.
-
They were a mile—or a lifetime—away. Gillian stumbles through snow and throws her hands around me; the contrast in height don’t halt me from mimicking her. ‘I missed you.’ I winched at the syllables because Dove used to echo the same string of words—before she did not anymore. But, giving burial to the lump in my throat, I make a flash of pearly whites. “Missed’ ya’ too, Gilly,” Brown circles rise to meet Mercy’s and Gabriel’s. “Mercy. Gabriel.”
Sundown comes delicately in hushed sounds. The bonfire crackles in mockery of us as we lay, sprawled around its fiery edges in exhaustion. Embers sway in the air and I see the fireflies back at Seven in their scattered yet cohesive nature.
But, before I could even hope for a wink of sleep, a holographic screen explodes—and I look skyward to stare.
The anthem plays, a glorified song for violence, and dead eyes flicker in and out of sight. A girl from Five. Vesper Daisy. C’rizz Moon. Ghosts that’d been pushed down their rusty caskets.
And, C’rizz Moon’s blood is on our fingers—skins turned scarlet. I remember the cannon and how it resonated in my bones like a wail. But, the burden of guilt isn’t bearing me down—there’s not even a trace of it. Maybe, I am what they brand a madman. Mercy and Gillian’s chitchat is a muffled pitter-patter of rain. Hoarse throat, a bruised tongue and a hollow soul; it’s not the proper demeanor for me to pass time through words.
Tendrils of exhaustion draw near: cocooning, veiling, and burying me.
-
Dawn blares in the sky, streaks of lilac and cotton-candy drawing away the curtained sleep from my eyes. I stir up to ashen smolders of our fire. There’s more crispiness in the air than yesterday—but the assurance of an effortless day is nowhere to be found.
Soundlessly, I roll to my sides and rise to feet. Mercy breathes beside me, a heap of tangled brown threads and scabbed skin, her eyes closed in slumber. She has a sheen to her posture. A war angel, I’d thought back then. An aura of scarlet bordering her. Lioness blood through her veins.
But, there’re no butterflies in my stomach. No shiver in the scruff of my back. No fire in my loins. I can even look away with ease. Maybe, it’s because we’re exhausted beyond reproach. Or, maybe, my body already has achieved immunity—because this crescent moon of a body had found its missing arc previously, on a silver rooftop, in the silken hands of a boy from Ten. Star-lighted prince. He’s my altar and I’m praying for redemption. I can’t drown it out, can’t end the perpetual replay of memories. They’re what give me illusion of a soul deep within.
Fingers fish down for what’s become an extension of me, the silver-sprayed ski pole, and through light crunches in snow, I stray away from the path. And, telltales have always stressed about this—those who stray, stumble upon wolves in sheep skin. For a serene minute, I’m alone with the hundred ghosts swarming around my crown of leaves—and they’ve become tamer over time.
But, a movement sounds from somewhere, beckoning tendons and muscles to rise. A figure comes, a face that would’ve spoken to me of Seven if his cheekbones aren’t as enunciated as they are now. Surreality mocks the surprise in my features, hisses at the temporary paralysis of my bones. A chaos of brown locks, dead eyes and dead hands—yet recognition flashes in my gaze.
Reese LaChance.
Another forested—and fallen—prince of Seven. There’s only one for the throne. I won’t let mine be thrown into peril by his spear. The glow in his eyes lingers even in death and it appears sweet to my eyes. I paint Caine behind my eyelids, trapped in a posture that brings forth shivers up and down my spine—blood rising and plummeting like paper planes.
“Sorry’, you’re cute’—just not the cowboy type’ that I like.” I let the butterflies in my stomach carry my spear forward.
raven attacks reese lachance / ski pole (spear)
vkCFcgl8spear
3056 -- Stabbed in Stomach -- 9.5 damage (spear) + 1.0 (strength station)
