Like a demon grinning in the face of pain he relishes the joys of his own hart. And for once he has a plan. One that if followed effectively could send him sprawling forwards into the rest of his life. Letting him breath and walk with confidence and ease. Knowing that his hells are finished, and the tremors of the earth are nothing to worry him for it will all be over soon. In the news paper written in the blood of his comrades in arms and from some of the drops of sweat off his own brow he sees the signs of the times flipping in front of him. The strange and numerous accounts of the planes in this world that come crashing down. Thousands of shakes devastate the lands and even in his own home. The land of the strong, and bold. He watches the streets turn into dust. And the blood of his own kind becomes the mortar of the new bricks being laid at the devils feet. Showing him the way, and granting him smooth passage into the hearts and minds of the sons and daughters of the world. Even now he looks forwards and holds in his heart the hopes and dreams of a bright futcer. One filled with plusher and joy. The rapture of being held by his love. And being able to feel the heart beats of their children as they grow inside her. Being able to help her cope and deal with the ways of life. And in turn she being able to teach him what it is like to be human once again. and their in that holy rapture before the alter and before god he wishes to send forth his heart, almost ripping it form his own chest to let her feel hat it was like to hold his in her hands even if it is only for the twenty seconds of life that he would have left after removing it from his bosom. Like the many cultures that ruled his homelands long before he cam into this world he offers his heart to he flames "sending" it to the gods for his transgressions. His head is severed from his body, planted on a stake and shown on the out sides of the city's walls as a reminder for all of those who would dare tempt fate and defy the law. Even though his life was given, and taken willingly in compliance with the law and the traditions of his fathers and his fathers before him. His face holds the screams of the thousands slaughtered by the morale raised by his sacrifice. His skin is stretched and his skull shrank for that perfect fit. And to his enemies his tong is extended. Taunting them to take it from him but they dare not. For his skin and hair are missing and dry, but his tong still flows with blood as if he was just slain in the name of a holy war. And the pool of his blood collects in the bored out skulls of his comrades. Letting them in turn collect his pain and suffering. Seeping into their cells the bits of life needed for them to once again rise and mock the now kings in this world.
 morti_cacciatore · Sat Dec 15, 2007 @ 09:42pm · 0 Comments |
