| Subject: Re: .hatred. *anyone, everyone, whomever* |
Author:
Wytch Hazel
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Date Posted: 16:23:19 10/27/02 Sun
In reply to:
Wytch
's message, ".hatred. *anyone, everyone, whomever*" on 15:22:40 10/19/02 Sat
The dracling embraced her mother swiftly; curtly. It was a mixture of emotions..her bitter tounge was sniped, ready to explode with a verberation of, Why did you leave me? Leave me here, with no one. With no father, no siblings. Only Tarquin. How could you do such a thing? But the maw remained closed.
The bitter mixed with sweet as she embraced her mother, a surgance was brought back as a bitter rum to the lips, the deja vu of the day Orisis passed away....
And there he lay. In a majestic sense, he was there indeed; the only thing physically directing a diffrence from an orb's view perhaps would be the absense of a necessary rise and fall of an armoured breastplate. Physically, indeed. But something, beyond the eyes view embedded deep in the souls of the elders and draclings alike. The auiferous imprescence of a soul was apparent; whether one of any status is aware of it at first pass of tristant orbs. It was almost too painful to watch, to see a great King fall; but they did, with a horrorstruck impression. How could it be? The Great Orisis? Nay, it does not seem. But the limp carcass crumpled helplessly, one nimble limb clutching over his scaled heart told no lies, indeed.
The Mourning.
And here our youth stood. Motionless. The curse was now a vivid reality, though a nausiating one to the fair soul. Death was such a potent happening; and sickly, it had been portreyed more than once in the brief lifespan of the youth. Standing with brazen orbs, the fragile dracling through herself upon the muscle-bound monument of the deceased, auburn orbs welling with a crystaline opaqueness. How could this be? Did a youth grieve so? The tears slowly adorning the plated body of the late Orisis. It seemed a chaotic happening, the youth who knew so little grieved so much. It, as the feeling of an exiting spirit, was too embedded deep in the veins of the Wytch. She should mourn, in account. Something deep furrowed inside her. It seemed right; to mourn the deceased. She had not known him well, but the bonds of kinship run deeper than an aquaintence. Especially in the blood lines of he, or his kin. With a burdened sigh, the youth continued to grieve upon the breast of the dragon, ever still distraught.
And the deaths of the great ones were still mourned by all; but ironically were mourned by perhaps one with the most placid and innocent understanding of the world yet; the youth. To she, it was a curse in full action, every elder on which the stygian orbs had laid ultimatly resulted in a drastic outcome for the great Dragons. Be it Raistlin, Orisis, Vaspyra....a suprizing twist on a situation, dont you believe? It would seem such circumsances would tourture the fickle soul. Aye, but seeming was not a word well linguicized in the land of the Shadows. The brazen grit combined with a regal poise and bold exteriour was a electrifying combination for one of such a young and supposedly feeble posteriour. The estimates must be wrong of course, for ever seductive, ever scrutinizing, the mousy dracling sat in a porcelin position as we bring her be...
Snapping to a harsh reality, she reluctantly wiggled from hre mothers grasp. Poor, Tarquin. She had missed him so.....but what about him? Hastily, amber eyes cast about the shadows for the well-refined silohette the orbs were accustomed to searching. Catching a glimpse of him, she pounced forth, grasping him about the wrist and pulling him into the dank light of the dungeon.
Mother....you remember Tarquin do you not?
W Y T C H . H A Z E L
.the brazen.
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