Post by Arvind Pillai on Dec 20, 2007 6:59:27 GMT -5
In the thick of the night, next to a secluded pool near Osirin:
The soldier felt himself cascading down a steep (and rugged) incline.
This velocious descent was punctuated by his own mad screams and the endless tauntings of his lupine tormentors (who watched him fall to the banks from the rim of the depression)
He landed forcefully upon the jagged stones that lay strewn across the silted shore below. The piked rocks produced light gashes on his shoulders, hands and knees; the sheer impact of the fall had damaged his ribs; the ache in his cheek bones persisted. It was a dull pain. But he was far too numb to truly feel it. Slowly he turned around to gaze in horror at what was left of his lower-left appendage. He cried, and his plaintive calls for help rang through the forest air. But no help was due in hell.
His left leg was nothing more than a lifeless and bloodied stump that he lugged along as he crawled through the mulch. The pain in his thigh was unlike the pain in his face.. it came in brief, jarring bouts of pure agony.
He had been beaten, slighted and tortured by the fiends, and now they had cast him into the low banks of the lake, where he would meet his end. He looked back at the tar-black water surface. The night sky was starry and the moonlit, but no luminous reflections graced the pitch-blackness of the lake's traquil rind. Suddenly, the surface of the lake began to undulate and tremble in a violent fashion. A unsettling feeling of approaching danger overwhelmed him and he attempted to scramble up the muddy slopes, away from the bank. But alas, he was too slow!
A pale hand clutched him by the foot and drew him under the lake. The dark, algid liquid englufed him and as he was drawn away from the dull shores, he sensed an intense malice in the tarn's swirling currents. A black hatred that seemed ageless. In an instant he felt the thick, inky fluid fill his nostrils, his ears and his lungs. But he did not drown, not yet. As he fell from the starlight deeper, he saw a face in the water. It was the face of a wizened man. His cheeks and lips were a ghastly white. His eye-sockets were empty: they were hollow bone pockets filled only with a horrifying darkness. Thin strands of curled hair were scattered untidily over its forehead. Even as he sank deeper, the facial features of the ancient countenance remained frozen and expressionless. The warrior wished that the face were contorted into a fierce, warlike scowl. Atleast then he might've scowled back, and shown the icy face that he would not go down without a fight. Its careless impassivity madenned him, terrified him.
He hit the sandly floor of the mere, and the gravel began to absorb him. He still saw the starlight shining faintly.
"You have been given second life." whispered a disembodied voice in the void. "Roam the earth as a fell beast. And be the instrument of my hate."
The warrior finally yielded and the darkness took him.
Next Day:
The fisherman smiled, revealing an ancient set of yellow and misalligned teeth. Wrinkles and lines ran mercilessly across the entire length and breath of his olive skin. He was atleast sixty years of age. Even so, his blue eyes had not yet lost their lustre, and they sparkled curiously in morning sun.
"River fish! Please! Have! Costs 10 pieces!"
Slowly his withered fingers curled around the smooth tail of freshly-caught salmon. A scarlett fire raged in the stove beside his outdoor table. You were heading towards the mountains when you caught sight of the greying fish-seller, lazing about in his lawn. He said that he often sold carps and other riverine fish to travellers that passed by. It raises it up to eye-level, admiring the sheer length of his catch. The scaly skin of the salmon shimmered as it dangled precariously from his fingers.
The soldier felt himself cascading down a steep (and rugged) incline.
This velocious descent was punctuated by his own mad screams and the endless tauntings of his lupine tormentors (who watched him fall to the banks from the rim of the depression)
He landed forcefully upon the jagged stones that lay strewn across the silted shore below. The piked rocks produced light gashes on his shoulders, hands and knees; the sheer impact of the fall had damaged his ribs; the ache in his cheek bones persisted. It was a dull pain. But he was far too numb to truly feel it. Slowly he turned around to gaze in horror at what was left of his lower-left appendage. He cried, and his plaintive calls for help rang through the forest air. But no help was due in hell.
His left leg was nothing more than a lifeless and bloodied stump that he lugged along as he crawled through the mulch. The pain in his thigh was unlike the pain in his face.. it came in brief, jarring bouts of pure agony.
He had been beaten, slighted and tortured by the fiends, and now they had cast him into the low banks of the lake, where he would meet his end. He looked back at the tar-black water surface. The night sky was starry and the moonlit, but no luminous reflections graced the pitch-blackness of the lake's traquil rind. Suddenly, the surface of the lake began to undulate and tremble in a violent fashion. A unsettling feeling of approaching danger overwhelmed him and he attempted to scramble up the muddy slopes, away from the bank. But alas, he was too slow!
A pale hand clutched him by the foot and drew him under the lake. The dark, algid liquid englufed him and as he was drawn away from the dull shores, he sensed an intense malice in the tarn's swirling currents. A black hatred that seemed ageless. In an instant he felt the thick, inky fluid fill his nostrils, his ears and his lungs. But he did not drown, not yet. As he fell from the starlight deeper, he saw a face in the water. It was the face of a wizened man. His cheeks and lips were a ghastly white. His eye-sockets were empty: they were hollow bone pockets filled only with a horrifying darkness. Thin strands of curled hair were scattered untidily over its forehead. Even as he sank deeper, the facial features of the ancient countenance remained frozen and expressionless. The warrior wished that the face were contorted into a fierce, warlike scowl. Atleast then he might've scowled back, and shown the icy face that he would not go down without a fight. Its careless impassivity madenned him, terrified him.
He hit the sandly floor of the mere, and the gravel began to absorb him. He still saw the starlight shining faintly.
"You have been given second life." whispered a disembodied voice in the void. "Roam the earth as a fell beast. And be the instrument of my hate."
The warrior finally yielded and the darkness took him.
Next Day:
The fisherman smiled, revealing an ancient set of yellow and misalligned teeth. Wrinkles and lines ran mercilessly across the entire length and breath of his olive skin. He was atleast sixty years of age. Even so, his blue eyes had not yet lost their lustre, and they sparkled curiously in morning sun.
"River fish! Please! Have! Costs 10 pieces!"
Slowly his withered fingers curled around the smooth tail of freshly-caught salmon. A scarlett fire raged in the stove beside his outdoor table. You were heading towards the mountains when you caught sight of the greying fish-seller, lazing about in his lawn. He said that he often sold carps and other riverine fish to travellers that passed by. It raises it up to eye-level, admiring the sheer length of his catch. The scaly skin of the salmon shimmered as it dangled precariously from his fingers.