godless — angel. vs anatalia. [day 7]
Dec 9, 2018 0:18:09 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Dec 9, 2018 0:18:09 GMT -5
“Angel, what do we do now? Where do we go?”
I always had a poor sense of direction. The broken compass inside mistakes west for north and south for east and I become lost again, mapless, treading whenever the two feet take me. Nomadic. Wandering. And, the melodies of nature were invaluable and more delicately-composed than any song's tune. I remember the wind making the leaves rustle, the chirps amongst the trees, the strange footprints upon stranger trails, and the earth, welcoming me to its depths.
Being lost, is far better than getting found. I want to stay lost forever, hiding behind walls and under my own skin.
When no response comes, Anatalia proceeds on her own. Her gaze ambles to the enormous sign and then returns to my still irises. “Do you want to put Parson’s name up there? So it can be immortalized too?”
But, my focus is on her knife, laying on the periphery of sight, tightly-grasped. I see the veins protruding from her hand which held its smooth hilt.
These six days had made me forgotten Anatalia Morrisen's nature – that she was no prey, that she was no warrior. She was taught to go for the jugular vein since youth and if she betrays me here, it would not come as a surprise to me. She, even in all her grace and poise and sentimentalities, is a career, someone who was schooled on how to hold a silver for slaughter.
I veil the doubt in my voice as it speaks – and it's eerily effortless. “No.” An engraving upon some burnt sign would not immortalized him. From age, it would wear away and fade and I couldn't take any chances of Parson disappearing again. I would carry him from within, in the cavern of my mouth, in the pink of my tongue, in the coronaries of my heart. I would carry him with these muscles and bones, to the grave.
“I don't want his mark to linger inside this damned place, Annie. I don't want Hell's or yours' to either.”
A restless hand combs through a mob of dark locks frustratedly as I cannot answer her previous question. “I don't know where we should go. There's not much ground to cover anymore. Everything's ... falling apart. Each day, a new calamity. I would rather stay here.” If my decay is soon, I want to be sprawled out here, overlooking the horizon. “But, where will you go? It's not– it's not long before the next brawl.”
It's not long before they make us tear each other to fragments of who we once were.
Night blooms across the sky but I don't rest, knowing well that I would not be able to. Fingers work soundlessly with an unwavering adroitness, mending the firewood armor into something sturdier and colossal for the wars ahead.
There's a hidden urgency, a swiftness in the movements that come from a sense of fright. I am as petrified as I was on the day before the bloodbath, perched upon a windowsill as Mackenzie Pryce's hand waved at the capitol in front of me. And, it had a beautiful veneer, draped in neon glow and mist and hearty chatter, but inside it was as hollow as the moon, as hollow as us.
Exhausted hands come to a halt near sunrise and twilight scattering through the ferns offers a transient sense of security. I clutch the rhinestone bag before laying down on the bed of ferns, whose leaves are parched and crisp now from prolonged exposure. But, despite that, it grants a comfort that cannot rival Parson's arms but a comfort nevertheless.
Eyelids laden with overuse come to a soft closure and for some moments, there's only darkness.
And within this darkness, reigns Hellion and Parson and every other ghost tethered to my heart. Their eyes are hollow and gleaming all at once.
When I stir awake, the sun has been out for hours. And, to my surprise, Anatalia has not embarked by herself. Bones rise, despite their ricketiness and despite the sweat clinging to their outlines, and long strides carry me towards her.
We decide to not separate, a mutual decision made from the fear of sabotage by another duo. Eight skeletons roam about the arena and I could not risk confronting any of them alone.
I knew what sort of power Denali Lyon's demeanor carried. I knew the callous gleam in Lex's eyes. And, all of us knew of the blood our hands are reddened with. Six days in the arena mean you have ended something, whether it's a creature or a human. Footsteps march onward, devoid of aim or direction, retracing our old ones. We tread across plains and old battlefields without a word to utter.
Then, from afar, comes a sound akin to cannon-fire. But, cannons in the arena did not emit any sort of smoke. The gold mine's demise rises as an heavy afterimage as the tar pits burn behind us in a chaos of ashes and embers.
The heat and the thick screen of smoke pervade swiftly, conquering each area and then the next in a frenzy, drifting past our bodies in a moment's time. Soon, it digs its way inside and clings to the lungs, invasive like a tangible parasite, and a cough begins.
“Let's go back to the tide pools, Annie! Fast!”
The words seem to pierce through the thick fog but I don't care about whether she heeds them or not. I only care about not losing my footing as feet rush ahead for a dim horizon in the haze.
Nostrils are met with an onslaught of relief and salt. The smoke does not trail after us to the pools. It does not diffuse beyond the rocky threshold, kept at bay by some invisible wall, billowing out ominously as a storm would, glaring at us. It moves in an erratic dance as if it were alive and furious because of its escaped prey.
We return, to the tide pools.
Memories are in hiding here, veiled by the soft mist and tide-smoothened rocks. Gazing at them for a long moment arises a phantom agony in the ears and even more afterimages – a jumble of saccharine and bitter ones.
The cruelty of the Game-makers becomes all too palpable when the tides begin to swirl. First, their cool, white-broth tongues lap at our shoes before receding and jagged depths of water are reduced to grotesque shallows, full of sea creatures.My heart becomes as sunken as old stones on the seabed in the ribcage, hiding even more.
The water recedes until we are merely ankle-deep. And when I try to take a step back, away from Anatalia Morrisen and her silver-cladded form, the tides settle back in, refusing my leave.
The mist that stayed adrift near the ground swells as an ivory storm in a ring around us,
and we are the destructive eye of it,
waiting for our own destruction.
The girl's eyes rise in the last moment, and the terror of realization that has dawned in those ocean eyes reflects my own. What they demand, is what we fear the most. Fingers reach for one of the javelins as hers travel to the daggers. Under a thick overcast, there's no sunlight to bathe our weapons or armors in silver.
We are as raw as the iron we wear and hold.
“You know what they're asking for, Annie.” My voice whispers, broken, as if it, too, is hiding. “Blood. Our blood.” Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and in this moment, we are the fools.
“Are you going to burn me?“ I know she has the glass of tar in her arsenal. “I do hope you treasure fairness.” In this daze, I cannot read her face, cannot see what intents lie underneath. “Because, this fight– it's the cruelest one yet, so don't make it worse.”
A please remains trapped between the chords of a parched throat, like a songbird in its cage. I am petrified, but that does not halt the tides from withdrawal, that does not stop the spearhead from advance. That does not prevent the tears from breakage.
Godless creatures, biting back the hands that fed them.
Blasphemous, is us.
I always had a poor sense of direction. The broken compass inside mistakes west for north and south for east and I become lost again, mapless, treading whenever the two feet take me. Nomadic. Wandering. And, the melodies of nature were invaluable and more delicately-composed than any song's tune. I remember the wind making the leaves rustle, the chirps amongst the trees, the strange footprints upon stranger trails, and the earth, welcoming me to its depths.
Being lost, is far better than getting found. I want to stay lost forever, hiding behind walls and under my own skin.
When no response comes, Anatalia proceeds on her own. Her gaze ambles to the enormous sign and then returns to my still irises. “Do you want to put Parson’s name up there? So it can be immortalized too?”
But, my focus is on her knife, laying on the periphery of sight, tightly-grasped. I see the veins protruding from her hand which held its smooth hilt.
These six days had made me forgotten Anatalia Morrisen's nature – that she was no prey, that she was no warrior. She was taught to go for the jugular vein since youth and if she betrays me here, it would not come as a surprise to me. She, even in all her grace and poise and sentimentalities, is a career, someone who was schooled on how to hold a silver for slaughter.
I veil the doubt in my voice as it speaks – and it's eerily effortless. “No.” An engraving upon some burnt sign would not immortalized him. From age, it would wear away and fade and I couldn't take any chances of Parson disappearing again. I would carry him from within, in the cavern of my mouth, in the pink of my tongue, in the coronaries of my heart. I would carry him with these muscles and bones, to the grave.
“I don't want his mark to linger inside this damned place, Annie. I don't want Hell's or yours' to either.”
A restless hand combs through a mob of dark locks frustratedly as I cannot answer her previous question. “I don't know where we should go. There's not much ground to cover anymore. Everything's ... falling apart. Each day, a new calamity. I would rather stay here.” If my decay is soon, I want to be sprawled out here, overlooking the horizon. “But, where will you go? It's not– it's not long before the next brawl.”
It's not long before they make us tear each other to fragments of who we once were.
Night blooms across the sky but I don't rest, knowing well that I would not be able to. Fingers work soundlessly with an unwavering adroitness, mending the firewood armor into something sturdier and colossal for the wars ahead.
There's a hidden urgency, a swiftness in the movements that come from a sense of fright. I am as petrified as I was on the day before the bloodbath, perched upon a windowsill as Mackenzie Pryce's hand waved at the capitol in front of me. And, it had a beautiful veneer, draped in neon glow and mist and hearty chatter, but inside it was as hollow as the moon, as hollow as us.
Exhausted hands come to a halt near sunrise and twilight scattering through the ferns offers a transient sense of security. I clutch the rhinestone bag before laying down on the bed of ferns, whose leaves are parched and crisp now from prolonged exposure. But, despite that, it grants a comfort that cannot rival Parson's arms but a comfort nevertheless.
Eyelids laden with overuse come to a soft closure and for some moments, there's only darkness.
And within this darkness, reigns Hellion and Parson and every other ghost tethered to my heart. Their eyes are hollow and gleaming all at once.
When I stir awake, the sun has been out for hours. And, to my surprise, Anatalia has not embarked by herself. Bones rise, despite their ricketiness and despite the sweat clinging to their outlines, and long strides carry me towards her.
We decide to not separate, a mutual decision made from the fear of sabotage by another duo. Eight skeletons roam about the arena and I could not risk confronting any of them alone.
I knew what sort of power Denali Lyon's demeanor carried. I knew the callous gleam in Lex's eyes. And, all of us knew of the blood our hands are reddened with. Six days in the arena mean you have ended something, whether it's a creature or a human. Footsteps march onward, devoid of aim or direction, retracing our old ones. We tread across plains and old battlefields without a word to utter.
Then, from afar, comes a sound akin to cannon-fire. But, cannons in the arena did not emit any sort of smoke. The gold mine's demise rises as an heavy afterimage as the tar pits burn behind us in a chaos of ashes and embers.
The heat and the thick screen of smoke pervade swiftly, conquering each area and then the next in a frenzy, drifting past our bodies in a moment's time. Soon, it digs its way inside and clings to the lungs, invasive like a tangible parasite, and a cough begins.
“Let's go back to the tide pools, Annie! Fast!”
The words seem to pierce through the thick fog but I don't care about whether she heeds them or not. I only care about not losing my footing as feet rush ahead for a dim horizon in the haze.
Nostrils are met with an onslaught of relief and salt. The smoke does not trail after us to the pools. It does not diffuse beyond the rocky threshold, kept at bay by some invisible wall, billowing out ominously as a storm would, glaring at us. It moves in an erratic dance as if it were alive and furious because of its escaped prey.
We return, to the tide pools.
Memories are in hiding here, veiled by the soft mist and tide-smoothened rocks. Gazing at them for a long moment arises a phantom agony in the ears and even more afterimages – a jumble of saccharine and bitter ones.
The cruelty of the Game-makers becomes all too palpable when the tides begin to swirl. First, their cool, white-broth tongues lap at our shoes before receding and jagged depths of water are reduced to grotesque shallows, full of sea creatures.My heart becomes as sunken as old stones on the seabed in the ribcage, hiding even more.
The water recedes until we are merely ankle-deep. And when I try to take a step back, away from Anatalia Morrisen and her silver-cladded form, the tides settle back in, refusing my leave.
The mist that stayed adrift near the ground swells as an ivory storm in a ring around us,
and we are the destructive eye of it,
waiting for our own destruction.
The girl's eyes rise in the last moment, and the terror of realization that has dawned in those ocean eyes reflects my own. What they demand, is what we fear the most. Fingers reach for one of the javelins as hers travel to the daggers. Under a thick overcast, there's no sunlight to bathe our weapons or armors in silver.
We are as raw as the iron we wear and hold.
“You know what they're asking for, Annie.” My voice whispers, broken, as if it, too, is hiding. “Blood. Our blood.” Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and in this moment, we are the fools.
“Are you going to burn me?“ I know she has the glass of tar in her arsenal. “I do hope you treasure fairness.” In this daze, I cannot read her face, cannot see what intents lie underneath. “Because, this fight– it's the cruelest one yet, so don't make it worse.”
A please remains trapped between the chords of a parched throat, like a songbird in its cage. I am petrified, but that does not halt the tides from withdrawal, that does not stop the spearhead from advance. That does not prevent the tears from breakage.
Godless creatures, biting back the hands that fed them.
Blasphemous, is us.
[ angel attacks ‘ANATALIA MORRISEN’ | javelin used as spear ]
eamg4|WiK0spear
[ accuracy re-roll day 7 ]
spear
[ 3012 -- Stabbed in Thigh -- 8.5 damage + 1.0 | spear + strength ]
