She was nothing again. Once more the damsel was crushed with the feeling of being nothing. Her wounds had began to close, scaring taking place over her fleshy pink gashes. The challenge was rather eye opening. Striker was absent for a long period of time, his number remaining wolves were only about three to four. His activity was gone until she stepped up to take the crown. Then he plunged back to his home. She came out with a limp, bite wounds to her maw and stomach, and two of her teeth to crack under his pressure. She wanted to be something. To make something of herself. Yet she failed. Her arctics looked at the ground as she carried herself to the field once more.

What drew herself here? She was a blank page once more. Alistair being the only one she'd known in the forest. Her orbs searched for a sign, a glimpse he was around. She found him. Her orbs widened as she saw him looking rather down. She wouldn't have it. Her black stockings pulled her forward as she ran to him, an attempt to barrel into him as she wished to knock him over with her pure happiness. Something she didn't feel moments ago until she had set eyes on him. "Alistair!" She giggled, her voice bubbly.




"I can't see what's wrong with living for myself."

WE ARE NOT HOLY WE ARE GRAVEYARD SOULS

DREAM DROP
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