shoot me down /but i get up/ -Stare!Blitz-
Feb 13, 2014 1:32:29 GMT -5
Post by ᴥ on Feb 13, 2014 1:32:29 GMT -5
The third element
Does, Says, Thinks, Hears
Does, Says, Thinks, Hears
The metal hilt of a blade, becoming so familiar within my grasp, clatters to the floor. A foot, tightly wrapped in a heavy boot, sends it sliding with a loud screech. The common rumble of the training center remains undisturbed by the racket.
The frustration boiling within has become nothing less of overwhelming. My death approaches with haste, no amount of training could prepare me for the arena, for the trauma that would ensue. How could I, when these dummies which my blade devoured, were nothing less than that. Imitation, second best to the real thing. Could I really attack someone with such ferocity? Could I sink my blade into their skin and watch the ruby droplets flow without purging the precious food that lay in my gut?
I could never stand blood. The metallic smell made me nauseous, the unnatural hue made my skin crawl. For years since my birth, I would run from the liquid. I would jolt from the room with haste in an attempt to keep down my stomach's contents. Now the blood will be as common as wine. Leaving me with an ultimatum, refuse it, refuse life, or hold my nose and drink up.
How could I not choose the latter?
I'm not coming out of this alive. The moment that gong sounds it's a cruel countdown until my cannon sounds. But I'm not going down without a fucking fight.
A girl stands out. Stormy eyes stick to her, almost drawn to her, in complete paralysis. I'd heard her name, of course I had. My nightmares retraced all the names plucked from that glass bowl. I couldn't stand to match the names with the faces. Names gave them an identity, it was much easier to kill a man with no name, with no attachment. But her name hits me, with a fierce kind of urgency. (Sav.)
I approach her, a cocky grin traced across my lips. (All an act, I promise). "I'm Lyric Woulf"
The frustration boiling within has become nothing less of overwhelming. My death approaches with haste, no amount of training could prepare me for the arena, for the trauma that would ensue. How could I, when these dummies which my blade devoured, were nothing less than that. Imitation, second best to the real thing. Could I really attack someone with such ferocity? Could I sink my blade into their skin and watch the ruby droplets flow without purging the precious food that lay in my gut?
I could never stand blood. The metallic smell made me nauseous, the unnatural hue made my skin crawl. For years since my birth, I would run from the liquid. I would jolt from the room with haste in an attempt to keep down my stomach's contents. Now the blood will be as common as wine. Leaving me with an ultimatum, refuse it, refuse life, or hold my nose and drink up.
How could I not choose the latter?
I'm not coming out of this alive. The moment that gong sounds it's a cruel countdown until my cannon sounds. But I'm not going down without a fucking fight.
A girl stands out. Stormy eyes stick to her, almost drawn to her, in complete paralysis. I'd heard her name, of course I had. My nightmares retraced all the names plucked from that glass bowl. I couldn't stand to match the names with the faces. Names gave them an identity, it was much easier to kill a man with no name, with no attachment. But her name hits me, with a fierce kind of urgency. (Sav.)
I approach her, a cocky grin traced across my lips. (All an act, I promise). "I'm Lyric Woulf"
