X
X
X
X
X
X
X
Raffles & Giveaways
Share your raffles and giveaways with the Flight Rising community.
TOPIC | Thread closed
@Schingiuire
Hold her for me, please.
[url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=41994499]
[img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/419945/41994499_350.png[/img]
[/url]
bump!
bump!
My Plague Doctor Picture book THE DOCTOR AND THE DRAGON is now for sale!Clearly you already like dragons...but what about plague doctors?
@Schingiuire
[quote=Kaelthas]The metallic stench was overpowering, winding around what little fresh air was left like the vines of a strangler, choking whatever semblance of life and hope the place held only so many moments ago. Dried blood decorated the wall like a grotesque painting, dried trails reaching downward between the cobblestones like dark crimson burns on stone. His eyes stung, and his vision ran watery. His ears were filled with the dreadful sound of sharp wailing, the cacophony throwing his world heavily out of focus.
Panicked magic ebbed erratically, flickering in disjointed patterns. Shoulders hunched, as the weight they bore suddenly became much too painful, too tired to continue in silent torment. His movements were significantly slower, had any outsider been around to note, but there was not a single other being in the vicinity. The Skydancer's magical core protested, ached for release; release from the endless exertion, from the stress from being put through the last couple weeks and, most importantly, release from the coming anguish.
Anguish because he knew, the moment his efforts let up, there would be no way to reverse the inevitable.
[i]It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission[/i], he mused. He was talking out loud again, but nobody close by bothered to tell him, the atmosphere sullen and hopeless. How could she have disappeared?
It was muscle memory at this point. He reached for the folds of moldy cloth covering her abdomen (which was much thinner than he would ever be comfortable with), gently peeling it off her skin. Dried blood stuck persistently between her and the material, cracking the surface underneath just a little more. The odor of rot clung onto his frame like a vile, and as the last of the makeshift garment came away, he could barely withhold the flinch at the sight that greeted him, so horrifying it was. Her wound was a bloody mess, and even that was an understatement. [i]She looked fragile[/i], he noted. Worryingly so, as he brushed past the bumpy surface above her ribs. The skin underneath his fingers was hallow and sickly, an unhealthy shade of pale blue, a contrast to her midnight skin when she was fighting fit. Her abdomen looked sunken in, angry, dark purple discoloration spreading outwards from slightly above her navel.
He felt her own pain before it echoed deep inside him, in his very being, his existence.
Forcing himself to [i]look[/i], his eyes glued themselves to the gaping wound in the center of her Torso. The blackened skin stood out the most, a jagged ridge where the edge of his white-hot blade cauterized her gaping skin.
He swore harshly.
[i]Why did he let her go out there all alone?[/i] She was much too precious, too irreplaceable. He cursed every deity of theirs that he knew of, as the pain doubled, tripled, quadrupled. Staggering unsteadily towards the call of his instincts, his comrades fanned out, weapons drawn and expressions uncertain. She was supposed to be their chosen, their savior.
Everything he wasn't.
Hours seemed to stretch cruelly into days, weeks, but his confidence in his ability to read whatever light that managed to filter through the canopy reassured him otherwise. It was still taking too long, he knew, to find her. So much could happen in a couple hours, and, judging by the exponential amounts of pain he was feeling, she was not doing too well.
But they were in the final hours of their track, when his heart stopped cold.
Chastising himself for staring too long, his hands were shaking as they freed the rest of her torso from the obstructive material. There was only one sort of weapon that could cause so much damage, tearing through mail and leather alike like paper. More importantly, there was only one faction that would dare wield it in all its twisted power.
[i]Damned beastclan[/i], he growled lowly. They had found a way to harness a physical form of the Shade, and imbued their weapons with it.
The smell of copper had already begun to waft from the entrance of the cave, but nothing could've prepared him for what he was about to witness. The memory attached itself to his mind, haunting him through his waking hours -- that said, they got much, much worse when he was vulnerable to the clutches of his nightmares.
The first thing he noticed was the jarring silence of the cave. Every sound from the outside seemed to be muted once it reached the yawning mouth, stalactites looming threateningly over his head. Stalagmites, cones of shadows against the light of the forest reached upward, joining with some of their counterparts from the damp ceiling like teeth of a massive creature interlocking.
Propped against one such giant was the limp body of his sister, a spear jutting out from her abdomen and essentially pinning her against her gravestone-to-be.
[i]No[/i], he remembered rushing to her.
She was the hero, not him. She would've known what to do, then did it better. He was nothing, and she was [i]good[/i]. So, so good. His heart clenched, [i]'look where being good led her'[/i].
At the corner of his eye, said weapon glinted menacingly. It had hurt him so, so much for him to even touch the poison-laced thing, but he could hardly imagine the pain she was in, being skewered with it into the soil and left to die.
The shrieking at the back of his consciousness grew in intensity. He was sure now that they were the cries of banshees.
Pushing all of his energy into his healing magic, he filled her unconscious mind to [i]fight, live, do whatever it takes[/i]. The female's ribs rose once, twice, and.. stilled again. For a moment, her companion sank to his knees, breath heaving and expression devoid of hope.
There were days when he had truly believed that she could make it, especially those where her exhausted body didn't deem it necessary to reject all the food he'd brought her. There were days where he worked past the point of exhaustion, hoping with his entire being that the wound was not nearly enough to kill her.
Two were doomed the moment his hope died out.
After a fortnight, her skin became pallid and clammy even as she broke out in cold sweat, writhing endlessly in unseen agony and breaths barely making it past near-silent wheezes. The injury had festered rather horribly, making her delirious with pain and rendering her unable to stay conscious for the shortest time to help him figure out what to do.
He hated feeling so helpless. Detested it, even. With every fiber of his being. Yet all he could do, day after day, was wash re-dress the increasingly grotesque wound, feed her, and hope to the Gods that Death was not feeling particularly greedy that day.
Her eyes were once a shock of glacier blue, framed by strong cheekbones and arched eyebrows that outwardly spoke of the immeasurable cunning and wit she was capable of, but now the light had left and in its wake was a sickly grey. Unable to make a coherent sound through shallow breaths, the other skydancer's heart sputtered then, and finally became quiet.
And even as reality came crashing down, he went to work once more, his ragged gasps for oxygen that was never enough filling the silence. His entire body felt as if they were set alight -- fury, denial, grief, the fire's fuel -- but he would later learn that it was not from emotion and debilitation alone. The dragon once known as Kaelthas ground his teeth, his expression a mask of blind rage as he persisted. The stink of death clogged his nostrils, cloying and sickeningly sweet.
[i]"Give up, it's not working."[/i] He ignored the voice as best as he could, despite it being strangely similar to that of his own. [i]"Stop it."[/i]
His limbs were cold now. So, so, icy that the damp gravel of their shelter suddenly felt scalding hot. He could see them now. They were beautiful -- long hair licking their waists, red and orange and yellow like wildfire that ravaged and tore through whatever was in their path; bright blue eyes, ones that resembled the color he so desolately missed on the face so alike to his; their slender bodies had an ethereal glow to them, even as they stood in the shadows across where he had been for the last few weeks. What was unbearable, though.. was the keening.
Their high voices mimicked his soul; the wretched feeling like a knife twisting in his gut. The foreboding sensation grew uncomfortably.
They were waiting for something.
No, not a something. A someone.
The air became frigid. His lungs felt choked and frosty as the sensation of chill manifested in a mass before him. There were no sounds, no thoughts, no feelings. They all seemed to be sucked away from him, draining his very being out of existence. The space in front of him rippled slightly, and where the circles spread out from, reality warped; what was previously clear within his line of sight turned blurry and edged, much like the surface of stained glass. He could no longer see the figures that barely touched the floor. Filled with uncertainty, he laid a hand securely over hers, determined to protect her from whatever entity that threatened to take her away.
[i]"She is dead, changeling."[/i]
The voice resounded in his mind, devoid of humanity, devoid of hate and cruelty, but it sent a spike of terror through his soul nonetheless. From the shimmering glass-like surface, a bony hand emerged. Grasping tightly onto the nearest stalagmite, he could see the pure magic pulsing between the white phalanges, so stark against the dark of the cave. Another found its way through a ripple in the new, temporary reality and dug harshly into the ground beside him. The other-worldly hands clenched, pulling, and the being's face emerged. And into Death's eyes, he stared.
He knew why it was here. His soul cried in refusal, echoing agony, begging for an alternative. But the entity would not allow it. Not now, and certainly not ever.
[i]"It is mine to take."[/i] Death responded.
As if a string at her chest was tugged, her chest jerked upward, and a pale blue light erupted from her torso. The glow filled the entirety of the cave, chasing the shadows around corners and out the entrance into the open. It was pure, unmarred, not reflective of the nightmare of the past few weeks. He was incapable of stopping Death itself, he knew. But as Death's fingers closed around the bright orb that was the female's soul, there was a pulling sensation at his very own being.
"You will not," he whispered.
The sound of a blade being drawn filled his ears, grating and merciless. The cruel glint of the weapon gave off a strange vibe, it was as if the metal-like surface was feeding on whatever light there was within its reach. The Grim Reaper held the scythe well over his head, dark tendrils coiling up the snath.
The legend of Kaelthas and how the fight ensued varies depending on who you ask, and where you hear it. The only thing that remains consistent, however, was that after the heroine went missing, the raiding party that went after her with her brother were found dead, with the latter going missing as well. That day onwards, Death was sighted more frequently, and was more merciless than ever. One major difference, though, was that instead of his usual black cloak, Death's skin was said to glitter like the stars above the night sky.[/quote]
I was going to continue, but I've already overshot by quite a bit, so.. I really hope this suffices! ^-^ please let me know if there's anything you would like me to change! (I've followed the prompt, but in a more subtle way, let me know if you'd like me to change it)
@Schingiuire
I was going to continue, but I've already overshot by quite a bit, so.. I really hope this suffices! ^-^ please let me know if there's anything you would like me to change! (I've followed the prompt, but in a more subtle way, let me know if you'd like me to change it)
Kaelthas wrote:
The metallic stench was overpowering, winding around what little fresh air was left like the vines of a strangler, choking whatever semblance of life and hope the place held only so many moments ago. Dried blood decorated the wall like a grotesque painting, dried trails reaching downward between the cobblestones like dark crimson burns on stone. His eyes stung, and his vision ran watery. His ears were filled with the dreadful sound of sharp wailing, the cacophony throwing his world heavily out of focus.
Panicked magic ebbed erratically, flickering in disjointed patterns. Shoulders hunched, as the weight they bore suddenly became much too painful, too tired to continue in silent torment. His movements were significantly slower, had any outsider been around to note, but there was not a single other being in the vicinity. The Skydancer's magical core protested, ached for release; release from the endless exertion, from the stress from being put through the last couple weeks and, most importantly, release from the coming anguish.
Anguish because he knew, the moment his efforts let up, there would be no way to reverse the inevitable.
It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission, he mused. He was talking out loud again, but nobody close by bothered to tell him, the atmosphere sullen and hopeless. How could she have disappeared?
It was muscle memory at this point. He reached for the folds of moldy cloth covering her abdomen (which was much thinner than he would ever be comfortable with), gently peeling it off her skin. Dried blood stuck persistently between her and the material, cracking the surface underneath just a little more. The odor of rot clung onto his frame like a vile, and as the last of the makeshift garment came away, he could barely withhold the flinch at the sight that greeted him, so horrifying it was. Her wound was a bloody mess, and even that was an understatement. She looked fragile, he noted. Worryingly so, as he brushed past the bumpy surface above her ribs. The skin underneath his fingers was hallow and sickly, an unhealthy shade of pale blue, a contrast to her midnight skin when she was fighting fit. Her abdomen looked sunken in, angry, dark purple discoloration spreading outwards from slightly above her navel.
He felt her own pain before it echoed deep inside him, in his very being, his existence.
Forcing himself to look, his eyes glued themselves to the gaping wound in the center of her Torso. The blackened skin stood out the most, a jagged ridge where the edge of his white-hot blade cauterized her gaping skin.
He swore harshly.
Why did he let her go out there all alone? She was much too precious, too irreplaceable. He cursed every deity of theirs that he knew of, as the pain doubled, tripled, quadrupled. Staggering unsteadily towards the call of his instincts, his comrades fanned out, weapons drawn and expressions uncertain. She was supposed to be their chosen, their savior.
Everything he wasn't.
Hours seemed to stretch cruelly into days, weeks, but his confidence in his ability to read whatever light that managed to filter through the canopy reassured him otherwise. It was still taking too long, he knew, to find her. So much could happen in a couple hours, and, judging by the exponential amounts of pain he was feeling, she was not doing too well.
But they were in the final hours of their track, when his heart stopped cold.
Chastising himself for staring too long, his hands were shaking as they freed the rest of her torso from the obstructive material. There was only one sort of weapon that could cause so much damage, tearing through mail and leather alike like paper. More importantly, there was only one faction that would dare wield it in all its twisted power.
Damned beastclan, he growled lowly. They had found a way to harness a physical form of the Shade, and imbued their weapons with it.
The smell of copper had already begun to waft from the entrance of the cave, but nothing could've prepared him for what he was about to witness. The memory attached itself to his mind, haunting him through his waking hours -- that said, they got much, much worse when he was vulnerable to the clutches of his nightmares.
The first thing he noticed was the jarring silence of the cave. Every sound from the outside seemed to be muted once it reached the yawning mouth, stalactites looming threateningly over his head. Stalagmites, cones of shadows against the light of the forest reached upward, joining with some of their counterparts from the damp ceiling like teeth of a massive creature interlocking.
Propped against one such giant was the limp body of his sister, a spear jutting out from her abdomen and essentially pinning her against her gravestone-to-be.
No, he remembered rushing to her.
She was the hero, not him. She would've known what to do, then did it better. He was nothing, and she was good. So, so good. His heart clenched, 'look where being good led her'.
At the corner of his eye, said weapon glinted menacingly. It had hurt him so, so much for him to even touch the poison-laced thing, but he could hardly imagine the pain she was in, being skewered with it into the soil and left to die.
The shrieking at the back of his consciousness grew in intensity. He was sure now that they were the cries of banshees.
Pushing all of his energy into his healing magic, he filled her unconscious mind to fight, live, do whatever it takes. The female's ribs rose once, twice, and.. stilled again. For a moment, her companion sank to his knees, breath heaving and expression devoid of hope.
There were days when he had truly believed that she could make it, especially those where her exhausted body didn't deem it necessary to reject all the food he'd brought her. There were days where he worked past the point of exhaustion, hoping with his entire being that the wound was not nearly enough to kill her.
Two were doomed the moment his hope died out.
After a fortnight, her skin became pallid and clammy even as she broke out in cold sweat, writhing endlessly in unseen agony and breaths barely making it past near-silent wheezes. The injury had festered rather horribly, making her delirious with pain and rendering her unable to stay conscious for the shortest time to help him figure out what to do.
He hated feeling so helpless. Detested it, even. With every fiber of his being. Yet all he could do, day after day, was wash re-dress the increasingly grotesque wound, feed her, and hope to the Gods that Death was not feeling particularly greedy that day.
Her eyes were once a shock of glacier blue, framed by strong cheekbones and arched eyebrows that outwardly spoke of the immeasurable cunning and wit she was capable of, but now the light had left and in its wake was a sickly grey. Unable to make a coherent sound through shallow breaths, the other skydancer's heart sputtered then, and finally became quiet.
And even as reality came crashing down, he went to work once more, his ragged gasps for oxygen that was never enough filling the silence. His entire body felt as if they were set alight -- fury, denial, grief, the fire's fuel -- but he would later learn that it was not from emotion and debilitation alone. The dragon once known as Kaelthas ground his teeth, his expression a mask of blind rage as he persisted. The stink of death clogged his nostrils, cloying and sickeningly sweet.
"Give up, it's not working." He ignored the voice as best as he could, despite it being strangely similar to that of his own. "Stop it."
His limbs were cold now. So, so, icy that the damp gravel of their shelter suddenly felt scalding hot. He could see them now. They were beautiful -- long hair licking their waists, red and orange and yellow like wildfire that ravaged and tore through whatever was in their path; bright blue eyes, ones that resembled the color he so desolately missed on the face so alike to his; their slender bodies had an ethereal glow to them, even as they stood in the shadows across where he had been for the last few weeks. What was unbearable, though.. was the keening.
Their high voices mimicked his soul; the wretched feeling like a knife twisting in his gut. The foreboding sensation grew uncomfortably.
They were waiting for something.
No, not a something. A someone.
The air became frigid. His lungs felt choked and frosty as the sensation of chill manifested in a mass before him. There were no sounds, no thoughts, no feelings. They all seemed to be sucked away from him, draining his very being out of existence. The space in front of him rippled slightly, and where the circles spread out from, reality warped; what was previously clear within his line of sight turned blurry and edged, much like the surface of stained glass. He could no longer see the figures that barely touched the floor. Filled with uncertainty, he laid a hand securely over hers, determined to protect her from whatever entity that threatened to take her away.
"She is dead, changeling."
The voice resounded in his mind, devoid of humanity, devoid of hate and cruelty, but it sent a spike of terror through his soul nonetheless. From the shimmering glass-like surface, a bony hand emerged. Grasping tightly onto the nearest stalagmite, he could see the pure magic pulsing between the white phalanges, so stark against the dark of the cave. Another found its way through a ripple in the new, temporary reality and dug harshly into the ground beside him. The other-worldly hands clenched, pulling, and the being's face emerged. And into Death's eyes, he stared.
He knew why it was here. His soul cried in refusal, echoing agony, begging for an alternative. But the entity would not allow it. Not now, and certainly not ever.
"It is mine to take." Death responded.
As if a string at her chest was tugged, her chest jerked upward, and a pale blue light erupted from her torso. The glow filled the entirety of the cave, chasing the shadows around corners and out the entrance into the open. It was pure, unmarred, not reflective of the nightmare of the past few weeks. He was incapable of stopping Death itself, he knew. But as Death's fingers closed around the bright orb that was the female's soul, there was a pulling sensation at his very own being.
"You will not," he whispered.
The sound of a blade being drawn filled his ears, grating and merciless. The cruel glint of the weapon gave off a strange vibe, it was as if the metal-like surface was feeding on whatever light there was within its reach. The Grim Reaper held the scythe well over his head, dark tendrils coiling up the snath.
The legend of Kaelthas and how the fight ensued varies depending on who you ask, and where you hear it. The only thing that remains consistent, however, was that after the heroine went missing, the raiding party that went after her with her brother were found dead, with the latter going missing as well. That day onwards, Death was sighted more frequently, and was more merciless than ever. One major difference, though, was that instead of his usual black cloak, Death's skin was said to glitter like the stars above the night sky.
Panicked magic ebbed erratically, flickering in disjointed patterns. Shoulders hunched, as the weight they bore suddenly became much too painful, too tired to continue in silent torment. His movements were significantly slower, had any outsider been around to note, but there was not a single other being in the vicinity. The Skydancer's magical core protested, ached for release; release from the endless exertion, from the stress from being put through the last couple weeks and, most importantly, release from the coming anguish.
Anguish because he knew, the moment his efforts let up, there would be no way to reverse the inevitable.
It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission, he mused. He was talking out loud again, but nobody close by bothered to tell him, the atmosphere sullen and hopeless. How could she have disappeared?
It was muscle memory at this point. He reached for the folds of moldy cloth covering her abdomen (which was much thinner than he would ever be comfortable with), gently peeling it off her skin. Dried blood stuck persistently between her and the material, cracking the surface underneath just a little more. The odor of rot clung onto his frame like a vile, and as the last of the makeshift garment came away, he could barely withhold the flinch at the sight that greeted him, so horrifying it was. Her wound was a bloody mess, and even that was an understatement. She looked fragile, he noted. Worryingly so, as he brushed past the bumpy surface above her ribs. The skin underneath his fingers was hallow and sickly, an unhealthy shade of pale blue, a contrast to her midnight skin when she was fighting fit. Her abdomen looked sunken in, angry, dark purple discoloration spreading outwards from slightly above her navel.
He felt her own pain before it echoed deep inside him, in his very being, his existence.
Forcing himself to look, his eyes glued themselves to the gaping wound in the center of her Torso. The blackened skin stood out the most, a jagged ridge where the edge of his white-hot blade cauterized her gaping skin.
He swore harshly.
Why did he let her go out there all alone? She was much too precious, too irreplaceable. He cursed every deity of theirs that he knew of, as the pain doubled, tripled, quadrupled. Staggering unsteadily towards the call of his instincts, his comrades fanned out, weapons drawn and expressions uncertain. She was supposed to be their chosen, their savior.
Everything he wasn't.
Hours seemed to stretch cruelly into days, weeks, but his confidence in his ability to read whatever light that managed to filter through the canopy reassured him otherwise. It was still taking too long, he knew, to find her. So much could happen in a couple hours, and, judging by the exponential amounts of pain he was feeling, she was not doing too well.
But they were in the final hours of their track, when his heart stopped cold.
Chastising himself for staring too long, his hands were shaking as they freed the rest of her torso from the obstructive material. There was only one sort of weapon that could cause so much damage, tearing through mail and leather alike like paper. More importantly, there was only one faction that would dare wield it in all its twisted power.
Damned beastclan, he growled lowly. They had found a way to harness a physical form of the Shade, and imbued their weapons with it.
The smell of copper had already begun to waft from the entrance of the cave, but nothing could've prepared him for what he was about to witness. The memory attached itself to his mind, haunting him through his waking hours -- that said, they got much, much worse when he was vulnerable to the clutches of his nightmares.
The first thing he noticed was the jarring silence of the cave. Every sound from the outside seemed to be muted once it reached the yawning mouth, stalactites looming threateningly over his head. Stalagmites, cones of shadows against the light of the forest reached upward, joining with some of their counterparts from the damp ceiling like teeth of a massive creature interlocking.
Propped against one such giant was the limp body of his sister, a spear jutting out from her abdomen and essentially pinning her against her gravestone-to-be.
No, he remembered rushing to her.
She was the hero, not him. She would've known what to do, then did it better. He was nothing, and she was good. So, so good. His heart clenched, 'look where being good led her'.
At the corner of his eye, said weapon glinted menacingly. It had hurt him so, so much for him to even touch the poison-laced thing, but he could hardly imagine the pain she was in, being skewered with it into the soil and left to die.
The shrieking at the back of his consciousness grew in intensity. He was sure now that they were the cries of banshees.
Pushing all of his energy into his healing magic, he filled her unconscious mind to fight, live, do whatever it takes. The female's ribs rose once, twice, and.. stilled again. For a moment, her companion sank to his knees, breath heaving and expression devoid of hope.
There were days when he had truly believed that she could make it, especially those where her exhausted body didn't deem it necessary to reject all the food he'd brought her. There were days where he worked past the point of exhaustion, hoping with his entire being that the wound was not nearly enough to kill her.
Two were doomed the moment his hope died out.
After a fortnight, her skin became pallid and clammy even as she broke out in cold sweat, writhing endlessly in unseen agony and breaths barely making it past near-silent wheezes. The injury had festered rather horribly, making her delirious with pain and rendering her unable to stay conscious for the shortest time to help him figure out what to do.
He hated feeling so helpless. Detested it, even. With every fiber of his being. Yet all he could do, day after day, was wash re-dress the increasingly grotesque wound, feed her, and hope to the Gods that Death was not feeling particularly greedy that day.
Her eyes were once a shock of glacier blue, framed by strong cheekbones and arched eyebrows that outwardly spoke of the immeasurable cunning and wit she was capable of, but now the light had left and in its wake was a sickly grey. Unable to make a coherent sound through shallow breaths, the other skydancer's heart sputtered then, and finally became quiet.
And even as reality came crashing down, he went to work once more, his ragged gasps for oxygen that was never enough filling the silence. His entire body felt as if they were set alight -- fury, denial, grief, the fire's fuel -- but he would later learn that it was not from emotion and debilitation alone. The dragon once known as Kaelthas ground his teeth, his expression a mask of blind rage as he persisted. The stink of death clogged his nostrils, cloying and sickeningly sweet.
"Give up, it's not working." He ignored the voice as best as he could, despite it being strangely similar to that of his own. "Stop it."
His limbs were cold now. So, so, icy that the damp gravel of their shelter suddenly felt scalding hot. He could see them now. They were beautiful -- long hair licking their waists, red and orange and yellow like wildfire that ravaged and tore through whatever was in their path; bright blue eyes, ones that resembled the color he so desolately missed on the face so alike to his; their slender bodies had an ethereal glow to them, even as they stood in the shadows across where he had been for the last few weeks. What was unbearable, though.. was the keening.
Their high voices mimicked his soul; the wretched feeling like a knife twisting in his gut. The foreboding sensation grew uncomfortably.
They were waiting for something.
No, not a something. A someone.
The air became frigid. His lungs felt choked and frosty as the sensation of chill manifested in a mass before him. There were no sounds, no thoughts, no feelings. They all seemed to be sucked away from him, draining his very being out of existence. The space in front of him rippled slightly, and where the circles spread out from, reality warped; what was previously clear within his line of sight turned blurry and edged, much like the surface of stained glass. He could no longer see the figures that barely touched the floor. Filled with uncertainty, he laid a hand securely over hers, determined to protect her from whatever entity that threatened to take her away.
"She is dead, changeling."
The voice resounded in his mind, devoid of humanity, devoid of hate and cruelty, but it sent a spike of terror through his soul nonetheless. From the shimmering glass-like surface, a bony hand emerged. Grasping tightly onto the nearest stalagmite, he could see the pure magic pulsing between the white phalanges, so stark against the dark of the cave. Another found its way through a ripple in the new, temporary reality and dug harshly into the ground beside him. The other-worldly hands clenched, pulling, and the being's face emerged. And into Death's eyes, he stared.
He knew why it was here. His soul cried in refusal, echoing agony, begging for an alternative. But the entity would not allow it. Not now, and certainly not ever.
"It is mine to take." Death responded.
As if a string at her chest was tugged, her chest jerked upward, and a pale blue light erupted from her torso. The glow filled the entirety of the cave, chasing the shadows around corners and out the entrance into the open. It was pure, unmarred, not reflective of the nightmare of the past few weeks. He was incapable of stopping Death itself, he knew. But as Death's fingers closed around the bright orb that was the female's soul, there was a pulling sensation at his very own being.
"You will not," he whispered.
The sound of a blade being drawn filled his ears, grating and merciless. The cruel glint of the weapon gave off a strange vibe, it was as if the metal-like surface was feeding on whatever light there was within its reach. The Grim Reaper held the scythe well over his head, dark tendrils coiling up the snath.
The legend of Kaelthas and how the fight ensued varies depending on who you ask, and where you hear it. The only thing that remains consistent, however, was that after the heroine went missing, the raiding party that went after her with her brother were found dead, with the latter going missing as well. That day onwards, Death was sighted more frequently, and was more merciless than ever. One major difference, though, was that instead of his usual black cloak, Death's skin was said to glitter like the stars above the night sky.
I was going to continue, but I've already overshot by quite a bit, so.. I really hope this suffices! ^-^ please let me know if there's anything you would like me to change! (I've followed the prompt, but in a more subtle way, let me know if you'd like me to change it)
@OrchardofStone
Could I put a claim on this beautiful girl? I have a really good/ dark idea for her prompt
Could I put a claim on this beautiful girl? I have a really good/ dark idea for her prompt
@OrchardofStone
Could I put a claim on this beautiful girl? I have a really good/ dark idea for her prompt
Could I put a claim on this beautiful girl? I have a really good/ dark idea for her prompt
@Schingiuire i'm having trouble with a paper i have to send out today and might be a little late finishing my lore for the carrot noct, but i'll post it tonight for sure!
@Schingiuire i'm having trouble with a paper i have to send out today and might be a little late finishing my lore for the carrot noct, but i'll post it tonight for sure!
well goodness me! my second derg for the week!
@OrchardOfStone I'd like to claim this girlie!
[url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=47249593]
[img]http://flightrising.com/rendern/350/472496/47249593_350.png[/img]
[/url]
Hello LGBT Community
