Jdav64
03-22-2010, 07:56 PM
This is my first post, but not the first bit that I've written, don't be afraid to critique please :)
Glittering specks began to shimmer into existence in the fading dusk the signaled the end of the tumultuous day. Grey cushions silently swept the sky, collecting the shimmering dust and weeping heavy tears to the forests below. Leaves, victim to a cold wind that gusted with fervor, were ripped from their lofty perches. Hollow skeletons of once majestic trees, ever watchful specters, were doused and bleed the falling sky. Raindrops drummed furiously upon a battered helmet; falling spears pierced the tattered remains of a pavilion, and dug deep into the cashmere rugs it housed. A virtuous shield kept the earth beneath it dry, hidden from teardrop spears, away from the sobbing gasps of the wind. A log lay on the ground, and beside it a fire crackled. Tongues of fire licked the tears from the sky, snatching away their vain martyrdom. The flame giggled and popped as rain sputtered into steam. The only sign of life in the barren woods was that paradox of destruction and creation, left alone to burn into nothingness, as did the forest around it. A body, belonging to the man that once held a shield, donned a helm, slept on rugs in a shelter. A man that once swung a blade, whet in spite and, in lust and, in anger and, in vile riposte. The man now shorn of life; ripped away by the viciousness that once fueled his barbarity and enamored the woad that cloaked his heart from the volley of enmity that is humanity. A commoner left broken and crushed by the intangible hierarchy of vague causes: virtue, honor, nobility. Viscous red flowed from the gaping wound in his chest; a rampant flood of gore, splitting the muck, an army of crimson to crash upon the newly formed palisades of mud that pooled the rain. The liquids clashed, thick blood plaguing lucid water; as of any taint it quickly spread, converting wholesome to fetid. Blue eyes, that will never gaze upon azure skies, or dream of comely harlots, locked in a stare that shown only pure hatred and disbelief. Soft lips lay open in the mud, to whisper not of love, or war, or steel, or gold. A parapet formed around a ruined hand, clasping a dejected blade; disheartened from failure, to rust in eternity melded in grime for its sin. The man lying dead, wallowed in mud, christened in tears of the unforgiving sky, is Dane Khaz of Burg. I am the man of the mud, I am Khaz.
Glittering specks began to shimmer into existence in the fading dusk the signaled the end of the tumultuous day. Grey cushions silently swept the sky, collecting the shimmering dust and weeping heavy tears to the forests below. Leaves, victim to a cold wind that gusted with fervor, were ripped from their lofty perches. Hollow skeletons of once majestic trees, ever watchful specters, were doused and bleed the falling sky. Raindrops drummed furiously upon a battered helmet; falling spears pierced the tattered remains of a pavilion, and dug deep into the cashmere rugs it housed. A virtuous shield kept the earth beneath it dry, hidden from teardrop spears, away from the sobbing gasps of the wind. A log lay on the ground, and beside it a fire crackled. Tongues of fire licked the tears from the sky, snatching away their vain martyrdom. The flame giggled and popped as rain sputtered into steam. The only sign of life in the barren woods was that paradox of destruction and creation, left alone to burn into nothingness, as did the forest around it. A body, belonging to the man that once held a shield, donned a helm, slept on rugs in a shelter. A man that once swung a blade, whet in spite and, in lust and, in anger and, in vile riposte. The man now shorn of life; ripped away by the viciousness that once fueled his barbarity and enamored the woad that cloaked his heart from the volley of enmity that is humanity. A commoner left broken and crushed by the intangible hierarchy of vague causes: virtue, honor, nobility. Viscous red flowed from the gaping wound in his chest; a rampant flood of gore, splitting the muck, an army of crimson to crash upon the newly formed palisades of mud that pooled the rain. The liquids clashed, thick blood plaguing lucid water; as of any taint it quickly spread, converting wholesome to fetid. Blue eyes, that will never gaze upon azure skies, or dream of comely harlots, locked in a stare that shown only pure hatred and disbelief. Soft lips lay open in the mud, to whisper not of love, or war, or steel, or gold. A parapet formed around a ruined hand, clasping a dejected blade; disheartened from failure, to rust in eternity melded in grime for its sin. The man lying dead, wallowed in mud, christened in tears of the unforgiving sky, is Dane Khaz of Burg. I am the man of the mud, I am Khaz.