[size=11pt]No longer does he feel the warmth of the sun upon his back.
Ah, he thinks to himself, there goes the only comfort of this miserable journey. Now there truly is nothing to guide him as he wanders to his death. Could it be nighttime, he wonders, or is there such a thick mat of leaves overhead that it’s blotted out the sun? Or has the sun hidden its face in shame just as he has? That would be comforting in some morbid way, to know there’s someone in the same boat.
The evening air here is thick with humidity. Leaves, twigs, and other such debris crunch under his light feet, and every now and then his antlers become stuck on some low-hanging branch or something else of the ilk. It saps up so much energy to wrestle his head free, he wonders why he bothers to keep walking. Why not just let it be and die where he is?
Well, he would prefer to die in a less indignant way. At the very least, he would like to have control over his final resting place; Mother Nature’s punishment for his deeds can wait, can it? Surely it will follow him into the afterlife.
He continues on and on, expecting himself to just drop at any moment, but it seems that heaven has yet to claim him. Oh, how he longs to just die already.
His nose twitches. There’s a strange, unfamiliar scent.
Deersong’s ears perk up at the sound of other animals. How peculiar--he had always been taught that there was nobody beyond the mountains, but clearly this is a hub of some sort, all busy and bustling … though there’s something in the air that makes him shiver, despite the heat, like a tangible evil is hanging in a cloud above him.
[color=#67c0e6]"Hello?" he calls into the night. His presence, previously undetected (in spite of his strange appearance), is now the focus of what feels like a thousand pairs of eyes, all narrowed and full of malice. Yes, he can taste it on his tongue; this is not a place he wants to be. This will not make a peaceful grave.
But what will they make of me? he wonders, shrinking in on himself as they circle him and trap him. He is skinny and weak, lacking an ounce of fat on his young bones, and there is no need for his fur in this heat, so he would not make a good meal nor a good coat to keep warm at night.
Though he does think he’d make a good example. He gets the feeling this particular group doesn’t take kindly to strangers.
[color=#67c0e6]"W-Wait," he stammers, mustering the courage to stand up straight and tall--it doesn’t make him any more intimidating, but at the very least he does not want to look like a coward. [color=#67c0e6]"Do not hurt me," Deersong insists. [color=#67c0e6]"I--I would just like to pass peacefully."
He means that in more ways than one.
Ah, he thinks to himself, there goes the only comfort of this miserable journey. Now there truly is nothing to guide him as he wanders to his death. Could it be nighttime, he wonders, or is there such a thick mat of leaves overhead that it’s blotted out the sun? Or has the sun hidden its face in shame just as he has? That would be comforting in some morbid way, to know there’s someone in the same boat.
The evening air here is thick with humidity. Leaves, twigs, and other such debris crunch under his light feet, and every now and then his antlers become stuck on some low-hanging branch or something else of the ilk. It saps up so much energy to wrestle his head free, he wonders why he bothers to keep walking. Why not just let it be and die where he is?
Well, he would prefer to die in a less indignant way. At the very least, he would like to have control over his final resting place; Mother Nature’s punishment for his deeds can wait, can it? Surely it will follow him into the afterlife.
He continues on and on, expecting himself to just drop at any moment, but it seems that heaven has yet to claim him. Oh, how he longs to just die already.
His nose twitches. There’s a strange, unfamiliar scent.
Deersong’s ears perk up at the sound of other animals. How peculiar--he had always been taught that there was nobody beyond the mountains, but clearly this is a hub of some sort, all busy and bustling … though there’s something in the air that makes him shiver, despite the heat, like a tangible evil is hanging in a cloud above him.
[color=#67c0e6]"Hello?" he calls into the night. His presence, previously undetected (in spite of his strange appearance), is now the focus of what feels like a thousand pairs of eyes, all narrowed and full of malice. Yes, he can taste it on his tongue; this is not a place he wants to be. This will not make a peaceful grave.
But what will they make of me? he wonders, shrinking in on himself as they circle him and trap him. He is skinny and weak, lacking an ounce of fat on his young bones, and there is no need for his fur in this heat, so he would not make a good meal nor a good coat to keep warm at night.
Though he does think he’d make a good example. He gets the feeling this particular group doesn’t take kindly to strangers.
[color=#67c0e6]"W-Wait," he stammers, mustering the courage to stand up straight and tall--it doesn’t make him any more intimidating, but at the very least he does not want to look like a coward. [color=#67c0e6]"Do not hurt me," Deersong insists. [color=#67c0e6]"I--I would just like to pass peacefully."
He means that in more ways than one.
[align=center][font=times new roman][b][color=#67c0e6]blood on the leaves and blood at the root