It was upon the feathered wings of a raptor that his gaze lit in the dim evening glow, pools of serrated ice outstaring the clouds and thunderous pelage shifting with the capricious tides of the breeze. A storm had been brewing upon the ridge in days past, he recalled, yet if the cursed heavens had opened their gates to let free the shattering of rain, he’d yet to call witness.
No, the silencer had stalked further; lean figure twisting betwixt the undergrowth and the boulders that heralded them, roots of green snaking upward to soak the summer’s warmth, that distant promise of sun. Under a tread of smoke did he suffocate the life beneath, calculated steps pulling him tirelessly along the trail of the mountains, cold stare gravitating from the predacious bird to the path ahead, until—
A figure. Tall, rustic in shade, as though born from some scattered remnants of a heretofore lit flame; warmth in ash, the last remaining heat of once-searing embers. As the rim around the raptor had once shone, an aureole of liquid gold bathed the fringes of this poising figure, and it took the fleeting of the bird before he identified of whom the body belonged. The starborn stood tall upon the grave of rock he perched, peering down the incline as a raven might scrutinize from their crook – a raven of umbra, black and daunting.
He watched, as he always did.
No, the silencer had stalked further; lean figure twisting betwixt the undergrowth and the boulders that heralded them, roots of green snaking upward to soak the summer’s warmth, that distant promise of sun. Under a tread of smoke did he suffocate the life beneath, calculated steps pulling him tirelessly along the trail of the mountains, cold stare gravitating from the predacious bird to the path ahead, until—
A figure. Tall, rustic in shade, as though born from some scattered remnants of a heretofore lit flame; warmth in ash, the last remaining heat of once-searing embers. As the rim around the raptor had once shone, an aureole of liquid gold bathed the fringes of this poising figure, and it took the fleeting of the bird before he identified of whom the body belonged. The starborn stood tall upon the grave of rock he perched, peering down the incline as a raven might scrutinize from their crook – a raven of umbra, black and daunting.
He watched, as he always did.
If I cannot bend Heaven,
I will raise Hell.
I will raise Hell.
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Messages In This Thread
for the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls - by Hela - August 01, 2020, 08:28 AM
RE: for the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls - by Aries - August 03, 2020, 05:43 PM
RE: for the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls - by Hela - August 06, 2020, 12:00 PM
RE: for the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls - by Aries - August 11, 2020, 09:21 AM