11-06-2018, 08:42 AM
[align=center][div style="max-width: 360px; line-height:120%; font-family: calibri; font-size: 8.5pt; text-align: justify; margin-bottom:5px"][ ❖ ] ;; – Upon borrowed time is life suspended, seconds stolen from the grasp of others, tick of seconds never meant for him passing with each breath escaping lips left cracked and bloodied all too many times.
Almost may it be amusing if such had proven anything more then a necessity, drawn from fertile soil given the taste of hatred, watered by blood – that which found home in the veins beneath his own freckle touched skin or that of others. Accustomed had he grown to such, given the weary outlook of one forced to cast uneasy a glance over shoulder, wondering if with the breaking of dawn might this day bring with it his demise. Better would it have been for such, allowed rest full and peaceful, the worry caught in weary bones left aside for the quiet touch of death. There was no chance for such a thing, however, the erratic beat of heart in the hollow of chest speaking of life, stolen as it may be.
Over the surface of the apple fingers danced, touched upon blemished about the swirl of red and yellow painted across the skin. Slightly soft was the flesh beneath, beyond the point of being ripe though not at the point it proved inedible and he found it near impossible to give up food no matter its source or state. Plucked straight from the tree had such been, overladen with fruit simply left to rot, the overly sweet smell of it enough a draw for the youth. And so he had readily gone about picking a few, filling the already fit to burst satchel, left discarded now.
Free hand tapped against the surface of stone. Weight was leaned back into the low wall of mismatched stone, their colour various shades of brown and grey, made as simple a barrier between the fields and the road encircling the structure of the castle. Strange was it to be here, just beyond the high walls where once he had tread, laughter ringing as he had run from the grasping hands of others, shouting and cursing as they sought the things he had taken. Almost could he draw forth the memory of one man, the slope of forehead beneath dark hair, heavy the hard gaze above the sharp frown and yet never had he permitted his death.
It might simply be such a simple kindness, the delay of punishment befit his crimes, which had driven the thief known only as Sil to question the captain. The matter had seemed trivial at first, the want for lessons enough to leave his stomach twisting into painful knots, but the acceptance had offered little relief, rather it brought only further pain. Easy may it have been to simply slip away, allow the captain to wonder over the strange inquiry for clear was the callouses upon his hands, built over time and use of daggers that sat upon his hips. And yet something compelled him to linger, allowing his weight to draw him down until he was sitting in the low grass clustered about the stone fence.
“What am I even doing,” murmured words, hand lifting only to touch upon the bridge of nose, broken a great many times and set badly until crooked was it, pinching it. Simple is the nature of question though such may never be a descriptor for an answer, many as they may be, lost upon thoughts that clamour for attention, none fitting the empty space left in the wake of such words.
[member=2678]ATTICUS[/member]
Almost may it be amusing if such had proven anything more then a necessity, drawn from fertile soil given the taste of hatred, watered by blood – that which found home in the veins beneath his own freckle touched skin or that of others. Accustomed had he grown to such, given the weary outlook of one forced to cast uneasy a glance over shoulder, wondering if with the breaking of dawn might this day bring with it his demise. Better would it have been for such, allowed rest full and peaceful, the worry caught in weary bones left aside for the quiet touch of death. There was no chance for such a thing, however, the erratic beat of heart in the hollow of chest speaking of life, stolen as it may be.
Over the surface of the apple fingers danced, touched upon blemished about the swirl of red and yellow painted across the skin. Slightly soft was the flesh beneath, beyond the point of being ripe though not at the point it proved inedible and he found it near impossible to give up food no matter its source or state. Plucked straight from the tree had such been, overladen with fruit simply left to rot, the overly sweet smell of it enough a draw for the youth. And so he had readily gone about picking a few, filling the already fit to burst satchel, left discarded now.
Free hand tapped against the surface of stone. Weight was leaned back into the low wall of mismatched stone, their colour various shades of brown and grey, made as simple a barrier between the fields and the road encircling the structure of the castle. Strange was it to be here, just beyond the high walls where once he had tread, laughter ringing as he had run from the grasping hands of others, shouting and cursing as they sought the things he had taken. Almost could he draw forth the memory of one man, the slope of forehead beneath dark hair, heavy the hard gaze above the sharp frown and yet never had he permitted his death.
It might simply be such a simple kindness, the delay of punishment befit his crimes, which had driven the thief known only as Sil to question the captain. The matter had seemed trivial at first, the want for lessons enough to leave his stomach twisting into painful knots, but the acceptance had offered little relief, rather it brought only further pain. Easy may it have been to simply slip away, allow the captain to wonder over the strange inquiry for clear was the callouses upon his hands, built over time and use of daggers that sat upon his hips. And yet something compelled him to linger, allowing his weight to draw him down until he was sitting in the low grass clustered about the stone fence.
“What am I even doing,” murmured words, hand lifting only to touch upon the bridge of nose, broken a great many times and set badly until crooked was it, pinching it. Simple is the nature of question though such may never be a descriptor for an answer, many as they may be, lost upon thoughts that clamour for attention, none fitting the empty space left in the wake of such words.
[member=2678]ATTICUS[/member]