[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]gore tw
First came fury. Then, pain. He reasons that the punishment fits the crime - what he had become was something worthy of the wounds it wrought. If he was not to beat himself down to the man he once was, someone else would. Jervis had taken the knife from his hands and carved submission back into his bones. Now, he only ached.
The bleeding from the deep gouge in his chest has only just begun to stem. It flows in sluggish streams, onto his arms where he tries to hug the sucking wound shut; where the skin is deeply flayed, it pools in the well of his arteries and torn muscle. As he attempts to move forward, each thin, desperate breath punctuates the flow with a sickly hiss as air escaped out of the wound from his lungs. He’s doused in the stuff: when Jervis attempted to pry his horns out from his skull altogether, the veins which ran through the base were severed, and deep claw marks across his body spoke volumes of Jervis’ entertainment. The fact that he was still alive could only be attributed to the fact that he was not of this Earth. Anyone else - he hardly knows if Beck made it back to Tanglewood alright, or Sam, for that matter - would not have survived.
He’s lucky, if surviving a brutal torture made you lucky. The fates figured he could take a few more beatings, so here he was: bloody, beaten and broken in the most literal sense. He leans heavily on one leg, the other twisted in an unnatural direction. A kink in his tail speaks of where the bones were cleanly snapped.
Red avoids thinking of the circumstances that brought him home. The very dragon he’d set out to kill had captured him, looked on carelessly as their leader carved him to pieces, and then decided on a sudden change of heart to bring him home. A change of heart did not necessarily mean mercy, though - his wounds were hot and swollen with early infection, and the rest of his bruises and marks were clearly left unattended. He’s barely conscious, unable to look over his shoulder at the fast-exiting Pittian without a wave of vertigo doubling him over. Red leans heavily on the signpost that marked the edge of town, a low groan resounding in his throat after he tried (and failed) to call out for a medic. Hand pressed to the sucking chest wound, he sinks down onto his haunches, shock taking over.
Red was home.
First came fury. Then, pain. He reasons that the punishment fits the crime - what he had become was something worthy of the wounds it wrought. If he was not to beat himself down to the man he once was, someone else would. Jervis had taken the knife from his hands and carved submission back into his bones. Now, he only ached.
The bleeding from the deep gouge in his chest has only just begun to stem. It flows in sluggish streams, onto his arms where he tries to hug the sucking wound shut; where the skin is deeply flayed, it pools in the well of his arteries and torn muscle. As he attempts to move forward, each thin, desperate breath punctuates the flow with a sickly hiss as air escaped out of the wound from his lungs. He’s doused in the stuff: when Jervis attempted to pry his horns out from his skull altogether, the veins which ran through the base were severed, and deep claw marks across his body spoke volumes of Jervis’ entertainment. The fact that he was still alive could only be attributed to the fact that he was not of this Earth. Anyone else - he hardly knows if Beck made it back to Tanglewood alright, or Sam, for that matter - would not have survived.
He’s lucky, if surviving a brutal torture made you lucky. The fates figured he could take a few more beatings, so here he was: bloody, beaten and broken in the most literal sense. He leans heavily on one leg, the other twisted in an unnatural direction. A kink in his tail speaks of where the bones were cleanly snapped.
Red avoids thinking of the circumstances that brought him home. The very dragon he’d set out to kill had captured him, looked on carelessly as their leader carved him to pieces, and then decided on a sudden change of heart to bring him home. A change of heart did not necessarily mean mercy, though - his wounds were hot and swollen with early infection, and the rest of his bruises and marks were clearly left unattended. He’s barely conscious, unable to look over his shoulder at the fast-exiting Pittian without a wave of vertigo doubling him over. Red leans heavily on the signpost that marked the edge of town, a low groan resounding in his throat after he tried (and failed) to call out for a medic. Hand pressed to the sucking chest wound, he sinks down onto his haunches, shock taking over.
Red was home.
[div style="text-align:center;font-size:10pt;line-height:9pt;color:black;font-weight:bold;font-family:verdana;"]IF YOUR FORTRESS IS UNDER SIEGE,
YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN TO ME
YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN TO ME