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Posted on May 19, 2014 at 06:42:43 AM by malachi
i hear the voice of rage and ruin He’s still waiting to hear exactly how a run-of-the-mill horse had managed to kick in a wall, and he’s all but finished repairing said hole. Sliding the last of the bricks into place, the brown-skinned man adjusts it for a few moments before leaning back on his heels to survey the finished work. There’s a small pile of bricks at his side and a few scattered in the still-fresh straw on the stall floor. The stall’s usual occupant is not in residence, something that Malachi is grateful for – he doesn’t want to meet anything that can kick a chest-size hole through solid stone and mortar. The muscles in his left calf begin to ache from the pressure of crouching, still sore months after the young man’s encounter with the nazeer. Sighing, Malachi rests a hand on the straw and lowers himself to a sitting position, with his right leg folded beneath his other leg. With his left leg stretched out, he begins to massage the muscle with work-roughened fingers, heedless of the stone dust that he’s getting on his pants. He’s already covered in it – a little more won’t hurt. When he feels the msucels finally begin to relax and release, Malachi stands up, leaning experimentally on his leg to be sure it won’t collapse on him. The scars from the attack are hidden beneath his black pants, but the pink claw-shaped welts of scar tissue are more than visible on his bare chest. He abandoned his shirt for the work, knowing that it would take several hours, and he’s sure that he’d left it hanging over the side of the stall. It’s not there, though, and he peers down a nearly empty aisle. Where exactly had his shirt gone? |
Replies:
- salt water veins - By sia June 19, 2014 at 06:56:19 AM
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