08-28-2018, 02:54 PM
[div style="width: 48%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]Even the supernatural were destined to meet an end.
When he gazed upon that corpse lying on the sand, deposited by the waves that lapped at the ground hungrily, there was surely conflict that was stirring within him. A struggle to feel, to sympathize with those that rushed to the lifeless form of Suiteheart, that begged for her to rise from her slumber. Begging for it to all be some sickening mirage, a lucid nightmare that the whole group would experience at the same time, something that would fade away in a little while to return to normal. They willed for her return. They cried for her to move once more, if not merely the organs within her to function.
He knew better than to do the same.
The scent of cigarette smoke filled the air around them as slow, lumbering pawsteps gave away the presence of the cyborg wolf, watching the young children squeal and cry and beg. Mortals are pathetic. Could he afford to be heartless now, with the death of a beloved mother? No, perhaps he couldn't. "Que será, será," a mumble rose from within his maw as he stood before the group.
A rattling drum kit banged in his ear drums, a cymbal and a snare and some bass drum crashing and thumping, followed by loud and crackling distortion of some old amp that did the job just fine in spite of its age and state. And then a motherly voice. Suiteheart was a mother as well as a rocker. A blunt, punk, yet maternal figure. Something he strived to be. It was then that he realized that perhaps he shared some things in common with the dead, and he felt the slightest of remorse for not having spoken to her, this role model. But he would not feel vengeful, nor upset. This was not a death caused by homicide, by bitterness, by fury, by despair. She was at peace now more than ever.
Perhaps it was for the best that she would rest in peace than live with any more torture.
When he gazed upon that corpse lying on the sand, deposited by the waves that lapped at the ground hungrily, there was surely conflict that was stirring within him. A struggle to feel, to sympathize with those that rushed to the lifeless form of Suiteheart, that begged for her to rise from her slumber. Begging for it to all be some sickening mirage, a lucid nightmare that the whole group would experience at the same time, something that would fade away in a little while to return to normal. They willed for her return. They cried for her to move once more, if not merely the organs within her to function.
He knew better than to do the same.
The scent of cigarette smoke filled the air around them as slow, lumbering pawsteps gave away the presence of the cyborg wolf, watching the young children squeal and cry and beg. Mortals are pathetic. Could he afford to be heartless now, with the death of a beloved mother? No, perhaps he couldn't. "Que será, será," a mumble rose from within his maw as he stood before the group.
A rattling drum kit banged in his ear drums, a cymbal and a snare and some bass drum crashing and thumping, followed by loud and crackling distortion of some old amp that did the job just fine in spite of its age and state. And then a motherly voice. Suiteheart was a mother as well as a rocker. A blunt, punk, yet maternal figure. Something he strived to be. It was then that he realized that perhaps he shared some things in common with the dead, and he felt the slightest of remorse for not having spoken to her, this role model. But he would not feel vengeful, nor upset. This was not a death caused by homicide, by bitterness, by fury, by despair. She was at peace now more than ever.
Perhaps it was for the best that she would rest in peace than live with any more torture.
[glow=#f24b00,2,300]how'd it get so scandalous?[/glow] — ☼
✰ — I'M JUST A SOUL WHOSE INTENTIONS ARE GOOD
zjarr ignibus / tanglewood / hellcat / weapons dealer / plot