12-31-2018, 04:27 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-31-2018, 04:30 PM by Sheogorath.)
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Flakes of snow drifted from the clouded atmosphere, a crisp, wintry air seeping through a thick, black jacket to lash at skin, burning, glacial droplets of ice stinging exposed flesh. Frost dusted the red haired man’s figure, a sparkling blanket upon the bitter earth. Sheogorath trudged through the snow, his sharp amber eyes scanning the landscape that belonged to Flintlock Lodge.
One might wonder what he was doing there. In truth, Sheogorath had been planning this trip for quite a few weeks. His intent was to simply apologize, to soothe the minds of the lodge residents, to inform them that they had nothing to fear from him ever again. But it wasn’t the only reason he had left The Badlands, albeit temporarily, as he planned to return.
It was the latest meeting called by Catalyst that had killed him inside. The hot brand being offered to him, the flashbacks of the Group of Captors, of searing agony, of burning flesh, the smell, the sound, the screams. Sheogorath hadn’t planned to visit Flintlock so soon, but after that incident, the flashbacks, the embarrassment and the shame that had followed, the insecurity, Sheogorath needed to take a bit of a leave from his home.
As he walked through the sparkling frost, he became increasingly aware of a sound drifting toward him upon the cold wind. A snarl, a growl. A dog, perhaps? Sheogorath paused upon a jagged cliff edge. He hoped that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be foolish enough to attack him. Letting his hand drift toward the holster at his side, Sheogorath pulled the pistol free and held it lightly in his hand, his dark pupils wavering as the scanned the landscape for the source of the sound. For a moment, everything was silent, except for the rustling of the pine trees in the wind.
This time, the sound came from behind him, and he hardly had time to react. Bursting from behind a clump of stones was a silver hued animal, a canine with snapping teeth. A wolf. It lunged, howling with lethal intent. Sheogorath twisted out of the way, avoiding the fangs that had been reaching for his throat. But before he could turn to shoot the animal, it latched onto his leg, burrowed sharp incisors deep into flesh, tore through muscle and sinew and veins to grate against bone.
The wolf jerked it’s head back and forth, back and forth, ripping, tearing. Sheogorath shouted in panic, in pain, trying desperately to free himself, hitting the wolf with the barrel of his gun before realizing that he should probably be shooting it instead. Pointing the weapon, Sheogorath pulled the trigger. At point blank range, the animal’s head blossomed with blood, as the sound of the gun echoed through the mountains, and the wolf yelped, stumbling. Sheogorath stumbled with it, the weight pushing him backward as the animal made one last, dying effort to seize its prey. Or perhaps it was the animal’s last jolt of reflex.
Either way, both Sheogorath and the wolf tumbled backwards, and right off the cliff. For a moment, Sheogorath panicked. It had all happened so fast, and now he was going to die. He would die before his victims had forgiven him. He would die and be dragged forever into hell. Fear made his heart pound. Then his leg struck a jutting edge of the cliff, and he heard a resounding crack, felt agony race up the limb to match the pain in his other, mangled leg.
He thought perhaps it was over. He would hit the snow, and that would be it. But as he struck, so did his head, a stone that poked up from the glacial, powdered ice. His skull bounced for a moment, the snow cushioning the rest of his body, even as pain developed within his ribs. The wolf struck the earth beside him, dead. It was the last thing he felt, before shadow swallowed his mind, and Sheogorath lost all that had made him conscious. All that had made him...him.
//feel free to powerplay him since he isn't conscious. Just don't hurt him further or kill him. His injuries include a mangled, wolf bitten leg, his other leg broken, his ribs bruised and broken, and an obvious, bloody head injury.//
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thes code
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sheogorath
[b]and i say to myself, what a wonderful world
[b]tw violence and light bloodFlakes of snow drifted from the clouded atmosphere, a crisp, wintry air seeping through a thick, black jacket to lash at skin, burning, glacial droplets of ice stinging exposed flesh. Frost dusted the red haired man’s figure, a sparkling blanket upon the bitter earth. Sheogorath trudged through the snow, his sharp amber eyes scanning the landscape that belonged to Flintlock Lodge.
One might wonder what he was doing there. In truth, Sheogorath had been planning this trip for quite a few weeks. His intent was to simply apologize, to soothe the minds of the lodge residents, to inform them that they had nothing to fear from him ever again. But it wasn’t the only reason he had left The Badlands, albeit temporarily, as he planned to return.
It was the latest meeting called by Catalyst that had killed him inside. The hot brand being offered to him, the flashbacks of the Group of Captors, of searing agony, of burning flesh, the smell, the sound, the screams. Sheogorath hadn’t planned to visit Flintlock so soon, but after that incident, the flashbacks, the embarrassment and the shame that had followed, the insecurity, Sheogorath needed to take a bit of a leave from his home.
As he walked through the sparkling frost, he became increasingly aware of a sound drifting toward him upon the cold wind. A snarl, a growl. A dog, perhaps? Sheogorath paused upon a jagged cliff edge. He hoped that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be foolish enough to attack him. Letting his hand drift toward the holster at his side, Sheogorath pulled the pistol free and held it lightly in his hand, his dark pupils wavering as the scanned the landscape for the source of the sound. For a moment, everything was silent, except for the rustling of the pine trees in the wind.
This time, the sound came from behind him, and he hardly had time to react. Bursting from behind a clump of stones was a silver hued animal, a canine with snapping teeth. A wolf. It lunged, howling with lethal intent. Sheogorath twisted out of the way, avoiding the fangs that had been reaching for his throat. But before he could turn to shoot the animal, it latched onto his leg, burrowed sharp incisors deep into flesh, tore through muscle and sinew and veins to grate against bone.
The wolf jerked it’s head back and forth, back and forth, ripping, tearing. Sheogorath shouted in panic, in pain, trying desperately to free himself, hitting the wolf with the barrel of his gun before realizing that he should probably be shooting it instead. Pointing the weapon, Sheogorath pulled the trigger. At point blank range, the animal’s head blossomed with blood, as the sound of the gun echoed through the mountains, and the wolf yelped, stumbling. Sheogorath stumbled with it, the weight pushing him backward as the animal made one last, dying effort to seize its prey. Or perhaps it was the animal’s last jolt of reflex.
Either way, both Sheogorath and the wolf tumbled backwards, and right off the cliff. For a moment, Sheogorath panicked. It had all happened so fast, and now he was going to die. He would die before his victims had forgiven him. He would die and be dragged forever into hell. Fear made his heart pound. Then his leg struck a jutting edge of the cliff, and he heard a resounding crack, felt agony race up the limb to match the pain in his other, mangled leg.
He thought perhaps it was over. He would hit the snow, and that would be it. But as he struck, so did his head, a stone that poked up from the glacial, powdered ice. His skull bounced for a moment, the snow cushioning the rest of his body, even as pain developed within his ribs. The wolf struck the earth beside him, dead. It was the last thing he felt, before shadow swallowed his mind, and Sheogorath lost all that had made him conscious. All that had made him...him.
//feel free to powerplay him since he isn't conscious. Just don't hurt him further or kill him. His injuries include a mangled, wolf bitten leg, his other leg broken, his ribs bruised and broken, and an obvious, bloody head injury.//
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and i see fire, blood in the breeze
[sup]AND I HOPE THAT YOU'LL REMEMBER ME