dcesnot-blog

[dcesnot-blog]

         It can sense him,   in a sense.   A younger creature,   pure and good,   the inverse of what it is.   There’s no room in this existence for such paragons of both good and evil.   It takes a faltering step towards him,   someone has to go.

@dcesnot

No, something was more then off with this person. It just, felt wrong being around them. So the knight pulled out his sword and pointed it at the stranger.

[dcesnot-blog]

viperyean:

        this was what          a spirit could become?   A soul?   Hazama looked over this thing and saw weakness   –   the turtle over on its back,  belly exposed to any manner of a thousand teeth in a thousand slavering maws.   It was pathetic.    Hazama couldn’t help but compare the thing to  Yuuki Terumi,  whose soul was liquid,    SHIFTING CONSTANTLY,    who didn’t break apart and reform at the slightest movement     –    who adapted and changed and slipped into the skin of another,  and another,  and another.

Hazama held the knife out,   but his wrist was loose on the grip.     “And?   You’re going to  do  something about my  TALKING ABOUT IT?    …     Looks to me like you can’t even keep  yourself  together.”

         It wasn’t unlike Yuuki Terumi,   a soul torn from its body,   held to the world by the rage and hate within it,   a manifestation of the pure malice that consumes those who lose their way.   It could see only in shades of red,   the bloody screen through which it filtered the world.   How had it come so far,   that the mere confusion of the world’s changes could drive it into such anger?   This thing,   that had once been human,   had been withered away by time,   torn apart and scattered by the winds of change.

        “You  wouldn’t          know.         Let       me       show      you.     Show  you    the         scorching  of       flesh      from the       bone.”

[dcesnot-blog]

viperyean:

       hazama’s body inched         back,   viewing the extended hand with an expression that conveyed solely disgust,    his lip twisted backwards like the snarl of a dog;    he did not want that hand to touch him,   DID NOT WANT THIS THING TO BE ABLE TO TOUCH HIM.   It was almost immediate,   the way that Hazama’s hand    –    still beautiful,  still slender    –    reached for the knives on his person,   flicking one open in response with a  SNAP  of his wrist.   

“Your  home?”    This desiccated old place?    “It could  really  use some  CLEANING UP.”

         It shuffles forward,   lurching as a leg crumbles into ash,   only to reform before the creature can loose its balance.   It wants to touch him,   to burn its hate into his skin,   scorch his beauty until there’s nothing left but a reflection of what it has become.   Take something beautiful and make it ugly.   That’s what people had done to it,   that’s what they had done to it’s home.   Took something beautiful,   and made it ugly.

        “This         is       my   home.         You    don’t  speak      that  way    about      my   home.”

[dcesnot-blog]

                 “This        is    my      HOME,”      its voice is stained with grime and smoke,   as black as the cracked and charred body from which is emanates.   An extended hand flakes off blackened flesh,   peeling from what might once have been beautiful slender fingers,   stretching out towards the intruder.

                 “Why        are  you     in            my     HOME.”

                                                 @viperyean