Post by Deleted on Oct 1, 2017 20:17:38 GMT -6
Xisyn was just as impressive as he remembered it. Green life curled around the red-brown trenches like a blanket, seeming to sprout on every space where sunlight deigned to touch. It was a welcome change of scenery; after working for the marked brute, who seemed to dip lower and lower into some childish insanity, the darkness of the Serpent’s Tongue was no longer new or charming, but simply dull—then, the trek through the Occasus was the same shade of summery yellow-orange. The cobalt brute felt like he had sand in every crevice, but his senses craved this colorful respite.
Though the time during which the wolves were sent to the Southern Isles seemed brief, the landscape blossomed, no longer stagnant with drought, and the border of the sinkhole teemed with scrubby plants. He wondered, sometimes, if the rest of the Wraiths made it home; Scarecrow supposed it was something he would not know, could not know, until he returned home. And returning home was something the mature brute was simply not ready to do yet.
It was a funny thing, he thought, calling the Dearg Ruhadri home. They were not bound to location; each of them moved fluidly over the land, both existing and nonexistent at once, somehow everywhere and nowhere. Most did not even know of the Wraiths, for they did not understand what it meant to be one, nor were they clever enough to ask— for most wolves, the conversational nuance of ‘who are you?’ began and ended with a name. Like all of his profession, the one he chose was simple, and it made more wolves ask what it meant than ask what he did for a living. He wanted to think himself clever or calculated, but he nearly giggled at the thought. He made a fine assassin, and he had a zero-failure rate to date, but that kind of precision took dedication, something he’d never given to his communication skills.
Senses alight (as if they could be some other way), he smelled the faint markers of a female on the timeless borderline. It was angry, maybe even dangerous—he considered himself a kind of piss connoisseur. He stifled a giggle at the thought and waltzed over the border with a smile wrapped across his maw, scarred lips peeled goofily. There was little that a skilled killer had to fear, and certainly not from a potential client.
Truly, he was itching for work. His life held little purpose without working, and without working, he was not getting paid. He missed the closeness of a partner, longed to hold one close until morning broke. Male, female, it didn’t matter much; it was the companionship that addicted him, the feeling of being one with something even for just a little while.
Scarecrow’s train of thought skidded to a halt, suddenly. In the distance, he made out a dark figure, monochromatic against the red-brown of the terrain, save for the shine of ruby-red within her sockets. She was not large, but not small either, and was relatively well-muscled; the steeled brute cocked his head slightly and continued walking calmly in her direction, his face a mask of seriousness.
Piss connoisseur, his mind reminded him, and his chest erupted in a snorting laugh.
Though the time during which the wolves were sent to the Southern Isles seemed brief, the landscape blossomed, no longer stagnant with drought, and the border of the sinkhole teemed with scrubby plants. He wondered, sometimes, if the rest of the Wraiths made it home; Scarecrow supposed it was something he would not know, could not know, until he returned home. And returning home was something the mature brute was simply not ready to do yet.
It was a funny thing, he thought, calling the Dearg Ruhadri home. They were not bound to location; each of them moved fluidly over the land, both existing and nonexistent at once, somehow everywhere and nowhere. Most did not even know of the Wraiths, for they did not understand what it meant to be one, nor were they clever enough to ask— for most wolves, the conversational nuance of ‘who are you?’ began and ended with a name. Like all of his profession, the one he chose was simple, and it made more wolves ask what it meant than ask what he did for a living. He wanted to think himself clever or calculated, but he nearly giggled at the thought. He made a fine assassin, and he had a zero-failure rate to date, but that kind of precision took dedication, something he’d never given to his communication skills.
Senses alight (as if they could be some other way), he smelled the faint markers of a female on the timeless borderline. It was angry, maybe even dangerous—he considered himself a kind of piss connoisseur. He stifled a giggle at the thought and waltzed over the border with a smile wrapped across his maw, scarred lips peeled goofily. There was little that a skilled killer had to fear, and certainly not from a potential client.
Truly, he was itching for work. His life held little purpose without working, and without working, he was not getting paid. He missed the closeness of a partner, longed to hold one close until morning broke. Male, female, it didn’t matter much; it was the companionship that addicted him, the feeling of being one with something even for just a little while.
Scarecrow’s train of thought skidded to a halt, suddenly. In the distance, he made out a dark figure, monochromatic against the red-brown of the terrain, save for the shine of ruby-red within her sockets. She was not large, but not small either, and was relatively well-muscled; the steeled brute cocked his head slightly and continued walking calmly in her direction, his face a mask of seriousness.
Piss connoisseur, his mind reminded him, and his chest erupted in a snorting laugh.
tags: @far
words: 555
muse: good
notes: just gettin' the feel, SO EXCITE
words: 555
muse: good
notes: just gettin' the feel, SO EXCITE
Valkyrie 
93 | 
