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| Halloween; Fantasy Short | |
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| Topic Started: Friday, 1. November 2013, 14:00 (249 Views) | |
| Toran | Friday, 1. November 2013, 14:00 Post #1 |
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The Formerly Hated
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You shall not pass. You must know this. He stood before them. His black eyes gleaming in the moonlight as he stood framed in the archway. They murmured, voices filled with hatred, despair and anguish. Something flickered in those eyes, compassion, and pity. But he stood firm. Tall and slender, like a lance, his silver garb flowing about him. His dark hands clasped about the shaft of his seventos, the sign of his station. "You'll let us in or we'll tear your bloody 'ead off!" The voice in the crowd was raw and angry. They surged forward, torches held high, crude weapons, broken table legs and farming tools clutched in calloused hands. The man seemed to flow as he came down a step, the seventos whirling in his hands, the gleaming silver blades upon each end flashing, slicing through wood and metal with the same hissing whisper. The crowd gasped and tried to back away from him. A silver specter, a whirling figure of quiet power, asking them in the same soft voice, to give up their madness. But forward they pressed. Backing up a single step the dark man's face hardened, his seventos spinning faster, cutting into hands, feet, elbows and knees. Screams of pain filled the air, blood stained the stone steps, stained the silver figure's clothing. But it only made the crowd angrier fueled their hatred and fear. They pushed forward another step. Black eyes narrowing he stepped forward, driving into the crowd, his weapon whirling, spinning. Bodies began to fall, their life's blood flowing upon the stone. The mob roared... but now their voice cried out in terror. He was a ghost, gliding and slipping between them, their blows landing more often upon a fellow than upon his figure. His weapon opened their throats, pierced their hearts and broke their heads. He was death, he was the wind... he was beautiful. I am sorry. Forgive me for what you have made me do. His soft voice was wrenched in pain, but after a few moments everything was silent. The stones dripped crimson; still forms covered the stairs, but none higher than a single step up. He stood amongst them, crimson from head to toe. Lean and dark, his silver clothing, a mark of his station now soaked red. The seventos in his hands dripping. His black eyes reflect sadness as he carefully picks his way between them. Leaving them where they lay as he reclaims the arch. He rings a tiny bell set in an alcove, calling for the bearers. Every Hallows Eve they come like this...to seek those they love through the Doorway of the Dead. Every Hallows Eve he man in silver asks them to go refuses them entrance... and ultimately grants them their desire, allowing them to join the ones they love. Edited by Toran, Friday, 1. November 2013, 14:01.
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![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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3:26 PM Jul 11