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Erdawn Il Deus · 06-25-2005, 05:37 PM

Came the end.

The windswept expanse lay stark and hard upon the earth - an endlessness of cooked grass weeds, bleached and yellowed of colour and sticking up from hot sand like fine crushed marble, peopled by standing bushels of balled cacti. It was a place of bone - the ground cracked underfoot with the dried and baked skeletons of Hyborian beasts and pangean man, overgrown and tangled in the long fingers of hot weeds, standing horizon-to-horizon like a frozen army of the dead.

The place evoked a sense of pagan stillness and purgatorial eternity. The coming storm brought a humid breeze and throbbing clouds over the eastern sky, the philistine sun hanging overhead them, a liquid ball of pulsating red fire, beating down on the field with jealous, sucking heat. In the distance, thunder sounded with the crumple of mortar fire between flashes of white electricity, the booming reports swooping down across the landscape like a hungry animal, heavy with a throatful of stones.

To this place came the man who would kill Orchis, or whoever of his group showed his sword.

He was set above the oven heat of the earth and beneath the prehistoric pastille yellows of the sky, his legs pistoning off the ground and carrying across the desert Golgotha at a slow, stoic clockwork. Tall and darkly handsome - with broad-grown shoulders and a bony, sunken face like chiselled rock, his hair long and swept back from his brow as grey as ice. He was draped in an armour of wolf pelt, upper jaws hanging over his shoulders and padded with fangs, arms and legs wrapped in ripped strips of beast fur, the barbaric ensemble making him wintery dust-mote off the backdrop of hot pastille, a man of stone or ice and aquarelles.

The feature that made him less a man, however, were his ears - long and lupine, feral, growing from the sides of his head in sleek, pointed triangles like the ears of some ancient tiger, furred with a soft white and striped with ragged scars of black. His eyes were set deep and sullen in his skull and were one colour - the iris and pupil and white defined only by the clever shades of lake-ice cerulean. Behind his lips his teeth were sharp.

He was called Wolv, and fear and honour had been heaped upon it over undreamed ages, although it was not his birth name.

Storm winds whipped his furs as he came to the hot bones of a colossal elephantine monster - its skull so abysmally deep the sockets were dark gulfs into unknown tombs, its rib-cage a cracked mountain that cast a xylophone of striped shadows over the sand and grass. Here he stopped, his nostrils flaring as he took in the smells - death and heat, to the east the humidity sweated rich aromas from the soil, the soft pattering of small reptiles. It was practically barren, but the air tasted with the scent of blood that was deep and intoxicating - a warrior’s blood.

From his crossing shoulder straps he drew a wickedly-sized steel sword sheathed in a wrapping of roped furs, raising it over his head so the sunlight winked blue of the rune-scribed metal, glinting sharp and hard.

”Orchis!” he bellowed, and his voice was like the thunder.

OoC - Orchis! I have seen into your soul! You. Will. DIE! [img]smile.gif[/img] (Use whoever you want)

[ June 25, 2005, 10:15 PM: Message edited by: Erdawn ridin' on the storm ]

06-25-2005, 05:37 PM	#3
Erdawn Il Deus Senior Member Join Date: May 2003 Location: Threading the jeweled thrones of earth under my sandalled feet Gender: Posts: 2,990 Thanks: 4 Thanked 45 Times in 39 Posts Points: 23,774.11 Bank: 788.45 Total Points: 24,562.56 Donate	Came the end. The windswept expanse lay stark and hard upon the earth - an endlessness of cooked grass weeds, bleached and yellowed of colour and sticking up from hot sand like fine crushed marble, peopled by standing bushels of balled cacti. It was a place of bone - the ground cracked underfoot with the dried and baked skeletons of Hyborian beasts and pangean man, overgrown and tangled in the long fingers of hot weeds, standing horizon-to-horizon like a frozen army of the dead. The place evoked a sense of pagan stillness and purgatorial eternity. The coming storm brought a humid breeze and throbbing clouds over the eastern sky, the philistine sun hanging overhead them, a liquid ball of pulsating red fire, beating down on the field with jealous, sucking heat. In the distance, thunder sounded with the crumple of mortar fire between flashes of white electricity, the booming reports swooping down across the landscape like a hungry animal, heavy with a throatful of stones. To this place came the man who would kill Orchis, or whoever of his group showed his sword. He was set above the oven heat of the earth and beneath the prehistoric pastille yellows of the sky, his legs pistoning off the ground and carrying across the desert Golgotha at a slow, stoic clockwork. Tall and darkly handsome - with broad-grown shoulders and a bony, sunken face like chiselled rock, his hair long and swept back from his brow as grey as ice. He was draped in an armour of wolf pelt, upper jaws hanging over his shoulders and padded with fangs, arms and legs wrapped in ripped strips of beast fur, the barbaric ensemble making him wintery dust-mote off the backdrop of hot pastille, a man of stone or ice and aquarelles. The feature that made him less a man, however, were his ears - long and lupine, feral, growing from the sides of his head in sleek, pointed triangles like the ears of some ancient tiger, furred with a soft white and striped with ragged scars of black. His eyes were set deep and sullen in his skull and were one colour - the iris and pupil and white defined only by the clever shades of lake-ice cerulean. Behind his lips his teeth were sharp. He was called Wolv, and fear and honour had been heaped upon it over undreamed ages, although it was not his birth name. Storm winds whipped his furs as he came to the hot bones of a colossal elephantine monster - its skull so abysmally deep the sockets were dark gulfs into unknown tombs, its rib-cage a cracked mountain that cast a xylophone of striped shadows over the sand and grass. Here he stopped, his nostrils flaring as he took in the smells - death and heat, to the east the humidity sweated rich aromas from the soil, the soft pattering of small reptiles. It was practically barren, but the air tasted with the scent of blood that was deep and intoxicating - a warrior’s blood. From his crossing shoulder straps he drew a wickedly-sized steel sword sheathed in a wrapping of roped furs, raising it over his head so the sunlight winked blue of the rune-scribed metal, glinting sharp and hard. ”Orchis!” he bellowed, and his voice was like the thunder. OoC - Orchis! I have seen into your soul! You. Will. DIE! [img]smile.gif[/img] (Use whoever you want) [ June 25, 2005, 10:15 PM: Message edited by: Erdawn ridin' on the storm ]