Post by moogle on Oct 6, 2008 9:27:31 GMT 10
The sky wept.
Blow by blow, their swords danced a harsh and hectic dance, the rain drops cut by silver sparks. One of them was tall and gaunt, dark hair loose over his dark eyes, his face as stone. The other was noble and lithe, his golden locks majestic, lion like. For an hour they fought, steel on steel, never blinking, never stopping, hardly breathing. At the end of it, the warrior with the golden hair stood victorious, his armour awash with blood, his longsword loose in his hand. His fallen foe lay face down, the rain and dirt already beggining to cover and soil him, as if the ground itself were claiming its prize. The victor, looking to the heavens uttered words that were lost to the wind, slamming his sword into the ground beside the man he had killed. Without looking back, he turned and walked away, the rain washing away his footsteps as went...
His only memories were the sword and his name - the sword in the ground: brilliant and clad in the darkend hue of blood - his name: Sirath. He had taken the sword, taken it on the moment of his awakening. He had no knowledge of himself, or of his purpose. He was tall, dark haired, his eyes a dulled and dark orange, like dying cinders. He was cold, always cold, never finding warmth, never finding friendship. And so he wandered, town to town, a meal here, a job there. He had no memory, no purpose...yet he had a hunger. For what, he knew not, though he was sure he would understand when he found it. Understand who he was, how he came to be. Until then, he would wander the lonley roads, sword in hand, dark eyes aglow with a destiny unknown.
Blow by blow, their swords danced a harsh and hectic dance, the rain drops cut by silver sparks. One of them was tall and gaunt, dark hair loose over his dark eyes, his face as stone. The other was noble and lithe, his golden locks majestic, lion like. For an hour they fought, steel on steel, never blinking, never stopping, hardly breathing. At the end of it, the warrior with the golden hair stood victorious, his armour awash with blood, his longsword loose in his hand. His fallen foe lay face down, the rain and dirt already beggining to cover and soil him, as if the ground itself were claiming its prize. The victor, looking to the heavens uttered words that were lost to the wind, slamming his sword into the ground beside the man he had killed. Without looking back, he turned and walked away, the rain washing away his footsteps as went...
His only memories were the sword and his name - the sword in the ground: brilliant and clad in the darkend hue of blood - his name: Sirath. He had taken the sword, taken it on the moment of his awakening. He had no knowledge of himself, or of his purpose. He was tall, dark haired, his eyes a dulled and dark orange, like dying cinders. He was cold, always cold, never finding warmth, never finding friendship. And so he wandered, town to town, a meal here, a job there. He had no memory, no purpose...yet he had a hunger. For what, he knew not, though he was sure he would understand when he found it. Understand who he was, how he came to be. Until then, he would wander the lonley roads, sword in hand, dark eyes aglow with a destiny unknown.