08-03-2008, 02:48 AM
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Someone I don't have a current thread with or someone I haven't had a thread with recently, please.
She was here.
He knew that the moment he had come from the west, traveling with no purpose except for those he found along the way. Ahren had needed space, and he had done well to make himself scarce. For more then two weeks he had been following the highway, as his father before him, finding the silent answers indifferent stars and hostile strangers could give him. Before the rains had started, he had begun a quiet and desperate change; in appearance, this was very minor—the ragged, road beaten cargo shorts, the fading army backpack, the black leather eye patch. There were new scars on his body too, these from the faceless men he had passed along the way. He had fought his own war, in some way, and come back like a forgotten son.
As he aged, and as his fourth birthday approached, the blonde had begun to darken. He was no longer a new star, but the color of dirty sunshine and no-color dust. He was, by all means, trying to intentionally disappear. These were not his people; he belonged with the highwaymen and the drug addicts that called themselves prophets. That much he knew was true, for not all that long ago he had been one himself. He was covered in holy signs and smelled like asphalt and smoke. A prophet in his own right, except the message had been wrong, or lost in to the dragon that even now held him in its grip. He would never admit this, as he would never admit he was an alcoholic, never admit that he needed touch, never admit that he was slowly killing himself.
Instead, Ahren de le Poer sat on the rocky outcropping above the sea and smoked. His bag sat at his feet and his hair, now grown out past his shoulders, was tousled by each passing breeze. He stared at the ocean, trying to define where the sea and the sky became one, and held in a dismal resentment because of that tiny, little, frustrating fact.
She was here.
She was here.
He knew that the moment he had come from the west, traveling with no purpose except for those he found along the way. Ahren had needed space, and he had done well to make himself scarce. For more then two weeks he had been following the highway, as his father before him, finding the silent answers indifferent stars and hostile strangers could give him. Before the rains had started, he had begun a quiet and desperate change; in appearance, this was very minor—the ragged, road beaten cargo shorts, the fading army backpack, the black leather eye patch. There were new scars on his body too, these from the faceless men he had passed along the way. He had fought his own war, in some way, and come back like a forgotten son.
As he aged, and as his fourth birthday approached, the blonde had begun to darken. He was no longer a new star, but the color of dirty sunshine and no-color dust. He was, by all means, trying to intentionally disappear. These were not his people; he belonged with the highwaymen and the drug addicts that called themselves prophets. That much he knew was true, for not all that long ago he had been one himself. He was covered in holy signs and smelled like asphalt and smoke. A prophet in his own right, except the message had been wrong, or lost in to the dragon that even now held him in its grip. He would never admit this, as he would never admit he was an alcoholic, never admit that he needed touch, never admit that he was slowly killing himself.
Instead, Ahren de le Poer sat on the rocky outcropping above the sea and smoked. His bag sat at his feet and his hair, now grown out past his shoulders, was tousled by each passing breeze. He stared at the ocean, trying to define where the sea and the sky became one, and held in a dismal resentment because of that tiny, little, frustrating fact.
She was here.