2022-10-17 11:33:32
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To voice or not to voice
Not good enough. These words were lacking in understanding, this tone without spirit, this ink devoid of passion. Had such a speech really come from the hands of Ardos's pen? Was this really how he intended to impart himself on this city?What arrogance. The kind that could only be presumed of a man who did not know the city of crows. Who had not yet seen the sight of a boy choking on poisoned air, who had not been able to save a child from assault, whose eyes had not been accustomed to seeing corpses strewn on the ground. Corpses which looked like him, which had his same sheltered eyes.This place wasn't just a city shrouded in shadow, but one carved in it. The shade extended everywhere, to this house, this desk, to everywhere but his feet. The only one exempt from it entirely was Teresa, but she was a miracle which defied expectations. One protected by the hands of the god who sheltered her and the crest which marked her fate.As long as she was pure….nothing else mattered; but no,
The Baron and the Businessman Once Again
Pale skin, now caressed in the reaper's hands. Clouded eyes, now empty. Golden locks, no longer flowing by her own will.Lysander saw the woman's corpse as it was extracted from the brothel. Lodged in her chest was a knife, her hands fixed upon it, unmoving.She had killed herself, abruptly. Suddenly. Without apparent meaning or buildup. Did she pine for the world beyond this place so much? Was she so burdened by sorrow that she chose to end it all? Did he bring this upon her through cursing her with his drunken touch?These questions raced through Lysander's head like arrows strung from an invisible bow. One chiseled from yew bark perhaps.It didn't matter. These thoughts needed to be discarded from his mind. The reason for her death was insignificant. Just more oil to the flame that swelled in his chest, another phantom on his back.But he couldn't help but wonder. It was a wisp of a thought, but it perplexed him. The mystery of what she was living for. Her eyes had been mystified,
Whispers of War
Before his eyes could process, before his ears could catch the spilling, before he could feel the liquid as it distorted his solid world, he smelt the blood. Like copper from deep under the ground. It was familiar to him, for most coppers he had seen came dyed in crimson. Crimson, the color of revenge. Only he had yet to feel such a sensation. Like an arrow it emerged from the depths and struck his soul, penetrating it with a smell reserved for coins. He liked copper, for it gave him power over the rats and the dark things. Not as much power as gold, but gold burned. It held a desirable yet insatiable luster, but not one which could be grasped yet. No, for now he would settle for copper. Intermingled with the coin's complexion was satisfaction, but not enough to be called nourishment. He hated that word, for words had power over the hearts of man, and a word like 'nourishment' was especially dangerous. So were all the other words engraved into gold, for they could not be bound to the
'Bring it On'
When it was all over, Alder could not help but stare at the knight's corpse. The sight brought to him a tinge of disappointment. When they came every two months to ask for payment from the older boys and girls they seemed so menacing. Alder had known not what they intended to do, but their presence just felt so...distinct.'Where was that impression now?' he asked himself. Perhaps that quality came not from them, but from the armor they wore. The scene in the alley is what happened when a weakness was found in it, and this was what happened when they were without it entirely.He rose slowly from the ground, trying to pull himself away from the grotesque sight, but he kept being pulled back to it. It was entrancing in its repulsiveness, like some sort of dark message from god himself.He still remembered the cold feeling of the stones in his hands as he threw them. It was invigorating, as if some spell had been cast upon him.'What are you so happy about?' he thought to himself. The si
"Value"
The sound of cheers disrupted Alder from his spiral of thoughts. They came suddenly and with great force, a sledgehammer to his ears and a liberator from his mind. He sprang up instantaneously, afraid for where such sounds came from. Outside his window was a massive gathering. At least a thousand or so odd ruffians, bordered by several well dressed individuals comprised the crowd.They were all clapping and cheering at the sight of a singular individual atop a stage. The man appeared rather unremarkable. His clothing was of high quality and his appearance quite polished, but that came with a rather average build and appearance. His face was not even showcased, for he hid it under an ornate mask. What could be so praiseworthy about a man behind a mask?But yet he was celebrated all the same, and with great intensity too. It was remarkable...as if he were some sort of god amongst men. Just looking at him was enough to dispel all Alder's doubts and fears. He wished the moment could last
Poelle
From his oversized closet of a room, Poelle could hear the drunken ranting from his father as if it were happening right in front of him. He had been too lazy to come witness the speech, but Poelle was hardly surprised. When his wasteful wreck of a father wasn't cursing or beating him, he was ranting about bygone times and drowning himself in mysterious substances. Strangely enough, he hadn't touched Poelle in quite a few days. In fact, he only had one noticeable welt on his abnormally skinny body now. But Poelle hardly cared...how could he after all? That man was an animal, an inhuman beast trapped inside a sack of flesh. His bat-like features only accentuated that. And yet despite his hideousness, Poelle's mother, a human had fallen in love with him. Yet he still dared to curse her name? And hurt the son they had birthed together? And waste himself away whining about his heritage and the distant lands to the South from whence he came. It was pathetic. When he was younger Poelle
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