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 Post subject: Fighting Temptation
PostPosted: Aug 24th, '10, 16:52 
Twilight Council
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Joined: Nov 13th, '06, 13:41
Posts: 1249
Location: In ur base killin ur doods.
"Suffering is all I once knew. Suffering; my own or theirs, at the end of spells whose sole purpose is to make the skin rot and tear; the flesh rise forth with fetid stench and in turn crack and fall away leaving only bone and even this would soon become dust as the victim watched in a blessed mix of terror and agony. All this cast for redemption, perhaps; another chance they say, another chance to live and do it right, a chance to cup the underside of a growing daisy without the urge to force it to wilt and die without chance of regrowth. They took from me my arm that day, severed its link, turned it to dust as I have many arms before mine. Angel, they call me. Some even arch angel. Such a fate is mine to wield the spear of destiny sharp at both points; for perhaps it is that my shoulders spout feathered tendrils capable of flight; perhaps it is that my mother was of pure birth, cast from the heavens to aid in the war against the hells... But even the blind could not deny that angels fly on pure of snow and mine? Ashen remains of something that was once right and true cast to the flame to become of no worth just as the man who saves the child in flame in sacrifice of his own facial flesh is looked upon as hero but will never find love, never know the joys of company... Doomed to die alone."

His own reflection was there before him as he spoke to an empty room, cast back, distorted by the golden goblet of wine he drank from. The usual emotionless husk in his lips perhaps tilted now with a hint of confusion, for that most potent of arms of his was indeed missing, all that remained of its previous skeletal presence was the fleshy remnants about his shoulder, through which is own supposedly righteous bone pressed through into the midnight air. His flesh was always pale but the chilling breeze of a northern wind made it moreso, and red in areas wherein hailstones akin to monoliths had stricken his bare form; enough to break ribs and sever skin. And though the blood did weep from these sores he continues to stand in the opening of an old cave, betwix the downward hanging icicles that strayed so close to the tip of his head, leering into the mirrored edge that distorted him so perfectly, even if lithe fingers struggled to grip its surface.

The hallways rattled with a discorded grunt as he cast the goblet aside, the purest of wine falling from its light embrace to freeze and shatter upon the ground. The last cadence of echo faded before he turned to pace the slippery ground in which he hid, staring at the ground as he spoke words to himself he never thougth he would; that which contested his revolutionary resolve with the gods and the one she called his 'lamb'.

"And then cometh from where no man hath tread; her. This witch who speaks of potency and power, of recreating an arm of more power than my own -- an impossibility, each and every man on this earth has cowered before my name, each and every one frightened to truly engage Keldrin Mortanis, for the very mention before a mirror will pull him through it with the wrath of a thousand storms; for the very mention on unhallowed ground will bring the dead to rise, and this decrepit pale skinned warlock claims more...

... I laugh. There can be nothing more satisfying than what I have experienced, nothing more than what I cast aside and nothing more fierce than the bond between lovers. But what if I am wrong? What if she can offer more than I was capable of achieving?"



Short of breath and angered, the man grasped a low hanging icicle with his remaining hand. Slender fingers wrapped about its surface, clutching with the strength of the unholy, his fingernails sinking into the frozen water. Slowly the snakey lengthy of midnight black hair took to motion as he lifted his head aloft to leer in the vissage he saw before him, cradling his cheeks like curtains and there, trapped within the ice was an image that he could not cast aside. Thick, layered, black feathered wings in turn cradling his lithe frame. Such a sight brought reserve to the sorcerer, his emotions back in tune with themselves and with its passing, the hailstones outside turned to snow, powdering the ground he had prior walked on. The clouds above parted ways with the world and through their passive retreat the suns rays lit the ground of the Claw Mountains as they had many times prior in the summer months; the world safe again from an explosive loss of control from this particular sorcerer.

"Were my wings supposed to be white, they would be white. Were I meant to be a judicator for the heavens, then so would I be. But that is not my purpose. There are nine already lined up to save the world; sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Perhaps I will humour this witch..."


His footsteps chased the echo of his words as he turned from the icicles within the cave, leaving behind only a solitary crow like feather as he lept from the pinacle of claw mountain and took to the skies, above the clouds out of the sight of mortal eyes. To where? Only the gods could see.

_________________
Never under estimate the power that language imparts. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can break hearts.

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