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Topic: A Bound Fist (RP) (Read 26 times) |
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CarringtonSony
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Last On: 01/30/06
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...
Overhead, the clouds hovered low over the ground, and the hot, muggy ambience of the lowland swamps blanketed his bare chest. It was an absolutely miserable day, to one who would not call a lowland their home, and yet there was an odd calm about it, as if all was right, in it's own quirky little way. The chatter of swamp creatures could be heard across the otherwise silent murk, and a light later of mist fluttered softly over small island after island, caressing the waterline with it's cool, silent touch. Lowland birds dipped their heads into the dirty water, searching for any sort of food as they always have, from the day they arrived.
Among the trees past the first set of small islands that formed a sort of horseshoe shape as one enters the lands, lay a corpse...silently it laid there, conversing only with the harsh stillness that is death. A small stream of blood began to trickle down across the bare moss and into the murky stream that made it's way past, as if an oblivious bystander on a busy street. The long, matted grass slurped up the warm, crimson fluid as it began it's journey downstream, and the moss reveled in the warmth that the body gave it, slowly fading. The body was fresh, and the horrified expression showed the nature of his end. His eyes were wide open as he lay face down amonst the grass and moss, the blades of the ground tickling at his eyeballs, not to any of his current concern. He bled from them, as well as his mouth, nose and ears...and his flesh was harsh with bruises and other horrid now imperfections. His fingers still dug into the ground, as if he died while trying to desperately crawl away, and it was so...the coup de grace performed on him was nothing spectacular, and certainly not pretty, but it was coldly, bitterly efficient. He bled from the back of his head over thin, white hair which now ran red as the sun, which was now shining directly through the canopy of weeping trees, warmed his exposed skull and brain matter. This unfortunate man looked to have died of severe trauma to the head; for any other assumption would have been fairly unwise. While the cause of death was obvious, the cause of his pain, was also. Twisted at an akward angle, sprawled outward not unlike a butterfly's wings were his legs...gruesome angles, as if you could hear the crackling of bone being demolished as the blows were administered. While the man lay finally at peace now, it was clear that certainly, he had earned his eternal rest.
And the man standing over the mangled corpse agrees with me, and most likely still does to this day...and perhaps you will too. Perhaps so, perhaps not, it does not matter. Men live, and men die; such are the ways of said man.
Over the corpse stood a young tiefling male, bare-chest gleaming with sweat in the newly found sunlight. His hair was jet black, like the wings of a raven, and cascaded down his back like a pristine waterfall, gently blowing in the mild breeze. His eyes were deep and green, piercing, yet almost ghostly. They carried a look of resolve, but of great heartache, and sorrow...as if he had a very long, awful score to settle. His face itself was handsome, but only in the most rugged, harsh sense of the word.
His body itself was cut and muscular, and he was shrouded in all black...bound, large leather gauntlets and finger-gloves, black, baggy hide-leather pants with huge, oversized boots and brutal, light-metallic shinguards. However, as I noted before, his chest was bare, for all to see...as if prophetically for all to see. All over his body he wore several scars, tattoos and piercings, almost to the point it was painful to look at. The most notable for these was the one that was not so much a tattoo, but a scar created with letters...perhaps branded into him...or carved with a knife. This odd brand rested upon the upper right of his chest and read, in a cold, brutal manuscript, 'Free Will.'
The brooding young male looked down at the corpse, his teeth clenched and his bound fists caked with dried blood. He had been standing there for a few minutes...an hour...a few hours...he did not know. The thoughts still rushed through his head on a crash course with reality...and perhaps what he had actually done had not sunken in yet. However, when the thought would arise, it would be a welcome, blissful thought. No longer would he be bound by the chains of morality. No longer would he restrain himself for the good of his practice, for the good of all around him. None of it mattered to him anymore.
Cryus, the brothers Lucian and Valerin, his father Mikal, his best friend Landon, his loving mother Christianna, and his mentor Tseng Biao, were all gone. Gone and in the ground, no more than fertilizer for the cold, unforgiving soil. Even the love of his life, Stephanie...dear, dear Stephanie...with her flowing brown locks and inviting, warm eyes...eyes that could adore, or set you aflame...was gone. Everything that he knew as his life, was either destroyed, or dead...and to him, that made him dead. The young rebel lived for those he loved...as and far as he was concerned, he wished it upon himself.
But now, he turned away from everything he was taught. Everything about self-restraint...everything about compassion, of right and wrong...and of justice. From now until the end of his days, it was eye-for-and-eye...and he had a whole hell of alot of eyes to take.
'Forgive me, Stephanie, but I 'will' join you soon. Just not yet. My time has not come. This is not about you, or Tseng Biao, or Landon. This is about me. And blood is going to run red.'
This is the tale of Kage D'Angelo, about the love and life that brought him everything he knew, and the way he would watch everything crumble around him, helplessly.
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| « Last Edit: on: May 13, 2005, 3:55AM » |
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