04-17-2019, 06:44 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-17-2019, 06:46 PM by Sheogorath.)
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The evening was shaded, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the seaside town, darkness steadily swallowing the jagged, mountainous landscape like a hungry devil. Dark leather boots pressed against the grit as Sheogorath made his way through the little city, slowly making his way back home to his library, his uneven gait revealing his limp, as he leaned against the carved wooden cane in his grip. Starlight glittered amidst the darkening sky, illuminating the hazy twilight streets. That was when he heard the commotion. It sounded like some kind of struggle was taking place just around the corner. He heard what sounded like glass break, then there was a shout, followed by a few angry voices. Hurriedly, Sheogorath, his curiosity driving him forward at a swift gait, turned the corner and laid his blistering amber eyes upon the scene.
Three people surrounded a person he knew to be Gavril, and one of the hefty looking unknown individuals appeared to be dying upon the street. But Gavril appeared bloody, perhaps even dazed, though in the darkness, it was hard to make out facial expressions. All Sheogorath knew was that two men were staring down the bloodied Badlander, and neither of them looked pleased. He should help. Gavril...he had nothing against Gavril, did he? No, not at all. In fact, he doubted they had ever even interacted. He had seen the other person, of course, but little more. It was a shame. Gavril seemed like an interesting fellow to be around. Maybe not so interesting as Sheogorath himself, though, but then, who in the world could claim such a thing? Heh.
In any case, he should offer aid to his fellow Badlander, of course. Once upon a time, he had been a high rank, and such things had been his responsibility. Sometimes, he still felt like it was his responsibility. Perhaps it was a sense of camaraderie. Or maybe it was because he wasn't a fucking traitor, no matter what the damned brand on his chest said. Whatever. Sheogorath approached, his steps silent upon the pavement, his cane held in front of his slender figure, gripped tightly by bony fingers. As soon as he was close enough to the second man, he struck, slamming the pale colored, hardened glass eye that topped his cane into the skull of one of the men attacking Gavril. The thug crumpled, legs buckling as the weapon crashed into his delicate skull. He fell roughly to the ground, unconscious. Now there was only one man left.
(please wait for Gavril to reply)
[align=center][color=transparent]thes code
thes code
a
a
[b]sheogorath
[b]and i say to myself, what a wonderful world
(tw for violence)The evening was shaded, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the seaside town, darkness steadily swallowing the jagged, mountainous landscape like a hungry devil. Dark leather boots pressed against the grit as Sheogorath made his way through the little city, slowly making his way back home to his library, his uneven gait revealing his limp, as he leaned against the carved wooden cane in his grip. Starlight glittered amidst the darkening sky, illuminating the hazy twilight streets. That was when he heard the commotion. It sounded like some kind of struggle was taking place just around the corner. He heard what sounded like glass break, then there was a shout, followed by a few angry voices. Hurriedly, Sheogorath, his curiosity driving him forward at a swift gait, turned the corner and laid his blistering amber eyes upon the scene.
Three people surrounded a person he knew to be Gavril, and one of the hefty looking unknown individuals appeared to be dying upon the street. But Gavril appeared bloody, perhaps even dazed, though in the darkness, it was hard to make out facial expressions. All Sheogorath knew was that two men were staring down the bloodied Badlander, and neither of them looked pleased. He should help. Gavril...he had nothing against Gavril, did he? No, not at all. In fact, he doubted they had ever even interacted. He had seen the other person, of course, but little more. It was a shame. Gavril seemed like an interesting fellow to be around. Maybe not so interesting as Sheogorath himself, though, but then, who in the world could claim such a thing? Heh.
In any case, he should offer aid to his fellow Badlander, of course. Once upon a time, he had been a high rank, and such things had been his responsibility. Sometimes, he still felt like it was his responsibility. Perhaps it was a sense of camaraderie. Or maybe it was because he wasn't a fucking traitor, no matter what the damned brand on his chest said. Whatever. Sheogorath approached, his steps silent upon the pavement, his cane held in front of his slender figure, gripped tightly by bony fingers. As soon as he was close enough to the second man, he struck, slamming the pale colored, hardened glass eye that topped his cane into the skull of one of the men attacking Gavril. The thug crumpled, legs buckling as the weapon crashed into his delicate skull. He fell roughly to the ground, unconscious. Now there was only one man left.
(please wait for Gavril to reply)
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and i see fire, blood in the breeze
[sup]AND I HOPE THAT YOU'LL REMEMBER ME