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+--- Thread: Greatwater Lake dirty soul to take (/showthread.php?tid=20662)
dirty soul to take - Atramedes - February 19, 2017
the whisperings among the trees twine together as a symphonic hymn, merging and severing, crawling delicately along the sensitive, albeit cracked flesh of the woods. past words, clippings of the enchanting allure fair whore maidens and virulents alike once kissed the air with through parted lips, now long-gone cold and peeled back by the prying nails of time and his wretched sister rot. the trees appear to weep for the past inhabitants, encumbered by the weight of the foul mists and reeking of ten thousand corpses. tragic in that it may very well be the truth- ironic in that those bodies are warped and mutilated beneath the strangling curves of each tree's malicious root, a secret ill-kept by their stooping and awkward leaning. still, those whispers rustle amidst the dead living, a lament and a testament to that which continues to linger.
like fingers picking their practiced way up the path of a patient's leg, ready to tickle the fancy out of the cloth and skin, the murmurs and hissing that caress one particular creature's spine offer him no pleasure, only dread. one rather wizened looking tree hunches its ancient back to watch greedily over the canine's shoulder, invisible eyes peering with a sinful derision at the quivering of the red wolf below it. peculiar how often these two coincide, that of greed and disgust. perhaps we cannot stand our own reluctance, our mutinous desire for all things not yet possessed. the tree is practically taking the wolf into its own when he starts abruptly, two awkward paws shuffling and rubbing eachother in an endlessly anxious fidget. lips quiver with a piteous uncertainty, over-sized ears swiveling to and fro, more oft curving backwards to settle the fur upon the back of his neck. no heady musk could possibly perfume the radiant stench of fear that breathes from his very pores; dear atramedes, ye who smells of piss and fear and a sickening lack of hygiene, what scares you so? an abundance of mud plasters the lower ends of his undeniably glorious fur- so glorious that it is plausible to cause vomiting on sight. where red meets the darkest onyx, it grows near blinding. perhaps the mud is for the best, little one.
with a nervous jerk, both paws snap to his luxuriously long, satin tail, crushing the appendage into his embrace and casting pupil-less blue eyes about in a most uncomely fashion. and the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting. and so he waits, he waits for whatever might descend upon him, to lap up his fetid soul and devour him where others will not.
RE: dirty soul to take - Snake - February 20, 2017
I hope you don't mind me popping in! ^^
Snake hadn't been doing much. Stilted onyx limbs drove him through the snow, leaving massive paw prints in his wake. The devil wandered, no set plan in mind. He weaved back and forth, eyes glittering, before something caught his eye, but not after the scent drifted towards his nose. Silent in his own curiosity, the man inched closer.
"Troubled?" he asked him upon noticing his fidgeting, his own tone mocking. A wicked grin spread across inky lips, dropping saliva onto the snow below. Cocking a slender cranium to the right, he padded closer to the tree that curled around the other man, holding him in a cozy embrace as his lips quivered with uncertainty. What was he waiting her for? Was something about to happen? Was he meeting someone? The questions began to bombard Snake, and he found himself excited to figure out what had frightened the man so.
"I don't mean to intrude, but I couldn't help but notice you seem quite disssturbed. I thought I could...possssibly be of sssome help," he cooed, his voice soft, although it was merely a simple act. And a rather believable one at that. His grin had dissolved into that of a fake, polite, smile, gracing his handsome lips. His eyes were free of cruel intentions. They floated in his head instead of staying in view, although perhaps he would make them known when the time was right.
RE: dirty soul to take - Atramedes - February 20, 2017
not at all!
a myriad of intangible creatures sing to him all around, their listless humming and fretful cries sounding only as the faintest of murmurs, yet still his tapered ears attempt to understand what it is they want. perhaps that which he tries his damnedest to comprehend does not even exist to be dissected, removed from its delicate complexity and onto the table of examination. reflexive, muscles work their own way through his unintelligible quirking, his body behaving as a marionette whose handler is not but a toddler, unseasoned hands splaying his spindles. releasing his tail with a dreadful shiver, the almost emaciated red wolf raises his paw to whatever lies before him- the nothingness oft appearing as solid as a rock to the neurotic male- upon hearing the soft tone of someone, someone, somewhere, here, there, anywhere. agitating him to the core, he moves as a pantomime, paws placing themselves gently, smartly against the flat surface of the nothing that blocks him, digits sliding and tapping, feeling for the voice. this thing of the otherworld who speaks to him so.
still wrapped amongst the macabre curls of the gnarled tree's ancient roots, he shifts backwards ever further into the hollow of the plant's stomach, resigning himself to the womb where the dangers cannot reach with poisoned claws and yellowing teeth. before dear medias can so much as quiver his jittery hind legs backwards, the man makes him known, stepping into his golden view. with a hiccup of fear, the coward himself twitches. fear is unbecoming in those who cannot use it to their advantage- helpless and pathetic as a lost pup, the red wolf snaps his paws back to their own, where they proceed to habitually rub one another, fidgeting, caressing, never still.
when the man speaks, his voice is kindly enough, although perhaps underlied with something else. His eyes betrayno sign of ill will nor malcontent. but with the cogs roiling within the confines of his simply difficult mind, atramedes glances first to the right and then the left, nervously assessing his purpose here with an obvious uncertainty. bright baubles for eyes stare him to the bone as he stays near, and despite his wanting to fold into the fetal position, roll in his own refuse and disappear from sight and sound, the red wolf knows far better than to try. he bears scars from those he has turned his back on.
with a shaky countenance that offers no confidence, no encouragement, nothing but the barren emptiness of fear, atramedes deigns politeness the best route, and so reluctantly stretches out a single, quaking paw in greetings. "l-little helps in the wounded n-night, m-mister. h-here there b-be mons-sters." a nervous laugh, as quick and snappy as a collection of hiccups, leaves him then, as the skinny thing takes a moment to analyze his surroundings once more, untrusting, unsure. when golden eyes return their sights to the man, he speaks again. "y-you t-travel to strange p-places, i-if i may s-say so. stay-y small, stay hidden. eyes w-watch, everyone knows. they know."