Emberwood (ᴅᴛʜ.) cradled you in my arms
Read Only  February 08, 2020, 07:41 AM
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Occurence is Febuary 5th, 2020. After everything has been set right, an angered Lolita uproots him and the soul of a now healed man is dead, replaced anew . . .  rises when the sun rises herself.

        Heavy, relenting not now or near here, plummling snow. The crest of his ashen head dotted softly with swarming ice, trailing like a chilled river down his spine, through him. Choked, strangled by the river, a bed he is not welcome to rest, him? — he floats. The seasoned head of an elder buck lifts his voice, echoing to his brown crested harem of potential endangerment — but not him. He floats. The fine scaled specimen with beady, bottomless eyes unlike of their abode, seperate and flee the still man. His once ashen cheek meant to illustrate tears that ran down a relieved contenance, lift his toothy grin when he remembered her. . . rendered into a mess, a myriad of fractured flesh. The fish nibble and fiddle with it in innocent curiousity, the daring, roan ones speckled with grey and shining ivory, bold they are. 

        He floats.

        He never contemplates in quiet, sacred tones when he will wake again, if he is but a wandering airless piece of debris is the ever stretching swathe of water and land . . . It is then the stricken, falsely, wakes. His legs in a flurry of panic immeadite betray these sensations and he is useless in the moment, churning the fluent matter around himself, a true flounderer in his predicament. but going nowhere. Whines and cries can be heard from him, soft but panicked like the air of the labour of a ready mother. Only once he feels peril set on him, like the ashy claws of a brid of prey, he reaches the bank.

        Cold. Confused. Wet. Full of water.

        He does not know why he is there. Where is this place? Who is he? Well his residence was a ways away for a forgetting ashen man, something he could not fine alone. There is no grandeur in his voice nor imperialness is his usuall ice cold gaze. . . who is this? Who owns this body? It wasn't Awol, any of his acquaintances would figure out in mere and quickening heartbeats. As was his, alone on the grass with looming aspens staring at his with aspen eyes, spying ever noting down the events of his half-death. 

        This . . . thick tounged, mentally foreign man curses in his orginal mother tongue, scratching and hoarse. Sniffling like an abandoned runt, he tries to walk. Fallig this time. A few more attempts. He groans in pain and frustration. His head is the symphony of percussion, blood in his ears and booming with pain — oh, he tries to walk one more time. Through the pain of everything, his lips cracked and bloody, the fractured, star shaped flesh still red with what flowed in him (like that damned river) and cried instead. But he walked, unlike the man who crossed seas on is two barefoot. No, but he trekked solemnly, at least his primarial instainct to find somewhere was not forgotten.

        But he was.

        So striken he remains;
        believed dead;
        into the unknown.