Captifate
{ prince
<p>
</p><div style="margin-left:25px;"><span style="font-family:Raleway;"><em>I lay in dark and dreaming sleep, while countless wars and ages passed.</em></span></div> <span style="font-family:Raleway;">"What would you do if you awoke and found yourself in a new land, the space no longer familiar to you - time's passing at fault for corrupting each and every little sliver you once called a memory?" No response. In the silence comprised by his voice alone, the weary soul allows his eyes to slip shut; a sigh rattles his pulse. He mourns for a forgotten era and bears its beauty within his breast, next to the flickering flame that represents his resolve. The stallion's pace that his heart follows tramples across the barren plains once abundant with trees and he, he feels the urge to spring to his feet and throw himself madly at the wind. But it howls in protest, the bluster that fills his mind. It scolds him for his recklessness, condemns him for his passion. He is no scholar - he is a traitor to his people. Dry lips once pressed into a thin halting line part anew: A ghost spills out instead of another pointless question. His voice betrays him. Without words to name his grief, the lonely soul gathers himself up from the fragments his heart clings to so desperately and wakes up. At first, he notices the draft. Then, he feels the coarse fibers beneath his palms. Next, his parched throat demands his attention. Easing himself out of the confines of his pitiful cot, he stumbles and staggers across pins and needles. Fitting, how his limbs are numb like his wretched conscience that fled its cage. His heavy hands find the carafe which he tips directly into his mouth. Despite emptying half its contents, he notes that his thirst cannot be slaked. No, it is a hunger that gnaws at the pit of his being: He craves the carnage of vengeance claimed tenfold. He also craves his punishment. At night he asks why he still exists and by morning he remembers the simplest of answers - He must do what no one else will bring themselves to do. notes Arguably, what _not_ to do. This was supposed to showcase proper reply I might write, but it's a fair amount more </span><span style="font-family:Raleway;"><em>poetic</em></span><span style="font-family:Raleway;"> (to put it mildly) than the usual. If it's unclear what's going on, good, that's the intangibility it's meant to provoke. You get to experience the same grasping for answers as the character.</span>
</p><div style="margin-left:25px;"><span style="font-family:Raleway;"><em>I lay in dark and dreaming sleep, while countless wars and ages passed.</em></span></div> <span style="font-family:Raleway;">"What would you do if you awoke and found yourself in a new land, the space no longer familiar to you - time's passing at fault for corrupting each and every little sliver you once called a memory?" No response. In the silence comprised by his voice alone, the weary soul allows his eyes to slip shut; a sigh rattles his pulse. He mourns for a forgotten era and bears its beauty within his breast, next to the flickering flame that represents his resolve. The stallion's pace that his heart follows tramples across the barren plains once abundant with trees and he, he feels the urge to spring to his feet and throw himself madly at the wind. But it howls in protest, the bluster that fills his mind. It scolds him for his recklessness, condemns him for his passion. He is no scholar - he is a traitor to his people. Dry lips once pressed into a thin halting line part anew: A ghost spills out instead of another pointless question. His voice betrays him. Without words to name his grief, the lonely soul gathers himself up from the fragments his heart clings to so desperately and wakes up. At first, he notices the draft. Then, he feels the coarse fibers beneath his palms. Next, his parched throat demands his attention. Easing himself out of the confines of his pitiful cot, he stumbles and staggers across pins and needles. Fitting, how his limbs are numb like his wretched conscience that fled its cage. His heavy hands find the carafe which he tips directly into his mouth. Despite emptying half its contents, he notes that his thirst cannot be slaked. No, it is a hunger that gnaws at the pit of his being: He craves the carnage of vengeance claimed tenfold. He also craves his punishment. At night he asks why he still exists and by morning he remembers the simplest of answers - He must do what no one else will bring themselves to do. notes Arguably, what _not_ to do. This was supposed to showcase proper reply I might write, but it's a fair amount more </span><span style="font-family:Raleway;"><em>poetic</em></span><span style="font-family:Raleway;"> (to put it mildly) than the usual. If it's unclear what's going on, good, that's the intangibility it's meant to provoke. You get to experience the same grasping for answers as the character.</span>
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