04-09-2019, 12:15 AM
[align=center][div style="width:500px;text-align:justify; line-height: 110%;"]There was a terrifying, beautiful power in the sea. It was a harmony of death and destruction // life and creation. Giver and taker of life, it bent to no man's will. Provider of joy, provider of terror. In this, Santos had found a home as a youth. The man stood alone on the coast, eyes closed as he tilted his crown to bask in the sun's golden spillage. The wind brushed his dark curls from his brows, as if greeting the familiar face. He felt like a young boy again. His shoulders sunk in ease, lashes parting to gaze upon the sunlight-brushed ocean. He had missed this- his solace.
The striking blue waves made him forget his red-stained memories. The warmth of the sun made him forget cold, stiff skin. The crashing of tides drowned out the sobbing, the gunshots, the shouting. In this scene, Santos had returned to the sanctity of his home. In this fantasy, the protagonist got his happy ending. But this was no cinematic, feel-good film. This was the story of a marked boy, doomed from creation, death and undoing imprinted upon him instead.
Golden irises flickered to the rocky side, sensing an all too familiar presence. His dearly loved ghost. The blonde phantom stood rigid // stood silent. Red stained eyes peered at Santos blankly, providing him only that presence. The two mirrored one another; posture stilled, gazes empty. No words were exchanged between the two, neither mental nor verbal. There was nothing to be said.
The sound of movement swayed the man's attention, head snapping towards the source. A figure approached in the distance, climbing the incline that had previously kept them both from sight of one another. Santos stood silent a moment, grip tightening upon the wire-clad bat hanging from his backpack. He was not naive to the reputation of the Badlands. Perhaps it was not wise of Santos to delve into a life of aggression and violence again, and perhaps that was why his beloved phantom had grown so cold towards him. But Santos could not shed the ways of himself so easily.
â€ÂI’m looking to join.†He spoke, looking back to the rocks // his dearly loved ghost had vanished.
{ [i]note: figure can be a npc or anyone can claim to be mentioned figure :^)
The striking blue waves made him forget his red-stained memories. The warmth of the sun made him forget cold, stiff skin. The crashing of tides drowned out the sobbing, the gunshots, the shouting. In this scene, Santos had returned to the sanctity of his home. In this fantasy, the protagonist got his happy ending. But this was no cinematic, feel-good film. This was the story of a marked boy, doomed from creation, death and undoing imprinted upon him instead.
Golden irises flickered to the rocky side, sensing an all too familiar presence. His dearly loved ghost. The blonde phantom stood rigid // stood silent. Red stained eyes peered at Santos blankly, providing him only that presence. The two mirrored one another; posture stilled, gazes empty. No words were exchanged between the two, neither mental nor verbal. There was nothing to be said.
The sound of movement swayed the man's attention, head snapping towards the source. A figure approached in the distance, climbing the incline that had previously kept them both from sight of one another. Santos stood silent a moment, grip tightening upon the wire-clad bat hanging from his backpack. He was not naive to the reputation of the Badlands. Perhaps it was not wise of Santos to delve into a life of aggression and violence again, and perhaps that was why his beloved phantom had grown so cold towards him. But Santos could not shed the ways of himself so easily.
â€ÂI’m looking to join.†He spoke, looking back to the rocks // his dearly loved ghost had vanished.
{ [i]note: figure can be a npc or anyone can claim to be mentioned figure :^)