12-05-2008, 05:38 PM
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| http://i57.photobucket.com/albums/g210/ ... parrow.png);background-position:bottom;background-repeat:no-repeat;"> --- The scowl on Jefferson's face went unchanged, but the shape and distinction of his eye pointed at the silver-furred rogue was nothing less than concerned. DaVinci's voice had dropped to something more earthy, more realistic than before--words from his core, it seemed. Jefferson understood such language. He had killed before. He had heard pleas for sparing lives, and final words. Final words about their lives, their families. How they were loved, or how they never belonged. He'd seen victims with clouded, suddenly unseeing eyes look at him with such rage and anger. How dare you kill me, one had said, miscreant. He'd been bleeding at the time; it was days after the bear attack. His eye was lost. His leg was destroyed. They'd wanted to be killed by someone with pride. They'd never accomplished anything in their lives, they said, and they wanted to die a heroic death someday. None of her words had reached his ears; his head was spinning from pain and the mindless madness that had commonly overtaken him at the time of battle.
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