| Subject: .the stereotype. |
Author:
Wytch Hazel
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Date Posted: 01:00:34 08/31/02 Sat
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.
After the death of the greats, the tiny hazel was left in solo to perform a suttle grieving. Remorse lurched tightly on her petite heart as the mohogany orbs cast a mourning glance over the corpes laying limply upon the earthen plantation. A plague. Who is next?
Not wishing to show any sign infront of the hierarchy, a lone, crystalline tear slipped anonymously from the refined features before a nimble youth slithered up the hearthen-packed walls, finding a secluded alcove to survey the remaining members with an ever-disembalming eye.
Ah, Blood and Chocolate. Her matriarch; the warrior. Her outward appearance gleamed with a defiant, muscle bound exterior, though she herself knew that her mothers life was indeed more plush than a warrior. All the same she was respected and feared by mammalia and reptilian alike. Blood lusted, borne to kill. Shall these barbairic traits be carried through the lusted bloodlines to the youth, the wytch?
We shall see.
Her eyes numbly passed over the form of her brother in second. Satyr. Almost as skeptical as she, but evermore disrespecting. A haugty lack for authourity which comes with even the tiniest prick of royalty in the dragon blood. His cultured wit shall aid him; suspected that by the youth, but his true captivation in future will be quizzical. Shall he be the brains or the bronze? And shall that leave the wytch to be the opposite? Indeed, a cryptic understanding often lies between siblings born of the same seasons. A reptilian countanance across the poise of the youth draws back in toying sneer. He can be as haughty as he wishes in his youth; but in these lands, opinions of such are short lived.
And Oblation. Oh, Oblation. The petite head shakes feverently. Why does this name instill a hated feeling clasping upon an armoured breast? A preposterous situation, but true. Jealousy? Ha, to laugh at the thought. She, jealous of the one whom receives the glory and gloat; jelously of the one whom revieves the respect; jealousy of the one who took her matriarch, who took the throne?
Preposterous.
It was true. A feline-like agility arches spine in a graceful setting, position on the alcove still resumed. Sygian orbs narrow to auriferous slits, the undaunting features seeping from a harshly explicit mug. A sickening feeling, jealously, for there is no cure for a curse of such. Damn the parent whom she may have inherited this disease, a youth swore slowly under a rapt breath. Her matriarch shall not be taken by this new; re existance is barely recognized as it be now, her snub attitude has only shaved the infinate surface.
The wytch can get worse.
A plyable bodice seeps slowly back down, lowering the monument from her heavens, a egotistical one at that, to the invaritable hell that will await below her. Never changing. In the air it hangs as densly as a fog; he dank of death and mourn, spirits and restlessness. A hell-hole of sorts, but the prim shall survive. And Oblation? She should dare never go against the other, being even so the minor below she. A bruised pride shall remain far worse than any broken bone, one of herself in auiferous imperfection would not like to have stamped on a record.
One day the emotions will pour.
But silent she will remain another day.
WYTCH.HAZEL
(.the scrutenizing disembalm.}
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