The forest stands tall and lush here; ancient trees reach weather-twisted arms to the sky, fighting monster-like storm clouds back with their interlacing fingers. Shadow seems to lurk everywhere you look, but it spills calmly, coolly, inspiring a sense of stealthy calm or protection rather than unease. That is, if you've forgotten what kind of creature might be stalking just out of sight...Abendrot is a land cradled by the dark woods on all sides; in the center, some of the larger trees stay behind to reveal a small plateau - a citadel where this pack can gather and defend itself from invaders. There are, of course, softer sides to the land. Clearings here and there allow the sun to throw down its rays in incongruously resplendent gold showers. Ignore the lingering scents of blood spattered here and there along the borders: those do not concern you. The river on one edge of the territory is playful enough when it hasn't been gorged by violent rain. You can choose to note the ragged claw marks raked down tree trunks and the forest floor as friendly "Home Sweet Home" signs, if you wish.

All who treasure loyalty, order, victory, and the occasional indulgence of raw visceral pleasure are welcome, once they've been approved by the ever-watchful eyes of Abendrot's Alpha. But keep one thing in mind: no matter what your motive, this is not a fool's Paradise. This is the land of soldiers, assassins, and spies. This is ABENDROT.

Make up your mind quickly and prepare to prove your worth. You wouldn't want to add to those blood spatters, would you...?

Refresh/Reload

hope can't save you now
IP: 156.34.248.253
Posted on February 17, 2013 at 01:57:44 AM by fallacy



he who lives on hope will die fasting

Wounds heal, but scars remain. Pain is temporal, measured in moments, hours and dragging days. It leaves reminders, shattered souls and broken hearts that can never become whole. In that way, one could say that pain is eternal, but that is not entirely true, for it will eventually disappear, and even the most horrific scars will fade over time. Though the healing may not be complete, broken hearts can be mended and shattered souls reassembled into a facsimile of wholeness. The world is just, but the cruel threads of fate twine more around some individuals than others, from birth the bloody ropes wrap about the doomed, fixing them on the course of damnation. All things pass, but even so, there is no hope for the damned. In the same way that one cannot breathe life into the dead, one cannot repair what has never existed. Life is fleeting, a candle amongst thousands, extinguished easily by the smallest puff of breath. Death is natural, and living agony, but nevertheless, the will to survive, the tenacious manner of all mortals, prompts them to rage against the vanishing of light, and to fight against the darkness of death until the moment they are overcome. All beings, beast or man, do not expect death. Immortality is a farce, and yet the creatures of the earth live as if they are not born to die. They try to forget that they are equipped with an expiration date that each day looms closer.

Fallacy, however, was different. She held no delusions about the state of the world. Violence had dominated her life from birth. She had never known the warmth of another or had a smile directed her way. Death was a fact, even from her puphood, she had known that in order to live, she must kill. One cannot live without a reason, and that reason was presented to her at a very young age. She was an assassin, groomed from infancy and trained in the art of murder. She was drilled to obey without question, no matter the cost. Conditions such as those did not leave room for emotions to grow. Love was a lie, happiness a fable, and death the only true, unifying force in the world. If you did not die, you lived, and the purpose of life lay in the fulfilment of orders. She existed to end the existences of others. Killing was not a sport to her, but rather, it was a job. She was a tool, a knife in the hands of her wielder.

And chance had landed her in the hands of the King of Abendrot. No matter the consequences, she would obey Kershov. She would move only on his direction, and when she did move, her motions would be suffused with her trademark, chilling accuracy. The iron-hearted lady would not falter – she simply did not know how to do so. Fallacy was the perfect weapon, a deadly marionette of destruction. The one fiddling with the strings was the one who held the ability to kill with a flick of his fingers. She felt nothing other than her duty to her master – it was that duty which kept her lungs moving, her blood pumping and her limbs supple. As tough as the pastel bird was, in a way her psyche was fragile in its dependence on the wolf to whom she had decided to serve. But no matter, even in its pathetic, pitiful state of tender depravity, Fallacy's mind was not weak, and nor would it ever be.

The mud-eyed vixen had never been one to endorse anything to do with weakness , after all, she was still alive, and in the blood-splattered dimension in which she existed, those who nursed vulnerabilities, be they secret or obvious, would die. There was no middle ground, nor would there ever be. She could not hope for a new existence, she could not even contemplate the idea of a new future. Even the art of hoping had been pulled from her grasp before she had even realized its crushing value. One with no feelings has forfeited their sacred right to freedom, and with that gone, there is nothing to do but become an emotionless tool. It was without any bitter nostalgia or flinching trauma that Fallacy surveyed her past. What had happened had happened – it would be foolish to try and flee from the truth. She had killed, others had died, she had become perfect, others, defected, had been thrown away. It was a simple thing, this game of life and death, and she had little say in it.

Kershov had been called to defend his honor as leader yet again, and in his absence, there was nothing for the pastel dog to do but await his victorious return. The day passed at a moderate pace. When Fallacy was not training or fulfilling her body's basic biological needs, she was merely sitting, an empty husk on standby. The sparrow had just finished mechanically setting her freshly bathed coat to meticulous perfection when Kershov's howl ripped through the evening air. She stood without hesitation, her supple body effortlessly rising. After getting to her paws, she wasted no time in cantering through the forest. With grace, the petite assassin ghosted through the gnarled, grey trees, becoming a phantom among phantoms, a wraith among demons. She seemed a mere apparition, noiseless and quick as her pistons propelled her seamlessly amidst the trunks. For a few minutes, she travelled, slowing down before coming too close in order to properly scope out the situation before placing herself in the clearing. Her paws cupped the earth as she stalked forward soundlessly, brown eyes focused on the impressive figure that stood. Kershov was bloodied and injured, but nevertheless strong.

The marionette did not waste any more time in the arrival, rather stepping up and wordlessly placing herself in the main part of the clearing. Fallacy dipped her head, expressionlessly greeting the puppet master. The doll was prepared for any kind of game that needed to be played.







Table made by SMJ




Replies:

Post a reply:
Name:
Email:
Subject:
Message:
Password To Edit Post:





Create Your Own Free Message Board or Free Forum!
Hosted By Boards2Go Copyright © 2020


<-- -->