04-01-2009, 03:12 PM
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At Shiloh Hills near Rabbit Lake. And I put him in his optime form for Onus, ^=^
500+
The rain was cold as it fell dying to the earth. It cooled and froze the earth, threatening snow. But this rain was not as forgiving as snow. As if having a life of its own it sought out warmth, burrowing deep into that warmth to freeze life. It was as if the heavens sought some sort of revenge upon it. It was worse than the snow or the ice, for the liquid clung to the skin and earth spreading its gelidity with the force of liquid gases. And the heat of the coming spring was forced out of the earth, if only for this day, leaving in clouds of steam as the souls of the dead rising from the corpses of the battlefield.
The pied brute passed as a wraith, moving once again through these foreign lands. He could understand why his daughter may have chosen such a place, for these lands resembled those of Caledonia of which she had hailed. But the Korean did not love these lands. He loved only the lands from which he was birthed, for there was a darkness and a light there that was like no other place. The spirits roamed freely there, but here, there was nothing. It was as the stories of Shinhwa and Jeonseol and Mindam. But he was a creature not of Mindam but of Jeonseol and, most of all, Shinhwa. And such museok beliefs were the base of his being. And he was like that Korean Death that lead the souls to the afterlife as he drifted across the landscape searching for but one soul. And in that search he was untroubled by the wind or the rain as if the cold were just another part of his being.
The black orbs flickered across the dimmed landscape, falling lastly upon the lake that lay before him. The sound of the rain. He lived in a greyscale world, unable to see the colour. But perhaps that was appropriate. And the world that day was grey from the rain and lack of light as if the life had already left it. At that moment, he was the only creature that moved, a fluid creature. And though he hated all things human, the martial artist did not deny that the humanesque form, given to him by that virus and revealed to him by the God Arawn, had its uses, and he used it now. He did not bother himself with garments or weaponry, able to maneuver his body in that martial art. And it was perhaps that combined with his lean, well built body that he moved with an ethereal ease through the world.
The man was almost beautiful, his face holding effeminate qualities. The narrow eyes were sharp, characteristic of that race. But he was undeniably masculine, beautiful and terrible. He stood now upon a knoll spotted with trees, overlooking the lake as the steam and shadows rose in tendrils about his form. His posture was erect as he looked down upon the land, the cool façade unmoved as he gazed down as a master would his slave. And the shadows were like his slaves. They clawed at his fur, tugging, pleading as they whispered in his ear. But the pied wolf had no compassion to spare, and eventually their touch died as they withered in the cold. A light sneer tugged at the corner of his lips as he flicked his bangs from his eyes. He would bide his time for now and understand this place. Then he would move in to find that which he desired.
At Shiloh Hills near Rabbit Lake. And I put him in his optime form for Onus, ^=^
500+
The rain was cold as it fell dying to the earth. It cooled and froze the earth, threatening snow. But this rain was not as forgiving as snow. As if having a life of its own it sought out warmth, burrowing deep into that warmth to freeze life. It was as if the heavens sought some sort of revenge upon it. It was worse than the snow or the ice, for the liquid clung to the skin and earth spreading its gelidity with the force of liquid gases. And the heat of the coming spring was forced out of the earth, if only for this day, leaving in clouds of steam as the souls of the dead rising from the corpses of the battlefield.
The pied brute passed as a wraith, moving once again through these foreign lands. He could understand why his daughter may have chosen such a place, for these lands resembled those of Caledonia of which she had hailed. But the Korean did not love these lands. He loved only the lands from which he was birthed, for there was a darkness and a light there that was like no other place. The spirits roamed freely there, but here, there was nothing. It was as the stories of Shinhwa and Jeonseol and Mindam. But he was a creature not of Mindam but of Jeonseol and, most of all, Shinhwa. And such museok beliefs were the base of his being. And he was like that Korean Death that lead the souls to the afterlife as he drifted across the landscape searching for but one soul. And in that search he was untroubled by the wind or the rain as if the cold were just another part of his being.
The black orbs flickered across the dimmed landscape, falling lastly upon the lake that lay before him. The sound of the rain. He lived in a greyscale world, unable to see the colour. But perhaps that was appropriate. And the world that day was grey from the rain and lack of light as if the life had already left it. At that moment, he was the only creature that moved, a fluid creature. And though he hated all things human, the martial artist did not deny that the humanesque form, given to him by that virus and revealed to him by the God Arawn, had its uses, and he used it now. He did not bother himself with garments or weaponry, able to maneuver his body in that martial art. And it was perhaps that combined with his lean, well built body that he moved with an ethereal ease through the world.
The man was almost beautiful, his face holding effeminate qualities. The narrow eyes were sharp, characteristic of that race. But he was undeniably masculine, beautiful and terrible. He stood now upon a knoll spotted with trees, overlooking the lake as the steam and shadows rose in tendrils about his form. His posture was erect as he looked down upon the land, the cool façade unmoved as he gazed down as a master would his slave. And the shadows were like his slaves. They clawed at his fur, tugging, pleading as they whispered in his ear. But the pied wolf had no compassion to spare, and eventually their touch died as they withered in the cold. A light sneer tugged at the corner of his lips as he flicked his bangs from his eyes. He would bide his time for now and understand this place. Then he would move in to find that which he desired.