Zavitous
Member
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2022
- Messages
- 44
- Thread Author
- #1
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] stepped onto the pool beneath him, his boot landing horribly on the inclined wrist stiffened out from its collective mass-grave. The frail architecture of the lifeless women crunched horribly, contorting uncomfortably to the eye. The giant infantile lowered himself onto stone beneath his posterior, and peered onto and over his handiwork.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] says "Do you believe it is all over, son?"
Civil Protection Unit turned, their mask itching briefly across the vests collar. The lifeless lenses reflecting mounds of the dead combative. Frail and starved wastelands, refugees and slummers all clinging onto each other, now permanently in rigor mortis.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] says "We should return in-time."
Civil Protection Unit says "*In-time*?"
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] remaining hunched over the cold and fragile form, of who was an equally fragile yet warm soldier of the resistance. He unsheathes a large and curved fisherman's knife from his sock, raising it eye-level for his relentless examination "For the drinks, the music... the dance." His pale frame hunches further, overwhelming hands grip the hair of the body beneath him. The fisherman's knife is raised spearlike towards the darkened skies, before free falling neatly into the woman's hairline "The taverns in the slums should be opening doors around this time."
Civil Protection Unit audibly gagged at the abhorrent sight, its product a gargled and vocoded groan. The officer released his hands, falling limp onto his sides, his USP-Match pointing haphazardly towards the earth, or the innocents.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] briefly halts his sawing, a visible meridian forming in deep red along the scalp of the poor lifeless women. The pale and fungal man perked his head up, gazing into the wilderness far beyond, gazing into the dark and reddened evening skies. He seemingly awaits response from the protectorate.
Civil Protection Unit says "Officers aren't allowed to drink in public, let alone break anonymity in a slums bar..."
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] says "Then why else would you be here?"
Civil Protection Unit remains silent, their mask scanning horizontally the lifeless land of rock and blood. The faceless grunt of humanities conquerors remained such, at least outwardly, in face of the very works of humanity.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] reverts his attention to the ritual at hand, revealing glimpse of simper. Raising the fisherman's knife once more, this time directly over his naked head. Red ichor ran down the base of the knife, sprinkling delicately onto the fungal-spotted, and glazed forehead of the looming man.
Civil Protection Unit exhumed forth a deep and metallic exhalation. The boot inclined his head, gauging his opponent. He tightened his grip around his service pistol, strangling the hilt of his barreled sword with such revitalized hate "Is it true?"
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] drops the knife, it clinking maliciously on the empty earth. Foreign blood drips down onto his empty face, filling its canvas in a deep maroon. The grotesque figure cuffs down the freshly skimmed scalp of his enemy, raising it towards the now parting clouds, and the evening redness.
Civil Protection Unit brings forth their firearm, angling it downward with both hands. Piercing and humane breaths escape the officers vocoder, followed by a final deep inhalation...
Civil Protection Unit shouts "Did you? You and that little girl!"
Civil Protection Unit yells "Answer me! Is it true?"
---
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] sifts outs -- with delicacy -- a rustic metal pin from his satchel, piercing the mangled lump of dirtied flesh and hair, it now hanging decoratively off his belt. His figure erecting forefront to the now clearing sky, adjacent to a great plagued and phallic thing. The fresh still blood blending neatly, his meaty skull to the evening redness of the setting sun. The man stood, like a giant amongst the dead, he turned...
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] now full-faced in full reveal to the protectorate, his grotesque and beating face showing carnivorous teeth in a villainous grin. He held, scoping the minute figure in his jaundice eyes, his every uncomfortable tremor or twitch. The lightest inhale, as he spoke "Of course, *wouldn't you*?"
Civil Protection Unit brought forth their firearm, flicking off the safety with such dexterity, though their product disappointing. They hung, a pasty and rounded construct took command of their sights. The substantial figure before him hairless, adopting of one pale derma -- with exception to the light yellow blots of Xenian fauna seemingly pressed into symbiosis. They shook, the slide of their firearm rattling. Theirs efforts to no avail.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] says "*Oh, come on man*. What do you think you signed-up for. Why do you think you are here. And what do you think you are fleeing."
Civil Protection Unit winced throughout their entire body, their weapon now in great rattling tremolo. Planting their jackboot into the lamented earth, they attempted to muster a final rally. With a sudden withdrawing of their head bluntly into their forearm, they fired.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] towered over them all. The defeated and the victors. Standing in full, a gargoyle outstretching its wings. He stood, and he stood complete and still. There was no fall, there was no wound. He saw no will.
Civil Protection Unit coward where there was no room. Their quakes ceased, they were still. The officers arms fell limp once more, he turned to face what still stood before him, perhaps breathing. Their weapon dropped, clinking pitifully on the empty earth.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] says "Look at me."
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] says "Do you believe it is all over, son?"
Civil Protection Unit turned, their mask itching briefly across the vests collar. The lifeless lenses reflecting mounds of the dead combative. Frail and starved wastelands, refugees and slummers all clinging onto each other, now permanently in rigor mortis.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] says "We should return in-time."
Civil Protection Unit says "*In-time*?"
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] remaining hunched over the cold and fragile form, of who was an equally fragile yet warm soldier of the resistance. He unsheathes a large and curved fisherman's knife from his sock, raising it eye-level for his relentless examination "For the drinks, the music... the dance." His pale frame hunches further, overwhelming hands grip the hair of the body beneath him. The fisherman's knife is raised spearlike towards the darkened skies, before free falling neatly into the woman's hairline "The taverns in the slums should be opening doors around this time."
Civil Protection Unit audibly gagged at the abhorrent sight, its product a gargled and vocoded groan. The officer released his hands, falling limp onto his sides, his USP-Match pointing haphazardly towards the earth, or the innocents.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] briefly halts his sawing, a visible meridian forming in deep red along the scalp of the poor lifeless women. The pale and fungal man perked his head up, gazing into the wilderness far beyond, gazing into the dark and reddened evening skies. He seemingly awaits response from the protectorate.
Civil Protection Unit says "Officers aren't allowed to drink in public, let alone break anonymity in a slums bar..."
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] says "Then why else would you be here?"
Civil Protection Unit remains silent, their mask scanning horizontally the lifeless land of rock and blood. The faceless grunt of humanities conquerors remained such, at least outwardly, in face of the very works of humanity.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] reverts his attention to the ritual at hand, revealing glimpse of simper. Raising the fisherman's knife once more, this time directly over his naked head. Red ichor ran down the base of the knife, sprinkling delicately onto the fungal-spotted, and glazed forehead of the looming man.
Civil Protection Unit exhumed forth a deep and metallic exhalation. The boot inclined his head, gauging his opponent. He tightened his grip around his service pistol, strangling the hilt of his barreled sword with such revitalized hate "Is it true?"
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] drops the knife, it clinking maliciously on the empty earth. Foreign blood drips down onto his empty face, filling its canvas in a deep maroon. The grotesque figure cuffs down the freshly skimmed scalp of his enemy, raising it towards the now parting clouds, and the evening redness.
Civil Protection Unit brings forth their firearm, angling it downward with both hands. Piercing and humane breaths escape the officers vocoder, followed by a final deep inhalation...
Civil Protection Unit shouts "Did you? You and that little girl!"
Civil Protection Unit yells "Answer me! Is it true?"
---
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] sifts outs -- with delicacy -- a rustic metal pin from his satchel, piercing the mangled lump of dirtied flesh and hair, it now hanging decoratively off his belt. His figure erecting forefront to the now clearing sky, adjacent to a great plagued and phallic thing. The fresh still blood blending neatly, his meaty skull to the evening redness of the setting sun. The man stood, like a giant amongst the dead, he turned...
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] now full-faced in full reveal to the protectorate, his grotesque and beating face showing carnivorous teeth in a villainous grin. He held, scoping the minute figure in his jaundice eyes, his every uncomfortable tremor or twitch. The lightest inhale, as he spoke "Of course, *wouldn't you*?"
Civil Protection Unit brought forth their firearm, flicking off the safety with such dexterity, though their product disappointing. They hung, a pasty and rounded construct took command of their sights. The substantial figure before him hairless, adopting of one pale derma -- with exception to the light yellow blots of Xenian fauna seemingly pressed into symbiosis. They shook, the slide of their firearm rattling. Theirs efforts to no avail.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] says "*Oh, come on man*. What do you think you signed-up for. Why do you think you are here. And what do you think you are fleeing."
Civil Protection Unit winced throughout their entire body, their weapon now in great rattling tremolo. Planting their jackboot into the lamented earth, they attempted to muster a final rally. With a sudden withdrawing of their head bluntly into their forearm, they fired.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] towered over them all. The defeated and the victors. Standing in full, a gargoyle outstretching its wings. He stood, and he stood complete and still. There was no fall, there was no wound. He saw no will.
Civil Protection Unit coward where there was no room. Their quakes ceased, they were still. The officers arms fell limp once more, he turned to face what still stood before him, perhaps breathing. Their weapon dropped, clinking pitifully on the empty earth.
[The sole inhabitant of the wastela...] says "Look at me."
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