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01-25-2014, 04:47 AM
still a credit to your ruse, what a beautiful excuse
to never open up your eyes and see the things you lose
to never open up your eyes and see the things you lose
Sleep: sleep is a dark, heavy thing, a plunge deep into the abyss, where the tired body becomes numb, nothing but an empty shell, and the soul drifts away on dark oceans. Utter exhaustion had claimed him, dragged him down to the deepest pits of rest, dumbed all his senses to the world—for his tired mind had no energy to waste on them, so intent on recovering, recuperating. He knew nothing of doom swaggering closer, of foul-hearted beasts coming in, hungry for the crimson blood slowly thrumming through his veins. He was a fool, the lone wolf left at the mercy of the world.
Irma had slept longer, was more rested. At some point during their few peaceful hours she'd abandoned her perch upon his shoulder to nestle against his withers, on the ground, a white little bundle snuggled up all safe in his shadow and long, tangled hair. She felt the buried query running through Mauja's nerves, how they fell short of their mark: he did not stir, but she did. Sluggishly she tore herself from the grip of sleep, blinked her pale blue eyes, and saw.. a sorry excuse for a horse. Cold, she stared at the once-mare. She didn't see much over the arched bulk of Mauja, but felt his sluggish confusion, something in the region of his knee. But what she saw, was enough. A thick, dark muscular neck matted with blood, and the foul, putrid stench they'd been running from in the Basin.
Movement caught her attention. Another was coming up, a perfectly split image of health and death. Irma had never seen her before, but she could hear what she was saying very well: "He isn't worthy. We should just kill him." And it was enough to snap her out of her newly-awakened stupor. With a startling speed for a land-bound owl Irma scuttled out of her hair-castle and, feathers all ruffled up, shot into the air. Her left wing ached, as if bruised, but she defied the pain and settled in a nearby tree, eying them with an intense anger blazing from her pale eyes. There was nothing she could do against these creatures, except stay away from them, to carry word of.. of whatever happened here. She was not one to be afraid, but now she was: not for herself, but for him. Because they wanted to kill him.
Wake up, idiot. Wake up, wake up, wake up. Her soul grasped his, rattled him like a wolf throws a rabbit around to snap its back, but he was so tired. But slowly, slowly, he began to crawl back to the surface of consciousness.
And he got some help along the way.
Pain forced the heavy darkness of sleep aside, shoved every heavy thought from his mind, cleared the fog and sent the starlight arcing into his blue eyes. "Wake up, Mauja." She bit his ear just a fraction of a heartbeat after something pushed into the flesh of his shoulder; with a startled yelp and a surge of adrenaline Mauja scrambled to his feet, gracelessly tearing away from them. Blood oozed slowly from his new wounds, his nervous system sending a peak of pain into his brain. One hop, two hops, and he wasn't looking like a drunk anymore, but stood firmly; he swung around, ears pinned against his neck, bloodying one side of it where the skin on his ear had been torn. It was an incredibly rude awakening, but.. when you're left alone on the surface of a hostile, darkened world, what do you expect? Something along the lines of this.
His eyes flitted from one to the other. The one which had spiked his system with pain was unknown; she was tall and heavy, black fur all matted and clotted with blood. Substances he didn't want to know what they were dripped from her orifices, and he could see the gleam of his own blood along the spines of her face. The other.. the other he knew very well. And he didn't need to be a wraith to dislike her. Ktulu. But things were all wrong, her white legs colored crimson, half of her torn open, laid bare, mimicry of the girl. He hated to see their lungs work, their blackened hearts pound.
Arguing with the one up north hadn't worked—just see where it had left Déodat.. a broken monster just like them. And running? He was tired of running, and they were tireless, they fell outside of the frames of reality, and would simply hunt him down. In silence, Mauja just glared at them. There was nothing else he could do. Just face this with his head held high.
If it so were the last thing he did.
And the world has no mercy.
Irma had slept longer, was more rested. At some point during their few peaceful hours she'd abandoned her perch upon his shoulder to nestle against his withers, on the ground, a white little bundle snuggled up all safe in his shadow and long, tangled hair. She felt the buried query running through Mauja's nerves, how they fell short of their mark: he did not stir, but she did. Sluggishly she tore herself from the grip of sleep, blinked her pale blue eyes, and saw.. a sorry excuse for a horse. Cold, she stared at the once-mare. She didn't see much over the arched bulk of Mauja, but felt his sluggish confusion, something in the region of his knee. But what she saw, was enough. A thick, dark muscular neck matted with blood, and the foul, putrid stench they'd been running from in the Basin.
Movement caught her attention. Another was coming up, a perfectly split image of health and death. Irma had never seen her before, but she could hear what she was saying very well: "He isn't worthy. We should just kill him." And it was enough to snap her out of her newly-awakened stupor. With a startling speed for a land-bound owl Irma scuttled out of her hair-castle and, feathers all ruffled up, shot into the air. Her left wing ached, as if bruised, but she defied the pain and settled in a nearby tree, eying them with an intense anger blazing from her pale eyes. There was nothing she could do against these creatures, except stay away from them, to carry word of.. of whatever happened here. She was not one to be afraid, but now she was: not for herself, but for him. Because they wanted to kill him.
And she loved him. She lived for him.
Wake up, idiot. Wake up, wake up, wake up. Her soul grasped his, rattled him like a wolf throws a rabbit around to snap its back, but he was so tired. But slowly, slowly, he began to crawl back to the surface of consciousness.
And he got some help along the way.
Pain forced the heavy darkness of sleep aside, shoved every heavy thought from his mind, cleared the fog and sent the starlight arcing into his blue eyes. "Wake up, Mauja." She bit his ear just a fraction of a heartbeat after something pushed into the flesh of his shoulder; with a startled yelp and a surge of adrenaline Mauja scrambled to his feet, gracelessly tearing away from them. Blood oozed slowly from his new wounds, his nervous system sending a peak of pain into his brain. One hop, two hops, and he wasn't looking like a drunk anymore, but stood firmly; he swung around, ears pinned against his neck, bloodying one side of it where the skin on his ear had been torn. It was an incredibly rude awakening, but.. when you're left alone on the surface of a hostile, darkened world, what do you expect? Something along the lines of this.
His eyes flitted from one to the other. The one which had spiked his system with pain was unknown; she was tall and heavy, black fur all matted and clotted with blood. Substances he didn't want to know what they were dripped from her orifices, and he could see the gleam of his own blood along the spines of her face. The other.. the other he knew very well. And he didn't need to be a wraith to dislike her. Ktulu. But things were all wrong, her white legs colored crimson, half of her torn open, laid bare, mimicry of the girl. He hated to see their lungs work, their blackened hearts pound.
Arguing with the one up north hadn't worked—just see where it had left Déodat.. a broken monster just like them. And running? He was tired of running, and they were tireless, they fell outside of the frames of reality, and would simply hunt him down. In silence, Mauja just glared at them. There was nothing else he could do. Just face this with his head held high.
If it so were the last thing he did.
