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Post by Trench on Aug 11, 2009 12:53:01 GMT -5
the ditches and the trenches
Can you feel it? The evil here? Yes, Tyre, I am not oblivious; I can feel all you do and more, there are spirits here, restless ones like yourself. Can you feel their presence, as I can? Yes, young one; you do not give me enough credit. Of course I can feel the presence of my brethren. But these are not the quiet dead, as I am. You, quiet? You know what I mean, young one! Be still and listen. These dead are restless, but they are also driven, vengeful; they have not seen the light, as I have, they do not seek peace in death, or in the lives of others. They seek only to see their deaths avenged. They would harm the living who come here. Be cautious, young one, my presence will not serve to spare you. I can only deter them for so long before their hatred draws them nearer. And what will you do then? My duty, as it is expected of me. But can you do it? Can you reason with these spirits? No spirit is lost forever, they are merely misplaced. I am their guide, and I will not leave them to the shadows when the light is so easily in reach. Or would you deem them a lost cause, and leave them to the darkness, to hell? Would you condemn them to burn, for innocent mistakes? To spare yourself the effort? I cannot, I will not. Very well, young one. I can only hope your resolve is strong enough. Be careful you do not misplace yourself among the shadows as you search for them, that would be most counterproductive, indeed. Do not seek to lecture me; it is you who have strayed from the light, and you should know better than any other how strong my connection to the light is; you have yet to sway me, or have you forgotten. Hm. Very well. But know that these spirits are far more powerful than I. Then I will be cautious, but do not fear for my sake, spirit.
He can feel it, around him, around Tyre, in every gap between each leaf, each branch, each tree. This clearing, this human-tainted place, this spirit-tainted place; he could feel it, among everything, pulling at the land, and now at himself. The presence! He stops, and behind him, Tyre stops as well, looking about with hackles shifting forward; can he see them? He cannot, but he will, he knows he will; they need only to reveal themselves to him, how long? But he can feel them, he need not see them, not yet. The air is heavy, unmoving, and yet, he feels the shifts, hears them; speech, words whispered, the only movement in air too thick for even wind to shift, the only warning they will give. And he can hear it, the hatred, the revenge; so far gone, they are, yet he will not give up, cannot give up, on them. He breaths, slow and deep, laying his own hackles to rest, calming himself for the task. ”I know you are there, spirits. Would you speak with me?” The whispers fade, die out, and silence falls, heavy and thick, around him; tension, rough, forbidding. ”I do not fear you, and your silence gets you no where. I know you seek aid; I would help you, if only you would speak.” He speaks into the silence, without hesitance, projecting his voice, as though he would move the air with his own words, as the spirits did so effortlessly. And yet the stillness remains, undisturbed by his presence, dignified in the face of his words, and the spirits refuse him again.
They are cautious, young one. Your bravery does not reassure them. These are not trusting souls, and they are not weak. They will not admit to needing aid, they are too proud for that. And you are merely a mortal, useless in their eyes; do not believe yourself to be so worth their while. You must first earn their respect, else they will continue to refuse you. And how can I do that, then? Oh, so now you wish my help, do you? Spirit, you owe me as much. Very well. You cannot; your mortal words will have no meaning to their ears, regardless of what you speak, until they chose to listen. I can promise nothing, but perhaps if I speak on your behalf, then they may listen. If they do not, then you can only wait, in the hopes they will come forth, if you prove you will not leave. Very well. Then speak, spirit, and gain their support.
He turns away from him, then, watching instead the lines of the clearing, ears alone flicked back to monitor the spirit behind him, the only attention he will spare his companion. Still, he feels, more than hears, the movements as Tyre steps forward, his paws passing above the ground without truly touching it, as has always been the case. What sound is there to hear, if he does not wish to make one? Yet sight, too, is wasted upon him, when others are so further gone than he. A whisper, his throat clears, shifts the air, as easily as the others had done; did he imagine the shift, the breath from around him? Are they interested, or do they leave? He cannot tell. He spares a glance, yet Tyre still watches; they remain, but he can tell nothing further of the denizens from he, and so his gaze shifts forward again, searching, seeking, hopeful. And Tyre begin to speak. ”Brothers, I share your pain; you are strong, stronger than I, to go alone upon this world. But such is not the only way; there is another place for you, which would welcome you warmly, if only you would let yourselves be led there…”
[/i] His voice is thin, amorphous, as though spoken from many throats, or none at all, and his breath forces a shiver among the air, felt upon his every fur, his hackles threatening to rise again, though he breaths deep and forces them still. He waits, watching, yet the air falls still, and there is no response. Yet he cannot give up, will not give up, and his muscles shift, stiff and tense, to recline his frame uneasily upon his haunches. ”I will not leave, spirits; refuse me if you like, but know that you will gain no peace, acting such.” His voice is quiet this time, as though more uneasy, less willing to break the heavy silence, but he knows they hear. Beside him, Tyre settles in, as well, lowering himself, his maw resting upon outstretched forelegs; he is not hopeful, but hope has not been lost, help still in the scar-marked ebony wolf, watching so alertly for even a single spirit to step forth. [/color] [/blockquote][/blockquote] and gravediggers’ smiles
trench
1144
lyrics © dashboard confessional
uh-oh, crazy boy is on a mission, haha [/color] [/size] |
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Post by Andarial on Aug 11, 2009 21:11:50 GMT -5
He was inthe air circling. He had been watching this wolf for a while this morning. He had found out on his morning flight talking to himself, or so it seemed to Armageddon. So he had followed this wolf, silently on wings of black, from the air. His bright white eyes, with no pupils, stared down at the other wolf, watching him with seemingly unseeing eyes. He laughed, this wolf was so strange to him, never before in all his travels had he met a wolf that spoke to himself.
Shaking his great black and white ribboned patterned head he plummeted to the ground, folding his wings up on eaither side of him. Before hitting the earth he managed to stop himself so easily that it was obvious he had been flying for mostof his life. An easy smile came to the beast's maw and he nodded his head at the other wolf. "I am Armageddon. You are strange no, who are you talking to?
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Post by Trench on Aug 12, 2009 17:25:14 GMT -5
the ditches and the trenches
They will not come. They will. Patience. I see them, young one. They will not come closer. They will not see reason. They will. They have to. They cannot stand there silently all day, and all day I have. You forget, young one, that spirits have eternity. Patience is hardly an issue for them. And your mortal body will allow you only to wait for so long. Then I will wait as long as I can, and longer yet, until they speak; patience or not, their anger will not allow them to remain silent. And I will not give up. Very well, young one, very well. But do not say I have not warned you. I have been more than clear that I thought this idea foolish from the start. You should be speaking with the living, settling this land’s violence, not settling the spirits. Only more spirits will come, if this war is not stopped. Will you save them all, until you yourself join them? Or will you handle the source? I will not fail my task, spirit, do not forget that. But my duty is to the spirits, for it is they who may suffer for all eternity; the living have a chance at peace yet beyond the grave. I will handle them when the time comes, but the time is not now. And things are at ease enough now that the spirits should not be forgotten. And they will not be. They will come, be patient. Or are you the one spirit for whom this will be an issue? There is no issue, but you are wasting your time, and you, young one, have precious little of it. Then it is mine to decide how to spend; if you take such offense, you may go elsewhere, I will not stop you. You know I will not. Then be silent, and wait. They will come.
He turns away; he is done, he will not argue further this point. He feels them, still feels them, around, shifting, moving, yet silent, the air heavy, hanging around him, as though webs, sticky, clinging. But he cannot see them; what use are eyes, when he cannot see them? What use are ears, if they will not speak? His eyes slide closed, his maw tilted back, as he listens, listens. Hoping, his lips shifting in silent prayer, for their souls, for their pain, that he have the words to ease them, to guide them, to grant them peace at last. Prayer; this is what he has, this is all he has. Feeling, he knows they are there, but his senses, so muted, so useless, give him nothing. Faith and prayer, these are the things which give him rest, give him patience. And he sits, calm, unmoving, only his lips shifting, the slightest quiver, and not even a breath of sound escaping his mouth; prayer need not be spoken aloud to be heard, this he knows, this he knows so well. Beside him, Tyre is still, as though asleep, if only spirits could sleep; but he rests—if only he could rest for good!—and is silent, unmoving, no longer arguing. This, too, he feels; sight, so useless, so useless; what good can it do him here? Yet hearing, hearing has it’s uses, even when the spirits curse the air to heavy silence, for the air does not obey their whims alone, not even here, where their power permeates the land and pulls at the strings of peace which would otherwise imbue this place. Above! He hears it, feels it, the approach, the movements; a bird? No, too big, too big. But he does not open his eyes; what good is sight, what good is sight? Faith; he trusts, trusts well in his protection, or perhaps only the bigger plan, be that his death of his life, he simply trusts, and his eyes remain closed. A light thud, and a voice, cool, amused, with the bark-and-growl undertones of a wolf, all the more confirmed by scent; what use for sight? He trusts, though doubt would make him question the arrival, the sound and feeling of wings, and does not look, but merely speaks, calm, peaceful, unafraid, faithful. ”Can you not feel them? Around us? Such suffering…so much pain. Restless, indeed; I would fix that. The spirits, even they need help sometimes; can you not feel it?”
Young one, open your eyes! What use? They have not shown themselves, I can feel that they have not. Why look when there is nothing to see? It is not they who you need see now; look! The wolf? He cannot be a threat; and if he is, then what use is there in fighting my fate? The Lord helps those who help themselves, so help yourself and look! I hear no movement from him; he is not about to strike; what could there be for me to see? Only the spirits matter, only their suffering, and I cannot see what they will not reveal, cannot help those who would refuse my aid. There is no point in looking. Young one, I do not mean a physical threat in this one! Look upon him, and you will see as plain as I his soul is in danger! The living have their own importance, or would you condemn him for your own frustration? No… I will not. Then look!
He does; his eyes slide open, slowly, squinting into the light, the assault of the sun against pupils so long shielded, a desperate attack against a victim whose guard has dropped so suddenly, so fully. Gaze focuses at last, fully exposed, and holding back the assault without shield or weapon, merely coexisting, dodging the light, and putting it to use in sight; he stares a moment across the clearing, hoping, though the thought does not even formulate fully within his mind, that he might catch but a glimpse of a spirit considering his offer, but there is nothing, nothing. His head turns; beside him, Tyre stands, hackles raised, teeth bared in a snarl cursed forever to hold no volume, not even to he, the guide, the listener. Again his head shifts, following the spirit’s temporal gaze, and now, at last, he sees. His own hackles lift, unbidden, even before the sight registers fully to him, before the thought crosses his mind, and already his muscles pull his frame from the ground, paws braced, only one loose, always, always, only the one loose, dangling, lingering in the air. Out it stretches, pulling scars against the muscle, shifting with fur, a comforting feeling, but not comforting enough, not enough to lower the hackles which have lifted along his back. He does not brandish claws, as one might expect, but only the scars, back, beast, back, a shield of faith, all his faith placed upon it, protect him, protect him. He does not bare fangs, for it is not his way, not within him to do so, but his ears slide back, pulling skin taught across his skull, suspicious, ever suspicious, ever alert. What is this creature, this beast, this demon? He does not know, cannot say, and dares not look to Tyre, for fear of pulling his gaze from this thing, this unnatural beast. Suspicions rise, but violence is not his way, cannot be his way; and so he speaks, for words are all which has been granted him, all he has, all he can give. Voice is thick, forceful, ever accusing, though volume does not raise, as though the dial upon his chords is broken, has always been broken, would ever be broken. Yes…yes you must feel them; they are akin to you, are they not? These spirits of evil intentions… How many have you met with? How many have you promised yourself to, how many have you condemned? Do you care nothing for your soul, demon? Do you care nothing for theirs? Or would you see the whole world burn, for the sake of flight? Such gift is not meant for our mortal bodies, and for it, you would condemn your soul to falling upon wings unfit. Are you so far gone?”
[/color] [/blockquote][/blockquote] and gravediggers’ smiles
trench
1362
lyrics © dashboard confessional
Oh noes; suspicious Trench is not a good thing, haha xD [/color] [/size] |
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Post by Andarial on Aug 12, 2009 18:01:31 GMT -5
He watched as the wolf turned to him, hackles raising ever so slightly. HE now noticed a strange scar upon his neck and foreleg. He took a stance that was one of anger and fear, ready to defend himself if Armageddon attacked. Alas Armageddon, though he would fight for his pack preferred being left alone unless it was play fight. Or so he pretended to do. Really, in his mind he thinks that his soul had been sold to the Devil and he was a fallen Angel just waiting for the day that he would strike and bring armageddon down upon the Earth. What really happened was his father and mother had inbred and made a strange accident. His bright white eyes stared at the other wolf ready to take him down. His huge size was scary as were his wings, flared as they were.
"I am not a demon, small one. I am a fallen angel, from the heavens I have come to the Earth. Selling my soul to the Devil I have become one of his minions, I am the bringer of death. I shall be the one to bring destruction to the Earth on the day of armageddon!!!" he laughed so deeply and viciously it sounded as if someone had taken over him. Then he stopped suddenly and smiled sweetly saying in a calm and nice voice, "What is your name? One who knows of demons."
Armageddon had a disease called dissociation. So parts of his emotions and personality were seperated and twisted. He did not have two personalities, don't be mistaken he was only slightly crazy. His wings collapsed against his body but still he looked commanding and proud. Arrogant.
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