09-09-2018, 03:50 AM
[align=center][div style="width:400px; font-size:8.4pt;line-height:1.1;color:#000;font-family:arial;margin-top:3px;margin-bottom:3px;letter-spacing:0px;margin-left:0px;text-align:justify;"]She may never speak of which drew her back to this place, what seemed almost a homesickness curling about her heart, tugging at its strings until they might snap.
Impulse was present at the heart of her choice, given no room for rational thought for she knew such would arise and speak of returning, nothing more than another piece of the puzzle, a whole shaved down to fit. But was her place truly there, amongst those of kind heart and soft word, who found some purpose driving them on, when still she felt blood upon her claws though long had it been since those days. She had been raised a soldier, crafted in flames meant to break only to find a wicked edge carved from what once had been a little girl, so lost and along, expected to follow and with relish had she taken.
Still was the tang of blood an old friend, one which arise every now and then, in moments when her guard cracked, sought to shatter beneath the warm presence of those around her, something she could not permit. She feared it might lead to further harm, that the facade she had weaved so carefully was faulty, a simple push all it needed to crumble. And so it had seemed a good idea when it arose, half formed and tantalising. No warning had been given, what good was such when they were sure to try and draw her back, change her mind though it had been set in stone, the first chance to slip away taken. She knew not how the group fared, if they had been able to depart the desert the Pitt called their own safely of their numbers were further thinned, thinking only of herself.
Once more sand crunched softly, each breath rising from pale lips, the figure cloaked in heavy fabric. From the edges water dripped, the rain slowed until it was nothing more than a faint mist about her, everything about the way she carried herself speaking of fear and dejection. They had been welcoming when first she had shown herself, a stranger who might have harboured intent to harm, the wonderful man known as Monroe, one of few she allowed the title of friend, speaking without fear though his remark about eating him had been amusing. It seemed an age now though in truth it had been a week, possibly a bit longer, but enough time to cast doubt.
“Hello? I...” her voice trailed into silence, given an edge which crackled for she had not spoken in sometime, the disuse clear for it dragged along her throat, the normally gravelled, deep tone left worse off, difficult to hear as she struggled to raise her voice. For a time she seemed almost to contemplate over the name to give, wondering if the last would be passable once more or if it was time to allow them to hear the full. “Ishayu, seeking to return if you would have me.”
Impulse was present at the heart of her choice, given no room for rational thought for she knew such would arise and speak of returning, nothing more than another piece of the puzzle, a whole shaved down to fit. But was her place truly there, amongst those of kind heart and soft word, who found some purpose driving them on, when still she felt blood upon her claws though long had it been since those days. She had been raised a soldier, crafted in flames meant to break only to find a wicked edge carved from what once had been a little girl, so lost and along, expected to follow and with relish had she taken.
Still was the tang of blood an old friend, one which arise every now and then, in moments when her guard cracked, sought to shatter beneath the warm presence of those around her, something she could not permit. She feared it might lead to further harm, that the facade she had weaved so carefully was faulty, a simple push all it needed to crumble. And so it had seemed a good idea when it arose, half formed and tantalising. No warning had been given, what good was such when they were sure to try and draw her back, change her mind though it had been set in stone, the first chance to slip away taken. She knew not how the group fared, if they had been able to depart the desert the Pitt called their own safely of their numbers were further thinned, thinking only of herself.
Once more sand crunched softly, each breath rising from pale lips, the figure cloaked in heavy fabric. From the edges water dripped, the rain slowed until it was nothing more than a faint mist about her, everything about the way she carried herself speaking of fear and dejection. They had been welcoming when first she had shown herself, a stranger who might have harboured intent to harm, the wonderful man known as Monroe, one of few she allowed the title of friend, speaking without fear though his remark about eating him had been amusing. It seemed an age now though in truth it had been a week, possibly a bit longer, but enough time to cast doubt.
“Hello? I...” her voice trailed into silence, given an edge which crackled for she had not spoken in sometime, the disuse clear for it dragged along her throat, the normally gravelled, deep tone left worse off, difficult to hear as she struggled to raise her voice. For a time she seemed almost to contemplate over the name to give, wondering if the last would be passable once more or if it was time to allow them to hear the full. “Ishayu, seeking to return if you would have me.”
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the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
[div style="font-size:8pt;color:#000;font-family:arial;margin-top:-10px"][color=#000]drunk & driven by the devil's hunger, drive your son like a railroad spike
