Post by Aubry The Odd O.o on Feb 5, 2006 2:22:20 GMT -5
Heh..I like that title...anywho this is in the forest...setting post....now!
Crisp white snow drifted from the heavens, most getting caught in the great oaks' branches that stretched towards the sky in an everlasting embrace. The forest was perfection in itself; the floor was covered by a thin layer of snow whilst shadows coated it, ideal for travel. Creatures roamed the woods, creatures never before seen, by some deemed mutants. By other miracles.
Winged wolves and walking trees inhabited the forest along with a wide range of other more than just "Odd" creatures.
All roads lead to Rome, well, here, all roads lead to the lake, that is, the lake in the middle of the forest. Surrounded by a few scarce trees, oaks and hemlocks, enriched by the nearby elven lands they grew taller than any normal trees.
Currently it was winter, the snow was falling softly and the dark waters of the lake were frozen solid. The time was just past dusk and already the forest was pitch black and the creatures of the night were just emerging from their days rest, amber, crimson and violet eyes glittering in the new night. Thus, the scene is set.
~My intro!~
A shadow walked amongst the shadows, a darker splotch of black in a sea of grey. The shadow was a fox, black in coloration, its eyes a deep crimson, the color of blood.
It sat, soft padded feed making naught a mark on the snowy ground. Its tail flicked absentmindedly, head tilted and ears twitching. The fox was no ordinary fox mind you, from his black pelted back rose two feathery raven wings each with a span of at least four feet.
The wings currently were folded neatly to the fox's back as it watched the ice fish swim in the frozen lake. His forepaws looked as if they were dipped in the very blood that now rushed through his veins his tail and muzzle were colored in the same manor.
His front mitts however were run through by three slash marks, each crimson, looking somewhat like zebra stripes. His ears were crossed by slash marks similar to those on his
front mitts.
On his left flank there was an odd, marking, you could say. It was a scarlet gem, teardrop shaped, embedded in his very flesh.
Behind this fox sat a young man, no older than sixteen, most would call him a boy.
He was sitting under the shade of a great oak. Letting the shadows consume him as maroon orbs with slit pupils watched the lake, and in turn, the fox.
The boy's hair was a short unruly mass of black that reached to just below his ears, framing his pale face.
The boy’s pants were simple, black; torn and ripped in many places.
Oddly enough, in this weather he wore no shirt and seemed not at all bothered by the cold.
His body type was not unusual for a boy of his age, thin and muscular from work. On his left hip he wore a simple sword.
The boy fingered the icy cold, wire wrapped sword hilt, his fingers feeling the familiar grooves in its hard metal surface. the inlayed crimson gem, it was shaped as a teardrop, like the one on the fox’s flank.
The gem cold and unyielding as he swept his long pale fingers across it, eyes misted in thought. His fingers wandered to the skull, bone white (pun not intended), inked into the back of both his hands.
This thought, this feeling of running his fingers over the brands, the tattoos brought forth a chain of thoughts, his fingers wavering above each of his many tattoos, each had a story, like a scar, each had a life of their own.
He ran a single finger down the black snake that coiled around his left arm, a matching one coiled ‘round his right.
His fingered wavered at the tip where a fiery tongue erupted from the crimson maw of the serpent on his wrist.
The flame curled around the skull, never touching it, just forming a sort of fork around it. He smiled wryly, his first tattoo that snake was. It was followed by its brother on his other arm, done by a dwarf maiden. (If you could even call her/it that)
He smiled fondly at the memory of his last tattoo, and his favorite, a black beast, imprinted upon the blank canvas of his hairless chest and pale stomach.
The creature’s tail curled round his body, ending in a battle spine on his left side. The head of the beast rose up and ended in two pointed horns at the base of his neck, forked tongue flickering with unearthly crimson and black flames.
The creature’s wings were partly unfurled, rippling when he walked, expanding and receding with the passing of each moment, the passing of each breath.
Yes, the black beast was a dragon, his favorite tattoo, and the one that gave him his courage, his hope.
The boy had one more marking that distinguished him from the others in this world:
A crimson gem, imbedded in his left shoulder, though, currently it was covered by a simple black cloth tied like a bandage over a grievous wound.
The boy stood, the fox looked at him and turned around, flaring his wings in a bow. The boy gestured for him to rise.
"Do not bow to me Torture," He said roughly eyes clearing as the mists of thought receded. "I've told you this before." He added bitterly and sat back at his former spot, at the base of the oak.
The fox, Torture, sat next to him, fluffy plume of a tail curling 'round his small frame.
"Ah, but you forget my upbringing Rathyr. I am one for propriety." Torture said matter-of-factly, resting his furred head on his front mitts in thought.
The boy, Rathyr, leaned against the tree and sighed blissfully, exhaling the bitterness of a moment ago and inhaling the wonderful scent of the fresh snow and ice.
"What a day to be alive." He said with a light chuckle, running his hands through his messy raven hair absentmindedly.
Crisp white snow drifted from the heavens, most getting caught in the great oaks' branches that stretched towards the sky in an everlasting embrace. The forest was perfection in itself; the floor was covered by a thin layer of snow whilst shadows coated it, ideal for travel. Creatures roamed the woods, creatures never before seen, by some deemed mutants. By other miracles.
Winged wolves and walking trees inhabited the forest along with a wide range of other more than just "Odd" creatures.
All roads lead to Rome, well, here, all roads lead to the lake, that is, the lake in the middle of the forest. Surrounded by a few scarce trees, oaks and hemlocks, enriched by the nearby elven lands they grew taller than any normal trees.
Currently it was winter, the snow was falling softly and the dark waters of the lake were frozen solid. The time was just past dusk and already the forest was pitch black and the creatures of the night were just emerging from their days rest, amber, crimson and violet eyes glittering in the new night. Thus, the scene is set.
~My intro!~
A shadow walked amongst the shadows, a darker splotch of black in a sea of grey. The shadow was a fox, black in coloration, its eyes a deep crimson, the color of blood.
It sat, soft padded feed making naught a mark on the snowy ground. Its tail flicked absentmindedly, head tilted and ears twitching. The fox was no ordinary fox mind you, from his black pelted back rose two feathery raven wings each with a span of at least four feet.
The wings currently were folded neatly to the fox's back as it watched the ice fish swim in the frozen lake. His forepaws looked as if they were dipped in the very blood that now rushed through his veins his tail and muzzle were colored in the same manor.
His front mitts however were run through by three slash marks, each crimson, looking somewhat like zebra stripes. His ears were crossed by slash marks similar to those on his
front mitts.
On his left flank there was an odd, marking, you could say. It was a scarlet gem, teardrop shaped, embedded in his very flesh.
Behind this fox sat a young man, no older than sixteen, most would call him a boy.
He was sitting under the shade of a great oak. Letting the shadows consume him as maroon orbs with slit pupils watched the lake, and in turn, the fox.
The boy's hair was a short unruly mass of black that reached to just below his ears, framing his pale face.
The boy’s pants were simple, black; torn and ripped in many places.
Oddly enough, in this weather he wore no shirt and seemed not at all bothered by the cold.
His body type was not unusual for a boy of his age, thin and muscular from work. On his left hip he wore a simple sword.
The boy fingered the icy cold, wire wrapped sword hilt, his fingers feeling the familiar grooves in its hard metal surface. the inlayed crimson gem, it was shaped as a teardrop, like the one on the fox’s flank.
The gem cold and unyielding as he swept his long pale fingers across it, eyes misted in thought. His fingers wandered to the skull, bone white (pun not intended), inked into the back of both his hands.
This thought, this feeling of running his fingers over the brands, the tattoos brought forth a chain of thoughts, his fingers wavering above each of his many tattoos, each had a story, like a scar, each had a life of their own.
He ran a single finger down the black snake that coiled around his left arm, a matching one coiled ‘round his right.
His fingered wavered at the tip where a fiery tongue erupted from the crimson maw of the serpent on his wrist.
The flame curled around the skull, never touching it, just forming a sort of fork around it. He smiled wryly, his first tattoo that snake was. It was followed by its brother on his other arm, done by a dwarf maiden. (If you could even call her/it that)
He smiled fondly at the memory of his last tattoo, and his favorite, a black beast, imprinted upon the blank canvas of his hairless chest and pale stomach.
The creature’s tail curled round his body, ending in a battle spine on his left side. The head of the beast rose up and ended in two pointed horns at the base of his neck, forked tongue flickering with unearthly crimson and black flames.
The creature’s wings were partly unfurled, rippling when he walked, expanding and receding with the passing of each moment, the passing of each breath.
Yes, the black beast was a dragon, his favorite tattoo, and the one that gave him his courage, his hope.
The boy had one more marking that distinguished him from the others in this world:
A crimson gem, imbedded in his left shoulder, though, currently it was covered by a simple black cloth tied like a bandage over a grievous wound.
The boy stood, the fox looked at him and turned around, flaring his wings in a bow. The boy gestured for him to rise.
"Do not bow to me Torture," He said roughly eyes clearing as the mists of thought receded. "I've told you this before." He added bitterly and sat back at his former spot, at the base of the oak.
The fox, Torture, sat next to him, fluffy plume of a tail curling 'round his small frame.
"Ah, but you forget my upbringing Rathyr. I am one for propriety." Torture said matter-of-factly, resting his furred head on his front mitts in thought.
The boy, Rathyr, leaned against the tree and sighed blissfully, exhaling the bitterness of a moment ago and inhaling the wonderful scent of the fresh snow and ice.
"What a day to be alive." He said with a light chuckle, running his hands through his messy raven hair absentmindedly.
