01-02-2010, 04:06 AM
Decemberists title! Yay! Set at the Caves, as I suppose that's where Kaena might be? X: 772
Lyrics at the beginning are not incorporated into the word count.
[html]
Lyrics at the beginning are not incorporated into the word count.
[html]
http://i19.photobucket.com/albums/b171/ ... -8copy.png); background-position: bottom center; background-repeat: no-repeat;">
and the war came with a curse and a caterwaul
and the war came with all the poise of a cannonball
and they're picking out our eyes by coal and candlelight
when the war came, the war came hard
He slept, and it was not a good sleep. He was plagued with dreams—shadows that lingered beyond his vision and taunted him. They were familiar, and they were strange all at the same time. Sometimes they would sharpen and he would recognize them, only for them to fade and for him to forget. He knew that when he woke he would not remember any of it… or at least he could only hope.
Suddenly he was transported back, months ago; he was a young coyote whelp, lowered before the looming form of Patriot. The silver-white werewolf looked down on him with contempt, though also interest. Snake knew that if Patriot hadn’t thought him useful for something, he’d either be forgotten somewhere or dead. Or both. “Snake!” the powerful voice rang out, sending a shudder down his spine. Snake did not feel emotion, but he felt fear. Fear was more powerful than any emotion, for it was an instinct as basic as survival. He had feared Patriot, but he had respected him because of it. “Remember this, boy. Nothing in this world is solved with words; people may say this to you, but it is just that. Words. Do you think I got to where I am on words alone? Hah! But you know more about that than me, right?” The werewolf kneeled down, the claws on one hand grasping Snake’s chin and forcing him to look in his eyes. Patriot’s eyes were terrifying, a blue so stark they looked white. “The little silent one… sometimes I wish Foxhound had the sense to shut his mouth as you do. You know that actions make the world go ‘round, Snake, right? When people can’t get what they want through regular means, they will do whatever it takes. Life don’t run on words, kid. It runs on action. And, when it all comes down to it, this world runs on war. It thrives on it.” He laughed, and Snake felt like it was how his reptilian namesake would—a quiet and sinister sound that made your skin crawl. “You’ll do fine, Snake. You’re a soldier, born and bred. You’re in tune with the world, which means war will never leave those veins. It’s in your blood, kid. Don’t ever forget that.” Then Patriot threw him to the side; the Snake of a few months of age was flung several feet away across the rough concrete. Patriot smirked, pleased with himself, before walking away. The dream faded away.
Not totally. Snake woke up with his dream—his memory—lingering in his mind. It was not brought on randomly; these demons of his past had a point all the same. He had heard the rumblings, that of war with the wolves of Dahlia de Mai. Their bastard king had apparently done some great wrong (Snake did not have the details) and they would pay.
Snake was a soldier. He did not ask questions. If he were to fight, he would fight. If he were to die, well, it had to happen at some point. It was this attitude that Patriot had prized, and would he be sad to see his hard work alive somewhere outside New Haven! Something about that fueled Snake. He wanted to use those things he was taught, just to show that he could not be reined in like everyone else. He had always thought that he would leave Inferni when his relationship with it grew less than prosperous. One would think that time would be now… but no. Snake liked this place, he liked his leaders, and he felt no desire to leave.
He would fight. It was what he was born to do.
Regardless, his head ached, and he took a few deep draughts of a nearby flask of liquor (which he had been drinking like water from youth, so it did not affect him) before leaving his den. He tossed a handful of dust onto the embers of last night’s fire so that they would not cause mischief in his absence before heading towards the center of the clan lands.
He sought out Kaena. Though he knew Gabriel to be his Aquila, he respected the elder female deeply; she had accepted him, and she seemed to find some use in him yet. The Hastati drew near to the cavern that he knew to be hers, standing a respectable distance away. Through scent alone he might guess that she was there, but he was not certain. “Kaena?” he asked, his flat voice quiet. The morning was early, but not overly—he might awaken her. He merely hoped she was not grumpy.
and the war came with all the poise of a cannonball
and they're picking out our eyes by coal and candlelight
when the war came, the war came hard
He slept, and it was not a good sleep. He was plagued with dreams—shadows that lingered beyond his vision and taunted him. They were familiar, and they were strange all at the same time. Sometimes they would sharpen and he would recognize them, only for them to fade and for him to forget. He knew that when he woke he would not remember any of it… or at least he could only hope.
Suddenly he was transported back, months ago; he was a young coyote whelp, lowered before the looming form of Patriot. The silver-white werewolf looked down on him with contempt, though also interest. Snake knew that if Patriot hadn’t thought him useful for something, he’d either be forgotten somewhere or dead. Or both. “Snake!” the powerful voice rang out, sending a shudder down his spine. Snake did not feel emotion, but he felt fear. Fear was more powerful than any emotion, for it was an instinct as basic as survival. He had feared Patriot, but he had respected him because of it. “Remember this, boy. Nothing in this world is solved with words; people may say this to you, but it is just that. Words. Do you think I got to where I am on words alone? Hah! But you know more about that than me, right?” The werewolf kneeled down, the claws on one hand grasping Snake’s chin and forcing him to look in his eyes. Patriot’s eyes were terrifying, a blue so stark they looked white. “The little silent one… sometimes I wish Foxhound had the sense to shut his mouth as you do. You know that actions make the world go ‘round, Snake, right? When people can’t get what they want through regular means, they will do whatever it takes. Life don’t run on words, kid. It runs on action. And, when it all comes down to it, this world runs on war. It thrives on it.” He laughed, and Snake felt like it was how his reptilian namesake would—a quiet and sinister sound that made your skin crawl. “You’ll do fine, Snake. You’re a soldier, born and bred. You’re in tune with the world, which means war will never leave those veins. It’s in your blood, kid. Don’t ever forget that.” Then Patriot threw him to the side; the Snake of a few months of age was flung several feet away across the rough concrete. Patriot smirked, pleased with himself, before walking away. The dream faded away.
Not totally. Snake woke up with his dream—his memory—lingering in his mind. It was not brought on randomly; these demons of his past had a point all the same. He had heard the rumblings, that of war with the wolves of Dahlia de Mai. Their bastard king had apparently done some great wrong (Snake did not have the details) and they would pay.
Snake was a soldier. He did not ask questions. If he were to fight, he would fight. If he were to die, well, it had to happen at some point. It was this attitude that Patriot had prized, and would he be sad to see his hard work alive somewhere outside New Haven! Something about that fueled Snake. He wanted to use those things he was taught, just to show that he could not be reined in like everyone else. He had always thought that he would leave Inferni when his relationship with it grew less than prosperous. One would think that time would be now… but no. Snake liked this place, he liked his leaders, and he felt no desire to leave.
He would fight. It was what he was born to do.
Regardless, his head ached, and he took a few deep draughts of a nearby flask of liquor (which he had been drinking like water from youth, so it did not affect him) before leaving his den. He tossed a handful of dust onto the embers of last night’s fire so that they would not cause mischief in his absence before heading towards the center of the clan lands.
He sought out Kaena. Though he knew Gabriel to be his Aquila, he respected the elder female deeply; she had accepted him, and she seemed to find some use in him yet. The Hastati drew near to the cavern that he knew to be hers, standing a respectable distance away. Through scent alone he might guess that she was there, but he was not certain. “Kaena?” he asked, his flat voice quiet. The morning was early, but not overly—he might awaken her. He merely hoped she was not grumpy.