08-26-2018, 04:27 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]//that is not shitty at all you hush
Sparrow had few qualms about those who met his blade, be it by order of the people who saved he and his brother or those who got in his way. He couldn't claim to swing between control and chaos- his dagger-point anger thirsted to meet flesh, and he was lost to its insatiable need. There was not a moment that passed without rage and pain twisting into a destabilizing concoction, and home was far, far away, in another time, when Sparrow did not recoil from his reflection and when he had trusted his brother to take care of everything as he always had. Home died when he woke, skin burning even without the flames, and the boy he once was drowned in metal and tubes. There was no control to be had when nothing he was remained, when peace was impossible and he questioned if his existence even qualified as living.
It was best he did not see his brother like this. The people who sent him here would not have allowed anyway, but Sparrow could not trust himself not to- not to hate him, not to tear him apart. The only thing he could entrust himself with was his skill in stealing lives; beyond that, he was a ticking bomb, not to be handled by anyone, unable to defuse his own timer. Was there a person he didn't endanger by virtue of remaining?
He did not care for their lives. He didn't. He hated all of them, so soft even in their aggression because they were not remade into an abomination and expected to be grateful for it. Because they were not brought from death's door for the sole purpose of throwing others through it, and he knew it accomplished nothing to wallow in circumstances he had not chosen and could not change, but still he beat his fists against the walls, shouting himself voiceless. It was stupid. It pissed him off.
What didn't?
The stench of cigarette smoke certainly did. He hadn't minded it when he was younger, but now it felt like shards scraping the walls of his throat, his nose, and agitation came easily. So did pinpointing the cause: a lion, standing at the border, looking like shit while grinning ridiculously to himself. He clenched what was left of his jaw and leaped down from his tree, pausing only briefly as white shocks spread across his vision when prosthetic legs dug too hard. Sparrow was on the move again shortly after, straight for the lion, and the size difference would be comical if he cared. "You smell worse than your cigarette." Not that he himself smelled like a garden, with so much raw skin. "Tell me why you're here." The sword on his back quivered with Sparrow's anticipation. He did not think the lion was here to fight, but if he was, maybe Sparrow could have a challenge.
[align=right]INFORMATION
Sparrow had few qualms about those who met his blade, be it by order of the people who saved he and his brother or those who got in his way. He couldn't claim to swing between control and chaos- his dagger-point anger thirsted to meet flesh, and he was lost to its insatiable need. There was not a moment that passed without rage and pain twisting into a destabilizing concoction, and home was far, far away, in another time, when Sparrow did not recoil from his reflection and when he had trusted his brother to take care of everything as he always had. Home died when he woke, skin burning even without the flames, and the boy he once was drowned in metal and tubes. There was no control to be had when nothing he was remained, when peace was impossible and he questioned if his existence even qualified as living.
It was best he did not see his brother like this. The people who sent him here would not have allowed anyway, but Sparrow could not trust himself not to- not to hate him, not to tear him apart. The only thing he could entrust himself with was his skill in stealing lives; beyond that, he was a ticking bomb, not to be handled by anyone, unable to defuse his own timer. Was there a person he didn't endanger by virtue of remaining?
He did not care for their lives. He didn't. He hated all of them, so soft even in their aggression because they were not remade into an abomination and expected to be grateful for it. Because they were not brought from death's door for the sole purpose of throwing others through it, and he knew it accomplished nothing to wallow in circumstances he had not chosen and could not change, but still he beat his fists against the walls, shouting himself voiceless. It was stupid. It pissed him off.
What didn't?
The stench of cigarette smoke certainly did. He hadn't minded it when he was younger, but now it felt like shards scraping the walls of his throat, his nose, and agitation came easily. So did pinpointing the cause: a lion, standing at the border, looking like shit while grinning ridiculously to himself. He clenched what was left of his jaw and leaped down from his tree, pausing only briefly as white shocks spread across his vision when prosthetic legs dug too hard. Sparrow was on the move again shortly after, straight for the lion, and the size difference would be comical if he cared. "You smell worse than your cigarette." Not that he himself smelled like a garden, with so much raw skin. "Tell me why you're here." The sword on his back quivered with Sparrow's anticipation. He did not think the lion was here to fight, but if he was, maybe Sparrow could have a challenge.
[align=right]INFORMATION
[align=center][div style="font-size:16pt; font-family:impact; color:black; padding:10px; letter-spacing:.5px; opacity:;"]I NEED THAT FIRE JUST TO KNOW THAT I'M [color=#b24455]AWAKE