06-11-2009, 05:46 PM
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Sorry for taking so long! >___< But the tornado storms blew away, ^=^;;;;
700+
The tale of the white eyed male began to unfold through the telling of his passing deaths. He had been fifteen when he had died first, not from battle or wounding, but from a tired heart. And he had not been ready—the woman had touched physical death once before, but she had been ready to die. She would always be ready to die, ready to lay down her life at the end of a blade or within the jaws of an enemy. Her passion was for the battle, and with her life having lived that passion, with Death ever at her heels, she was prepared to and ready to die because she died doing what it was that she was born to do. That was her purpose in life, however simple, and she knew that Death would come for her only when her time was due. That was why she Dreamed the Raven. That was why she followed the Morrigan triple goddess who flew as the hooded crow above the fields of battle. One day the crow would come for her soul as well—but only when her time was due.
He spoke of those deaths riddled with fear—she had seen them as well. But she did not think that he spoke of the deaths in quite the same nature as she herself did. "Perhaps the cruelty of your Other had caused these deaths, but no life is taken without its time. Their deaths served their purpose, if only to show you the horror of what the Other did." And what was the purpose of that? The black female did not pretend to know. A soft smile graced the female’s maw. It was strange how this creature of good had been overtaken by his own creature of evil. But perhaps, at the same time, it was fitting in that world of symbols. "You need not worry for me; if I die, it was because I was meant to fall." The warrior recognized that she was not immortal, and she did not wish for immortality. She strove to be the best fighter that she could be, but in the end there was always someone greater. There was very little pride that blinded her, for she had relinquished it long ago (or had it been stolen?).
The prospect of the soul dying was not something that the warrior was comfortable with, however. She hoped that her soul would be granted safe passage over the river that divided life and death by the Ravens that chose her life to take. In death she felt that her soul would be truly free—but if it died, if it were destroyed, what then? Would it even matter? She did not think so. Perhaps she should just accept such a possibility. And, as her mind crossed the idea of the destruction of a soul, her mind asked the same questions that now were spoken aloud by HawkWind. If the two parts of the same soul had been destroyed, how was it now that they existed? Perhaps that had been changed when she had been called into this Dream, but again for what purpose she did not know. The woman simply nodded—she would have to return before dawn came in the world of the Real, or she would be doomed to fade into a limbo between the worlds. Perhaps that was the fate of a destroyed soul. "Not all things are meant to be known," the woad marked fae responded quietly. "Sometimes we are required only to follow with faith in ourselves."
It seemed suddenly, then, that HawkWind was resolved to return her to battle. She wondered, however, if she would be able to take him with him, to somehow free him from this prison. But the warrior did not know. She trusted that what could be done would be done upon the time of its doing. "Yes," the soft melody answered quietly, her voice barely audible for the roar of blood that moved about their strange sanctuary. The woad warrior stood aside, allowing the black male the room to rummage through these things that must be the remnants of a tortured mind. But then, from the rubble appeared a beautiful blade, a weapon unlike anything she had ever seen before. It was the black blade, not the ornate hilt, that sang to the warrior, a soft, dormant sound that whispered to her of secrets she could not understand, as if the words of the song, the tune of that song, were of a foreign culture. And, as if provoked by that song, the lupus form melted from her, and she donned the shape that could hold the weapon. Her eyes were transfixed on it as her woad fingers reached out tentatively to touch the hilt, her gaze sliding from the black blade to where her fingers made contact. The song rose with her touch before it fell away, and her eyes beheld the letters upon the hilt. She recognized them for what they were, but she could not read them. She did not yet take the sword in her hand. A soft breath, almost a sigh, escaped her as she turned to look back at HawkWind. "What is it called?"
Sorry for taking so long! >___< But the tornado storms blew away, ^=^;;;;
700+
The tale of the white eyed male began to unfold through the telling of his passing deaths. He had been fifteen when he had died first, not from battle or wounding, but from a tired heart. And he had not been ready—the woman had touched physical death once before, but she had been ready to die. She would always be ready to die, ready to lay down her life at the end of a blade or within the jaws of an enemy. Her passion was for the battle, and with her life having lived that passion, with Death ever at her heels, she was prepared to and ready to die because she died doing what it was that she was born to do. That was her purpose in life, however simple, and she knew that Death would come for her only when her time was due. That was why she Dreamed the Raven. That was why she followed the Morrigan triple goddess who flew as the hooded crow above the fields of battle. One day the crow would come for her soul as well—but only when her time was due.
He spoke of those deaths riddled with fear—she had seen them as well. But she did not think that he spoke of the deaths in quite the same nature as she herself did. "Perhaps the cruelty of your Other had caused these deaths, but no life is taken without its time. Their deaths served their purpose, if only to show you the horror of what the Other did." And what was the purpose of that? The black female did not pretend to know. A soft smile graced the female’s maw. It was strange how this creature of good had been overtaken by his own creature of evil. But perhaps, at the same time, it was fitting in that world of symbols. "You need not worry for me; if I die, it was because I was meant to fall." The warrior recognized that she was not immortal, and she did not wish for immortality. She strove to be the best fighter that she could be, but in the end there was always someone greater. There was very little pride that blinded her, for she had relinquished it long ago (or had it been stolen?).
The prospect of the soul dying was not something that the warrior was comfortable with, however. She hoped that her soul would be granted safe passage over the river that divided life and death by the Ravens that chose her life to take. In death she felt that her soul would be truly free—but if it died, if it were destroyed, what then? Would it even matter? She did not think so. Perhaps she should just accept such a possibility. And, as her mind crossed the idea of the destruction of a soul, her mind asked the same questions that now were spoken aloud by HawkWind. If the two parts of the same soul had been destroyed, how was it now that they existed? Perhaps that had been changed when she had been called into this Dream, but again for what purpose she did not know. The woman simply nodded—she would have to return before dawn came in the world of the Real, or she would be doomed to fade into a limbo between the worlds. Perhaps that was the fate of a destroyed soul. "Not all things are meant to be known," the woad marked fae responded quietly. "Sometimes we are required only to follow with faith in ourselves."
It seemed suddenly, then, that HawkWind was resolved to return her to battle. She wondered, however, if she would be able to take him with him, to somehow free him from this prison. But the warrior did not know. She trusted that what could be done would be done upon the time of its doing. "Yes," the soft melody answered quietly, her voice barely audible for the roar of blood that moved about their strange sanctuary. The woad warrior stood aside, allowing the black male the room to rummage through these things that must be the remnants of a tortured mind. But then, from the rubble appeared a beautiful blade, a weapon unlike anything she had ever seen before. It was the black blade, not the ornate hilt, that sang to the warrior, a soft, dormant sound that whispered to her of secrets she could not understand, as if the words of the song, the tune of that song, were of a foreign culture. And, as if provoked by that song, the lupus form melted from her, and she donned the shape that could hold the weapon. Her eyes were transfixed on it as her woad fingers reached out tentatively to touch the hilt, her gaze sliding from the black blade to where her fingers made contact. The song rose with her touch before it fell away, and her eyes beheld the letters upon the hilt. She recognized them for what they were, but she could not read them. She did not yet take the sword in her hand. A soft breath, almost a sigh, escaped her as she turned to look back at HawkWind. "What is it called?"