Blood Between Your Knuckles | Cass [Blitz]
Sept 14, 2012 11:22:03 GMT -5
Post by Tattletale on Sept 14, 2012 11:22:03 GMT -5
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.// learna antiopa libertine
The Training Center was no place for me.
From the stripped walls to the marble floor, every surface of the building was scrubbed clean and free of grime. All traces of imperfection has been washed away, and so goes the human marks. Ever since I entered those double doors, a waft of a certain antiseptic smell ― like the ones in the finer hospitals ― rode right up my nose and attacked my lungs, knocking the air right out of them.
Seven little birds told me that places of battle, may it be for preparation or to the death, were never good areas to stumble into. But they were sparrows, while a lovebird cooed to me honeyed words of how the scarlet of her feathers were slowly fading away, how she missed to feel the droplets of blood― Her feathers were the kind of time-worn bright that you knew used to be so vibrant and eye-catching, while now life seemed to seep out ever so slowly. The bird was so beautiful, with her plume and songs, and sparrows were ugly anyway. It seemed like a good decision back then, when I was the wind and the souls were the birds, and they had to please and persuade me to 'please, Learna, blow this way and that, for I missed the warmth of this land,' but right now, with one hand on the wall to steady myself and a foolish attempt to sputter the offending smell (and in just a couple of steps from the entrance? Oh, you sweet, pathetic―), it was a bad decision altogether. Bad, very bad. Perhaps I should carry honey or corks inside my pockets and stick them inside my ears whenever I hear Lovebird's enchanting hymn, but then I realised there was no use when the song was inside me.
And further I went, passing the hallways and trailing my fingers on the cold wall. Artifical light bounced off the chrome platings, and I was reminded of how desaturated and flat everything was in this place of lone punching bags and silver weapons that glinted off in the distant station. My flame hair, the sound of my unsure footings paddering off in the hallway, it was unmistakably odd in where everything's precise and coordinated.
But I was too quick to judge.
[/color]From the stripped walls to the marble floor, every surface of the building was scrubbed clean and free of grime. All traces of imperfection has been washed away, and so goes the human marks. Ever since I entered those double doors, a waft of a certain antiseptic smell ― like the ones in the finer hospitals ― rode right up my nose and attacked my lungs, knocking the air right out of them.
Seven little birds told me that places of battle, may it be for preparation or to the death, were never good areas to stumble into. But they were sparrows, while a lovebird cooed to me honeyed words of how the scarlet of her feathers were slowly fading away, how she missed to feel the droplets of blood― Her feathers were the kind of time-worn bright that you knew used to be so vibrant and eye-catching, while now life seemed to seep out ever so slowly. The bird was so beautiful, with her plume and songs, and sparrows were ugly anyway. It seemed like a good decision back then, when I was the wind and the souls were the birds, and they had to please and persuade me to 'please, Learna, blow this way and that, for I missed the warmth of this land,' but right now, with one hand on the wall to steady myself and a foolish attempt to sputter the offending smell (and in just a couple of steps from the entrance? Oh, you sweet, pathetic―), it was a bad decision altogether. Bad, very bad. Perhaps I should carry honey or corks inside my pockets and stick them inside my ears whenever I hear Lovebird's enchanting hymn, but then I realised there was no use when the song was inside me.
And further I went, passing the hallways and trailing my fingers on the cold wall. Artifical light bounced off the chrome platings, and I was reminded of how desaturated and flat everything was in this place of lone punching bags and silver weapons that glinted off in the distant station. My flame hair, the sound of my unsure footings paddering off in the hallway, it was unmistakably odd in where everything's precise and coordinated.
But I was too quick to judge.
I went inside a room, and heard the only other sound of a blade slicing a fabric open repeatedly. It was none other than my tower of a brother, Kraken, who found pleasure in either making a dictatorial state whenever the pawn shop was placed in his responsibility for the day, or in getting quite too uncomfortable with a few girls. His eyes always followed their figure, usually in a hurry to get away from my brother's slimy hands, and I never understood the reason. But sooner, I found my eyes following each swift move that he makes, it gives the dummy one more fatal wound, and I had no doubt that it wouldn't have been anymore different than if it was a real, breathing person. There was unison in his limbs, and I was magnetized.
"Teach me how to fight."
I need no introduction; he'd know his sister.[/color] His young, brash, irrational little sister.[/justify][/color][/blockquote]
OOC -- [ Blitz thread, and this is kind of a blast-to-the-past plot idea No time to make a graphic lol ]
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