Post by Turpentine Kisses on Jun 26, 2007 14:17:35 GMT -5
{Kay, uhmmm... I wrote this... in present tense. For... some... reason. >> WHICH I'VE NEVER DONEEE. 0-0 So... please pardon the suckage. :3}
Smoke left the little house now consumed completely in the flames; one of the many claimed house as a result of this silly war. And the girl, perched atop the charred roof, threatening to collapse at any given moment, looked so terribly depressed. Her stare was vacant, the pale green eyes fixed on the ground before her. She looked as if she would jump! Surely someone should be running to save her?
But, then again, surely the embers should have declared that perfectly porcelain, unscarred flesh its own long ago. She’d been standing there for at least an hour, unmoving in that white dress, blown by a wind that did not exist. Just like the long locks of star-lit white.
“I think it would have hit you by now that she’s not real,” a voice comes quietly.
So that was the explanation is the only thought that manages to escape the solider before a long blade is driven through his back, showing itself through the front of his gut again, blood generously gracing it. Undeniably dead as he drops to the ground.
For the first time in an hour, the girl moves. Her head rotates to meet the newly slain man, and then his slayer who is currently gesturing for the girl to come nearer. She resists at first with a defiant stare, but he is the winner when it’s all said and done. Interestingly enough, for it would seem that she is the supernatural creature and, therefore, should be able to manipulate this man easier than he should be able to manipulate her.
But, alas, she feels the pull of his summoning, the particles of her physical self tugged toward him. But not all at once; little by little, instead. The atoms of her left side leaves before her right, giving the appearance that she is being turned like a page, turned from the air, only to be turned right next to him again.
Him with his smug little smile. Him with his perfectly blonde hair and perfectly blue eyes. Oh, how she hated his horrible misuse of spells and charms and potions.
“Stop mourning for the dead who never bothered to notice you,” he says with a mild air of disgust.
She says nothing, standing next to him in all of her short stature, his in his tall. The daemon merely directs her attention to the brown grass – most likely the consequence of the diminishing water level in the area.
His only reply is a satisfied grin as he decisively yanks the slender sword from its prey. “You’ll live. You have been for 235 years,” he reminds. With a little too much pleasure, she thinks.
“233,” she corrects quietly, following after as expected while he moves forward. He’s not really on either side, she remarks silently, he just wants to get his killing fix for the day.
Smoke left the little house now consumed completely in the flames; one of the many claimed house as a result of this silly war. And the girl, perched atop the charred roof, threatening to collapse at any given moment, looked so terribly depressed. Her stare was vacant, the pale green eyes fixed on the ground before her. She looked as if she would jump! Surely someone should be running to save her?
But, then again, surely the embers should have declared that perfectly porcelain, unscarred flesh its own long ago. She’d been standing there for at least an hour, unmoving in that white dress, blown by a wind that did not exist. Just like the long locks of star-lit white.
“I think it would have hit you by now that she’s not real,” a voice comes quietly.
So that was the explanation is the only thought that manages to escape the solider before a long blade is driven through his back, showing itself through the front of his gut again, blood generously gracing it. Undeniably dead as he drops to the ground.
For the first time in an hour, the girl moves. Her head rotates to meet the newly slain man, and then his slayer who is currently gesturing for the girl to come nearer. She resists at first with a defiant stare, but he is the winner when it’s all said and done. Interestingly enough, for it would seem that she is the supernatural creature and, therefore, should be able to manipulate this man easier than he should be able to manipulate her.
But, alas, she feels the pull of his summoning, the particles of her physical self tugged toward him. But not all at once; little by little, instead. The atoms of her left side leaves before her right, giving the appearance that she is being turned like a page, turned from the air, only to be turned right next to him again.
Him with his smug little smile. Him with his perfectly blonde hair and perfectly blue eyes. Oh, how she hated his horrible misuse of spells and charms and potions.
“Stop mourning for the dead who never bothered to notice you,” he says with a mild air of disgust.
She says nothing, standing next to him in all of her short stature, his in his tall. The daemon merely directs her attention to the brown grass – most likely the consequence of the diminishing water level in the area.
His only reply is a satisfied grin as he decisively yanks the slender sword from its prey. “You’ll live. You have been for 235 years,” he reminds. With a little too much pleasure, she thinks.
“233,” she corrects quietly, following after as expected while he moves forward. He’s not really on either side, she remarks silently, he just wants to get his killing fix for the day.
