*thousands of words*
Scattered corpses, heavily armoured, crushed and crumpled. Slumped figure, twisting and pulling on withered hands, scowling face, eyes rapidly darting back and forth, seeking escape.
*who/what*
That went well. Only half of them died. Curse this weakened flesh. I wear it like a costume, a dancing clown, heavy shoes, tripping over myself. She deserves my thanks for driving him out but she will get my curses for writing to the script to this farce. Power that flowed so smoothly when I was alive stutters and jerks, thoughts ooze through this corroded flesh. I have exchanged a non-existence for a crippled one. The one redeeming feature is that this lawless horde is free to delight in whatever they want. We shall see what we can make of that.
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Diatribe
Diatribe
Grisbault, Twice-Made.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
Re: Diatribe
*who/what*
I must say that I was very surprised. I thought that acting required some form of empathy, emotion. Apparently not. A flawless performance, there are tear stains on my robe. The satisfaction of knowing that the fool was suffering within must be balance with the certainty that she will devise a fitting torment. And there is no void to be filled. Certainly the fight against Leotheras proved that. She muttered something about proving herself more than capable of dealing with the matter. I held my tongue and did not mention that while she was dealing with her inner demons there was a battle being fought against the real foe. I grow more comfortable in this corpse and if I had a nose, the sweet smell of success would be growing ever so slightly stronger.
*thousands of words*
Blank gaze, ruined face, empty eyes staring up. Tears forced from corrupt glands streaming down a face, a small mouth rounded in perfect pleading. Thin arms, sharp claws, clasping for strength.
*thousands of words*
Tiny hands, razor talons craddling, rocking, stabbing, threatening.
*thousands of words*
Thin lips, sneering, a hint of disgust at the bile they had been spewing. Green flame dancing in the dark, trying to burn the memory of a means to an end.
I must say that I was very surprised. I thought that acting required some form of empathy, emotion. Apparently not. A flawless performance, there are tear stains on my robe. The satisfaction of knowing that the fool was suffering within must be balance with the certainty that she will devise a fitting torment. And there is no void to be filled. Certainly the fight against Leotheras proved that. She muttered something about proving herself more than capable of dealing with the matter. I held my tongue and did not mention that while she was dealing with her inner demons there was a battle being fought against the real foe. I grow more comfortable in this corpse and if I had a nose, the sweet smell of success would be growing ever so slightly stronger.
*thousands of words*
Blank gaze, ruined face, empty eyes staring up. Tears forced from corrupt glands streaming down a face, a small mouth rounded in perfect pleading. Thin arms, sharp claws, clasping for strength.
*thousands of words*
Tiny hands, razor talons craddling, rocking, stabbing, threatening.
*thousands of words*
Thin lips, sneering, a hint of disgust at the bile they had been spewing. Green flame dancing in the dark, trying to burn the memory of a means to an end.
Grisbault, Twice-Made.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
Re: Diatribe
*thousands of words*
A memory. A figure, huddled, hulking, cowering, towering. A tall, well-muscled man, a dashing figure in flowing robes, tears and snot streaming down his handsome face. Crouched in a corner he peers through the glowing portal and watches as the brave magisters are cut down drained killed devoured. A small hook-fingered figure behind a looming horned one take steps towards him as the spell fails and winks out.
*who/what*
I know her. She hides her past. I doubt that there is room for blackmail, but knowledge is also power. This should be a lever to lift myself up.
A memory. A figure, huddled, hulking, cowering, towering. A tall, well-muscled man, a dashing figure in flowing robes, tears and snot streaming down his handsome face. Crouched in a corner he peers through the glowing portal and watches as the brave magisters are cut down drained killed devoured. A small hook-fingered figure behind a looming horned one take steps towards him as the spell fails and winks out.
*who/what*
I know her. She hides her past. I doubt that there is room for blackmail, but knowledge is also power. This should be a lever to lift myself up.
Grisbault, Twice-Made.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.