04-04-2020, 09:51 PM
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Sheogorath.
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a
Sheogorath.
✖ ✖ what a wonderful world -- tags
[b][TW: Attempted murder, injury, blood, homicidal thoughts.]
Things were looking up, finally. He felt better. Emotionally, anyways. Physically, his body was changing. Working out was getting more difficult, with the constant sense of exhaustion now hanging over his head. Where it came from, Sheogorath didn't know, but he despised every moment of it, hated the feeling of weakness in his arms when he lifted weights, when he did push ups, hated the burning in his thighs from simply getting out of bed and walking through town, when that sort of pain should only be reserved for rigorous sprints and harsh exercises. Sheogorath just figured he was getting sick, perhaps he was coming down with the flu. Nothing serious, right? It would go away, one of these days. It would pass, as all things passed. Time was such a fickle thing, and to think that people thought it healed wounds, when in fact, time only seemed to widen them. The nightmares had returned.
He ignored them, for the most part. Sheogorath focused on having fun. He worked on his sail boat, silently hoping for the day he could take Salem out for a ride. Seeing the Top Dog around stirred something within the leader, perhaps something primal. Maybe he had a crush. Sheogorath would ignore that too. It wasn't likely that Salem felt the same way, anyways. Nobody would be interested in someone like him, would they? A scarred up, treacherous minded madman with a habit of changing personality on a dime. A man with no clear motive for the chaos he caused.
Running his fingers through his fiery red hair, Sheogorath left his library behind, still trying to ignore the burning in his thighs. It was early morning, and golden rays of sunlight pierced clear blue skies to cascade toward the warm earth. What a fine day! His cane was within his hand, his pistol at his hip, and the man felt good. His limp was almost unnoticeable now, thanks to all of the physical therapy he had worked into it. The world around him was silent, nothing but the crashing of the waves and the songs of the birds, the whispering of the breeze that swept through the trees. Most of the Badlands was probably still sleeping, the light of dawn filling their rooms, pooling against the glass of their windows. Sheogorath had always been an early riser. He liked being the first one out to the beach, to feel the pearly granules of sand between his toes with no other person to bother him.
Without a word, his foot-steps quiet, the tapping of his sturdy wooden cane against the gritty earth echoing through the streets, Sheogorath made his way toward the sea, where sapphire skies met the azure expanse of water that seemed to stretch on forever toward a curved horizon. Taking off his boots and placing them on the sidewalk near the sand as he had done countless times before, the former prince of the Badlands stepped onto the beach and, with a bright, toothy smile, wiggled his toes. It felt like nothing could go wrong in that moment. In reality, it all went south real quick.
Something hit him. Hard. Another person? He hardly had time to think as he was pinned to the sand, the glint of a blade catching the sunlight. In one split second, Sheogorath could see that he was pinned by another man, a hefty figure of muscle and superior weight, crushing him against the sand with a blade poised just above his throat. Why? What did this person want? Were they a supporter of Catalyst? Were they some person he had wronged in his past? Some old father to one of his victims? A wannabe hero come to slay the dragon of the Badlands, the most infamous of them all? Sheogorath had so many questions swarming his mind, but all he could think to do was raise his arm to block the downward stroke toward his throat. The blade sliced into his forearm, and Sheogorath hissed through his gritted teeth with pain. Using his other arm, he grasped at a handful of sand before flinging it into the eyes of the aggressor. Swift as he could, Sheogorath wiggled out from underneath the disoriented man, as the attacker rubbed at his stinging vision with desperate fingers.
Sheogorath whipped out his pistol, his back against the sand as he aimed the weapon at the skull of his foe. How many bullets did he have left? Not many. Not enough to afford to miss. Finger on the trigger and...and...
Sheogorath drew in a breath. This had been so easy to do in his past. It wasn't difficult. Just pull the damn trigger! Blow his brains out! The other man recovered, wiping sand from his eyes, but when he noticed the pistol aimed at his face, he froze, staring at the weapon with a wide gaze. There was fear there. Sheogorath found himself silent, unmoving, as his finger hovered over the trigger, as his mind refused to work in unison with his desire to end this attacker's life. His enemy seemed to sense his reluctance, because within moments, the other male staggered to his feet and turned to flee, leaving his bloodied knife in the sand behind. Sheogorath still had the gun pointed at the retreating figure, was still prepared to shoot, but just couldn't get his own thoughts to cooperate. What was this? Anxiety? It had been so long since he had murdered another person. Maybe this was just...hesitance because he had forgotten how. Or maybe it was his sickness? Yes, that had to be it. He just wasn't feeling good. He had the flu, that was all. That had to be it. Drawing in a heavy breath, Sheogorath lowered his gun, as his own blood stained the sand.
thes code
Things were looking up, finally. He felt better. Emotionally, anyways. Physically, his body was changing. Working out was getting more difficult, with the constant sense of exhaustion now hanging over his head. Where it came from, Sheogorath didn't know, but he despised every moment of it, hated the feeling of weakness in his arms when he lifted weights, when he did push ups, hated the burning in his thighs from simply getting out of bed and walking through town, when that sort of pain should only be reserved for rigorous sprints and harsh exercises. Sheogorath just figured he was getting sick, perhaps he was coming down with the flu. Nothing serious, right? It would go away, one of these days. It would pass, as all things passed. Time was such a fickle thing, and to think that people thought it healed wounds, when in fact, time only seemed to widen them. The nightmares had returned.
He ignored them, for the most part. Sheogorath focused on having fun. He worked on his sail boat, silently hoping for the day he could take Salem out for a ride. Seeing the Top Dog around stirred something within the leader, perhaps something primal. Maybe he had a crush. Sheogorath would ignore that too. It wasn't likely that Salem felt the same way, anyways. Nobody would be interested in someone like him, would they? A scarred up, treacherous minded madman with a habit of changing personality on a dime. A man with no clear motive for the chaos he caused.
Running his fingers through his fiery red hair, Sheogorath left his library behind, still trying to ignore the burning in his thighs. It was early morning, and golden rays of sunlight pierced clear blue skies to cascade toward the warm earth. What a fine day! His cane was within his hand, his pistol at his hip, and the man felt good. His limp was almost unnoticeable now, thanks to all of the physical therapy he had worked into it. The world around him was silent, nothing but the crashing of the waves and the songs of the birds, the whispering of the breeze that swept through the trees. Most of the Badlands was probably still sleeping, the light of dawn filling their rooms, pooling against the glass of their windows. Sheogorath had always been an early riser. He liked being the first one out to the beach, to feel the pearly granules of sand between his toes with no other person to bother him.
Without a word, his foot-steps quiet, the tapping of his sturdy wooden cane against the gritty earth echoing through the streets, Sheogorath made his way toward the sea, where sapphire skies met the azure expanse of water that seemed to stretch on forever toward a curved horizon. Taking off his boots and placing them on the sidewalk near the sand as he had done countless times before, the former prince of the Badlands stepped onto the beach and, with a bright, toothy smile, wiggled his toes. It felt like nothing could go wrong in that moment. In reality, it all went south real quick.
Something hit him. Hard. Another person? He hardly had time to think as he was pinned to the sand, the glint of a blade catching the sunlight. In one split second, Sheogorath could see that he was pinned by another man, a hefty figure of muscle and superior weight, crushing him against the sand with a blade poised just above his throat. Why? What did this person want? Were they a supporter of Catalyst? Were they some person he had wronged in his past? Some old father to one of his victims? A wannabe hero come to slay the dragon of the Badlands, the most infamous of them all? Sheogorath had so many questions swarming his mind, but all he could think to do was raise his arm to block the downward stroke toward his throat. The blade sliced into his forearm, and Sheogorath hissed through his gritted teeth with pain. Using his other arm, he grasped at a handful of sand before flinging it into the eyes of the aggressor. Swift as he could, Sheogorath wiggled out from underneath the disoriented man, as the attacker rubbed at his stinging vision with desperate fingers.
Sheogorath whipped out his pistol, his back against the sand as he aimed the weapon at the skull of his foe. How many bullets did he have left? Not many. Not enough to afford to miss. Finger on the trigger and...and...
Sheogorath drew in a breath. This had been so easy to do in his past. It wasn't difficult. Just pull the damn trigger! Blow his brains out! The other man recovered, wiping sand from his eyes, but when he noticed the pistol aimed at his face, he froze, staring at the weapon with a wide gaze. There was fear there. Sheogorath found himself silent, unmoving, as his finger hovered over the trigger, as his mind refused to work in unison with his desire to end this attacker's life. His enemy seemed to sense his reluctance, because within moments, the other male staggered to his feet and turned to flee, leaving his bloodied knife in the sand behind. Sheogorath still had the gun pointed at the retreating figure, was still prepared to shoot, but just couldn't get his own thoughts to cooperate. What was this? Anxiety? It had been so long since he had murdered another person. Maybe this was just...hesitance because he had forgotten how. Or maybe it was his sickness? Yes, that had to be it. He just wasn't feeling good. He had the flu, that was all. That had to be it. Drawing in a heavy breath, Sheogorath lowered his gun, as his own blood stained the sand.
and i see fire, blood in the breeze
[sup]AND I HOPE THAT YOU'LL REMEMBER ME