November 04, 2014, 04:53 PM
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The ridge served as some semblance of a home for Kierkegaard. He could not deny that he had become somewhat riveted by the vast stretch of towering rock. His spare time – which had dwindled – was spent on the peaks that defined the ridge.
It had been late evening by the time he had left the territories around the Spine, and the night had crawled until it found itself dead when he finally reached the set of stone marked as Porcupine Ridge. The clouds that loomed overhead were faded by the black backdrop of a star-less sky. The ashen ghost glanced upwards, drawing air into his lungs with heavy breaths. His fiery eyes seemed to roam across the stones he had already traversed, finding himself unwilling to trek on a path already forged by his own paws. He was not certain he wanted to explore the peaks of the ridge at all, however. The night was late, his limbs were agitated and he had been running on a severe lack of rest.
Kierkegaard moved upwards until he found himself a small outcropping near a dangerous drop-off. His lengthy limbs held him, stock-still in the darkness, as he peered over the edge. The long blades of fur along his spine rose unwillingly and lingered there before he pulled himself away from the drop-off and huffed through his nostrils. It very well could have been the danger that drew him to the ridge, but more than that… he enjoyed the silence, the absence.
The ridge served as some semblance of a home for Kierkegaard. He could not deny that he had become somewhat riveted by the vast stretch of towering rock. His spare time – which had dwindled – was spent on the peaks that defined the ridge.
It had been late evening by the time he had left the territories around the Spine, and the night had crawled until it found itself dead when he finally reached the set of stone marked as Porcupine Ridge. The clouds that loomed overhead were faded by the black backdrop of a star-less sky. The ashen ghost glanced upwards, drawing air into his lungs with heavy breaths. His fiery eyes seemed to roam across the stones he had already traversed, finding himself unwilling to trek on a path already forged by his own paws. He was not certain he wanted to explore the peaks of the ridge at all, however. The night was late, his limbs were agitated and he had been running on a severe lack of rest.
Kierkegaard moved upwards until he found himself a small outcropping near a dangerous drop-off. His lengthy limbs held him, stock-still in the darkness, as he peered over the edge. The long blades of fur along his spine rose unwillingly and lingered there before he pulled himself away from the drop-off and huffed through his nostrils. It very well could have been the danger that drew him to the ridge, but more than that… he enjoyed the silence, the absence.
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Messages In This Thread
ghosts - by Kierkegaard - November 04, 2014, 04:53 PM
RE: ghosts - by Silvermane - November 05, 2014, 06:33 AM
RE: ghosts - by Kierkegaard - November 16, 2014, 02:27 AM
RE: ghosts - by Silvermane - November 19, 2014, 10:16 AM
RE: ghosts - by Kierkegaard - December 26, 2014, 02:21 AM