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Showing results for tags 'crowsvetch'.
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To you, I give scorn for tears and hate for pleads I, prey to a fervent thirst for knowledge, washed down by something wicked and sickly And you, a degraded mass of animated dust, the exposed skull of a once-man, a perch for the circling crow It portrays something morbid, It portrays something vile Fissures of putrid insides, an amalgamation of stepping stones carved from bones Ugly souls, rotting minds Yet, there lies the glint of a lamb amid the wreckage The world's raindrop warring, to the thunderclap vestige of innocence soon into the decay of history And yet, through all the carnage, you evermore revere the source, because how could you stop? Yet you are a stranger, no matter how beloved So it would be strange to befriend you once more To you, I give all
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The sewers reeked of death and blood that night. The young man awoke, partly due to nightmares, partly due to the stench that engulfed him, like a mothers’ loving embrace. He remembered not his name, age, or even how he looked. He regained his footing within a short moment, frantically looking about, seeing nothing but the putrid, greenish water below, and the low, gray ceiling, covered in grime above. With a sigh he marched on, his heavy, irregular footsteps echoing into the cramped, foul unknown before him. Out of nowhere, it struck him. His name was… Freddie? At least that’s what his friends currently call him. Of his real name, he had long forgotten. Friederik Gelt, the go-to man if you needed something done no man with a weak stomach could handle. He thought nothing of the seemingly important realization, only marching on in a random direction he just so happened to face when he woke up. And so he marched. It seemed like he had traversed miles, with no sign of escape. He kept going, somehow holding his balance on the uncomfortably narrow brick pavement next to the unending and disgustingly curiosity-inducing artificial river of human waste and rotten food. Perhaps he had died in his sleep? A death he did not deserve. Perhaps he was now roaming the empty halls of whatever hell he thought awaited him after death. Or perhaps, his paranoid, unsound mind had been leading him in circles? Perchance, he was still soundly asleep, and his mind decided it was time to torment him with his past again. He heard something rattle in his coats’ pocket. He instinctively shoved his hand inside, and felt… bones? Ribs, he thought? Human…? He stopped, his other hand rising slowly as he checked the pocket on the opposite side. Something heavy, soft, and… wet? A heart? No… A liver. After a moment of a hundred thousand thoughts racing through his head, each taking a moment to suggest what happens next, he heard scratching behind him. He turned on his heel, his breath speeding up and his muscles growing tense. “Rats.” He thought, relief washing over him, as his shoulders fell a little into a more relaxed position. “Nothing but rats. Rats and filth, perfect company for a man like you.” He told himself as he kept wandering. The sewers… reeked of death and blood that night.
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The dying caw of a raven Piano keys that never play the same note A shattered wine glass, littered across something foul and foreign The night was cold and just as sharp. Cass’ sleep-ridden eye pulled itself open, vision blurred and hazed after his once-slumber. Slumber, even, was generous— a good night's rest was seldom, yet so fervently sought anymore. In his attempt to rouse himself further awake, he’d sit up, a motion navigated with such caution. Despite his best efforts, there still came the burn of a wasp in his chest, striking across his collarbones like lightning which drew forth a pained warble from his chapped lips. The pain soon faded into an ache. Through a splinter-nailed grasp did Cass reach for a lantern. The quick strike of a match brought it to life, yet just as much an ache to the man’s eyes. He’d stare down, digits brushing over that reddened amalgamation of a gash, pus-filled and near rotten. There was something humiliating, something shameful in having been reduced to such squalor and dejection. After a childhood of nightly meals and steaming beverages, how could he have allowed himself to fall from such grace? The notion brought the wave of an ache to his stomach, and so quickly did he throw his head aside to spill out a rush of bile in a foul mix of what he was able to scrounge up the night prior. The back of his hand, sweat-coated and rough it may be, wiped at his mouth amid a few sputters and coughs. No doubt, it was not a clean sight. The tavern quarters he resided in had grown derelict and forlorn prior to his stay, leading to a company of spiders and mice who sought shelter from the bite of the north. It was a situation that reminded him of the past, yet he wished not to linger on it. Instead, he’d pull himself to his feet, throwing whatever woolen shawl he had over his shoulders. He would not stay here to decay— he would not allow it. So, he’d drag himself downstairs, where he was greeted by a highlander— a woman of pale complexion and dark brown hair to contrast. Her rasped voice spoke out to him. “Mmh- sir? You look ill,” she began, taking note of his countenance. “It’s snowing outside. I can go get you a—” Thhd! The front doors had slammed shut before the words could be finished. Cass cherished those last breaths of warmth that clung to his body, soon replaced by the harsh sting of northern gales. He’d start walking.
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