echoes of grace and stardust — th. vs av. [day 6]
Dec 1, 2018 15:37:55 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Dec 1, 2018 15:37:55 GMT -5
The halcyon night returns sleep to these creaking bones and when the anthem blares, abuzz with holograms and dead faces, I don’t stir awake for observations or laments. The intricately-laced bed of warm ferns cradle the boy as a mother’s soft arms would, but the dew on its blades remains cool to touch and I remain void of a mother’s presence.
There was not even a ghost I could meet in dreams – she existed through a nameless signature in the foster system’s yellowed, crisp papers and tales woven by other’s chatters. She was an ageless woman, some said, eyes belonging to Helios, smooth skin that could give bloom to squares and squares of calla lilies.
But, I would never know.
Even if I crawl out of this gory ordeal, battered like a bruised champion, I would never know her. And, I would not need to know her – not the veins of her hands, not the cadences of her song, not the contours of her face, not the warmth of her arms.
The moment offspring comes, with their toothless howls and cherubic faces, mothers lose a slab of themselves to the brood. Perchance, my mother gave refusal to that. I would too, in a heartbeat, and it’s a soft comfort to know the one resemblance we share.
Eyes flutter awake without dark hollows etched below them, the movement gentle as if weaved from a butterfly wing. I rise gloriously to a cool dawn and sordidly to the rotten stench that seems to have crept through each atom of air overnight. Nose disregards it as mere cruelty from the gamemakers’ behalf, a price for the slumber intact with rest, and a hand scurries towards the rhinestone satchel, checking to see if a wandering tribute looted it.
Now, the fingertips could translate the feel of each item I have collected to its names. Cold and slick means the spiked blunt, the red of oculin blood glassed upon its steel petals. Coarse means the spears’ texture of grain. Tender means the med-kit. After the items have been discovered in rightful places, the digits retreat back, near to where my firewood armor loosened, and with an adroitness, make it taut once more.
It’s near sunrise when the groundwork for the bloodshed ahead is concrete; the jar of tar has been replenished to its brims and spearheads are brushed against the friction of pale stones, made as deadly as venom.
But, before blood could stain these hands red, I perch my back against a palm-tree’s flesh and stare ahead as the colors of the new day, a mosaic of marigolds and cotton-candy, plume from behind deserted castles of ashen clouds. There is no refuting – it is a honeyed sight that sweetens the drifter’s gaze.
A taste of sugar to coat the copper of blood afterwards.
Peace unravels after what seems like hours that have cascaded through the space between our fingers. A cacophony screams – and, much to my surprise, its source is an engine. Even with its jungles of rust, the machine enthralls me.
But, the sight of those who have driven it here gives salt to my open wounds. Bette, Temple, and the girl From Two – strange bedfellows they are, alongside Lex and Denali. Our trails have crossed before and since then, I knew of how we could steer our paths elsewhere and it is not through the pitter-patter of fleeing, furtive footsteps or amends crafted through hand shakes.
Flare hisses alive on each tar-coated spearhead and I am armed for the worse. “Where's Wander?” Tongue asks whilst eyes search, but the other's nowhere to be found. “Forget it – this won't take long, I promise.”
I shall dismantle you as fast as I can.
And heaven-fire is broken open, adorned by echoes of grace and stardust, at the one who Parson struck before.
There was not even a ghost I could meet in dreams – she existed through a nameless signature in the foster system’s yellowed, crisp papers and tales woven by other’s chatters. She was an ageless woman, some said, eyes belonging to Helios, smooth skin that could give bloom to squares and squares of calla lilies.
But, I would never know.
Even if I crawl out of this gory ordeal, battered like a bruised champion, I would never know her. And, I would not need to know her – not the veins of her hands, not the cadences of her song, not the contours of her face, not the warmth of her arms.
The moment offspring comes, with their toothless howls and cherubic faces, mothers lose a slab of themselves to the brood. Perchance, my mother gave refusal to that. I would too, in a heartbeat, and it’s a soft comfort to know the one resemblance we share.
Eyes flutter awake without dark hollows etched below them, the movement gentle as if weaved from a butterfly wing. I rise gloriously to a cool dawn and sordidly to the rotten stench that seems to have crept through each atom of air overnight. Nose disregards it as mere cruelty from the gamemakers’ behalf, a price for the slumber intact with rest, and a hand scurries towards the rhinestone satchel, checking to see if a wandering tribute looted it.
Now, the fingertips could translate the feel of each item I have collected to its names. Cold and slick means the spiked blunt, the red of oculin blood glassed upon its steel petals. Coarse means the spears’ texture of grain. Tender means the med-kit. After the items have been discovered in rightful places, the digits retreat back, near to where my firewood armor loosened, and with an adroitness, make it taut once more.
It’s near sunrise when the groundwork for the bloodshed ahead is concrete; the jar of tar has been replenished to its brims and spearheads are brushed against the friction of pale stones, made as deadly as venom.
But, before blood could stain these hands red, I perch my back against a palm-tree’s flesh and stare ahead as the colors of the new day, a mosaic of marigolds and cotton-candy, plume from behind deserted castles of ashen clouds. There is no refuting – it is a honeyed sight that sweetens the drifter’s gaze.
A taste of sugar to coat the copper of blood afterwards.
Peace unravels after what seems like hours that have cascaded through the space between our fingers. A cacophony screams – and, much to my surprise, its source is an engine. Even with its jungles of rust, the machine enthralls me.
But, the sight of those who have driven it here gives salt to my open wounds. Bette, Temple, and the girl From Two – strange bedfellows they are, alongside Lex and Denali. Our trails have crossed before and since then, I knew of how we could steer our paths elsewhere and it is not through the pitter-patter of fleeing, furtive footsteps or amends crafted through hand shakes.
Flare hisses alive on each tar-coated spearhead and I am armed for the worse. “Where's Wander?” Tongue asks whilst eyes search, but the other's nowhere to be found. “Forget it – this won't take long, I promise.”
I shall dismantle you as fast as I can.
And heaven-fire is broken open, adorned by echoes of grace and stardust, at the one who Parson struck before.
[ sets 4 javelins alight ]
[ angel attacks ‘EVE RENNER’ | flaming javelin ]
hfyYBPXLPjavelin
1-50
[ 15156 -- SPEAR IN CHEST -- 9.5 damage + 4.0 | flaming javelin + moderate burn ]
![Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] Avatar](https://timberline-adventures.com/wp-content/uploads/Rain2-250x250.jpg)
