<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4; "><tr><td background="http://s140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/attttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><font color=white style= "font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><br /> <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc]i'd have taken this road a long time ago</font></div><br />for teh muerrin, of course. 33 mia 19th, 81381. this actually begins in the 'swamps and on to the vivuli. WARNING: THE FOLLOWING THREAD IS RATED R AS IT CONTAINS EXPLICIT SCENES OF GORE, AS WELL AS LANGUAGE, AND POSSIBLY OTHER ADULT THEMATIC MATERIAL.<br /><br /> <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic]if i knew that it'd lead me back to you</font></div><br /> The long-vanished lover of Pyemme Djaam had finally found his way home. Muscle and sinew shifted beneath rippling pelage of abysmal black as the homebound phantom wandered agitatedly through the spidery ruins of the 'Swamps. Stagnant pools of half-freezed water spilled like bile over the putrefying earth, leaflitter curdling in their festered depths as the stench of death and sorrow bled through the air. The trees, those skybound sentinels, lay uprooted and decaying upon the marsh, impeding the progress of all who entered. Much of what should have been lush, fertile forest was replaced with foul-smelling mud and foreboding swampland. This couldn't be it, Attrius decided with some dismay. He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. That was it. That was why it- and everything else- reminded him of the cutthroat. He was simply disoriented. He'd made a mistake. He must never have left the swamp after all. With a rumbling baritone snarl and a snap of ivory-lined jaws, he chased away the nagging realization that, when it came to directions, the Black Knight did not make mistakes. Snorting in derision, his denial beginning to cement itself into honest belief, Atti prowled through the desolate territory as silently as a wraith. Soon he'd find his way out. Get to a water source. Clean himself off, because there was mud on his paws. It bothered him that there was mud on his paws. He'd have to get out. He'd have to clean them. Wash the mud away. The blood. The decay. He had to get out. There had to be a way out. There is, he muttered to himself. We just have to find it. ...we? One of his hind legs hung grotesquely near useless, evidently hamstringed. It was the leg, unsurprisingly, that had protested so during the battle with the murderer. He'd been using his four-legged form for the past few hours, since he found it a little easier to do so- but now he tired of it, and limping, and shifted back to his preferred two-legged one. Determination drummed through the loner as he dragged himself doggedly through the forest, tree branches ripping the mats from his thick, disheveled coat. Dead fur was left on the branches in clumps, leaving behind pelage so dark and lusterless it seemed to swallow the light. His clothes themselves had been reduced to sodden near-rags, and he'd completely abandoned his shirt in favor of the now-bloody and mudded bandages that striped his arms and legs, and the air of faded black cargoes that now drenched, stuck to him in tatters from the hip down. Suddenly, 'Rius stopped in his tracks, throwing up his head, torn and steel-pierced aristocratic ears thrusting forward in abrupt desperation. Somewhere nearby he could smell, almost taste, new sprouts. Blooming. Struggling to thrive amongst the gloom. Frail, but steadily, reassuringly there. If he could just find the timid sprouts that so teased at his senses, Att might be able to finally find his way out of the swamp he'd been stranded in for over three paquit. Making sure to keep to the shadows- for who knew what dangers lurked in the light- he moved toward the tantalizing scent, overly acute nose twitching at the sudden intake of scents as he walked along. Just ahead of him lay a patch of sunlight, surrounded by a circle of dead trees. Sunlight fed the earth, Attrius reasoned. New earth would lead him out of the lifeless swamp. The faster he got to the patch of blooming sprouts, the faster he'd escape this rotting prison. His tread me the lightened ground, and as he ventured on further, he swore that he heard the faint tinkling of water. Fresh, running water. And Att found, suprisingly enough, that the half-dead grasses were melding into olive-green creepers, and verdant, leafy jungle vegetation. His pace quickened, ice-colored eyes glinting with heated desire. He was not prepared for the emotional shock that awaited him. It was his cave. Their cave. Appalled, the slim, starved half-Yki stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes, glittering cold blue scanners over the rockface. Right before slamming them shut with brutal military precision before they flew open and he looked wildly about. This was not it. He did not belong here anymore. And suddenly, abruptly, he remembered. Please don't go. Pyemme. Don't be sorry. It's my fault as much as yours, and... and I'm not sorry. A low, agitated growl quickly built up into an almost-whine that pierced the near silence. Panting now, afraid, 'Rius swung his head from side to side. Where the hell was Pyemme? How did you know about this place? His heart began to palpitate. We're amputees who have somehow found solace in one another's company. Amputees, helping each other to walk. To survive. And someday, to run. He choked. Pyemme. Eyes the color of winter sky, pelage of honey and chocolate, and a spirit so bright it rendered the sun inferior and caused the moon to sulk and cringe in envy. Pyemme. Was she running yet? Pyemme! He swore he could almost hear her. He would've known that plaintive cry no matter where he was. Then why couldn't you remember before? Feet burst into motion, limbs moving like pistons as the arden pounded through the now-unfrosted tropic foliage. But the fear that he had waited too long, that she would not forgive him, and the sound of something sent him backpedaling frantically into the waterfall and against the jewel-lipped opening of the cave, drenched now in water, the blood and mud and gore and grease dripping down his face and limbs and torso now, too. He pressed his broken body against the back wall, keeping to the darkness, finding some semblance of control in it. Throwing back his powerful head, he dragged in all the air he could handle and let it loose on an earth-shattering howl of agony, of urgency, of fear. Attrius was afraid. He wasn't sure where he was, what had happened, or where his lover was. He was stranded. And he couldn't live this way. The call erupted from parted jaws, fangs brutally bared as his cry soared from a snarling baritone into a strangely haunting song. It's me, Pyemme! I'm here. I don't know how long I was away or what has happened since then, but I'll be with you now until the day I die. He turned, and saw then that the cry-bearer hadn't been 'Emme at all. It was a parrot, bitterly cawing and mocking his anguish. His broken, battered, mud and gore-drenched body sunk to the floor, and for the first time, he realized just how much pain he was in. How tired that he felt. And as he lay there, his breathing shallow and punctuated only by the occasional hiss or soft moan of pain, he might've seemed dead to an onlooker. But his life wasn't slipping away, right? Or was it...? Att didn't overly care about it, furthermore bother to really think at all. The shattered, black-as-sin arden closed his eyes. The last thought he had was whether or not Pyemme hated him. <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table width="350"><tr><td style="border: 1px solid #FFFFFF; background: transparent; padding: 5px;"><span style='font-size:8pt;line-height:100%'><span style='color:#CCCCFF'><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>out of character</span></div><div align="justify"> Yo. :3 </div><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>in character</span></div> So roll on as you like Yeah, roll in the sand like a stone IÂ’ve got your number, I know who you were You were a satellite all alone And I feel it slowing....<div align="justify"> That's the third dead mouse today, Pyemme lamented, dipping a honey-furred hand into the rodent cage. She lifted the tiny animal out and inspected it closely, azure eyes pouring over every detail of its lifeless body. She could see its tiny ribs, a perfect little array of hair-like bones, and the way its skin was drawn back around its red eyes. Poor thing. The lukuo normally did not feel sympathy for the lab creatures that were unfortunate enough to be subject to her experiments, but she felt a certain undeniable affinity with this one. She looked up at the mouse's food bowl. Full. Untouched, practically, and its water dripper was in the same condition. Yet the mouse had starved to death. Pyemme crossed the room swiftly, kitten heels clicking on the tile floor, unbuttoned lab coat fluttering out behind, and fed the dead creature into a chute that led to the lab incinerator. She then shut the little plexiglass door, proceeded to wash her hands, and picked up her notebook. The mouse had had two liquid drippers at its disposal - one for water, and one for a cocaine solution. The drugged feeder was nearly empty. She leaned back against the lab bench, clutching her spiral-bound pages to her chest. Deep breaths, deep breaths, she commanded herself, closing her eyes in an effort to master the intense wave of uneasiness washing over her. You can't be an experimental psychologist if a little death bothers you, Pyemme, she chided herself, knowing full well that it wasn't the death itself that had gotten under her skin. It was someone else, a cocaine user, like her mice, on a path towards certain self-destruction. It was-- Pyemme. No, it wasn't Pyemme. It was-- Pyemme. Suddenly, she realized these thoughts of her name weren't her own. As rarely as she remembered it, in spite of the fact she skipped most of her classes in the subject, Pyemme was a telepathy student, and a natural female adept besides. Even though her long-disappeared lover was not, somehow she could hear his silent cries. Somehow... Pyemme! Her notebook fell to the floor. It's me, Pyemme! I'm here. I don't know how long I was away or what has happened since then, but I'll be with you now until the day I die. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"Attrius,"</span> she was barely able to gasp in her discomposure. In moments, the lukuo shed her lab coat and was shrugging on her winter jacket. Her purse was the first thing she grabbed, then her car keys, then after a split second's decision the emergency medical kit hanging on the wall near the exit. She left the lab without even locking the door, while the unperturbed mice in the control group chittered and crunched happily on their kibbles.</div> <div align="center">***</div> Going down tonight ItÂ’s different for boys and girls IÂ’ve got your number, I know who you are You're a satellite on the world And I feel it slowing down <div align="center">***</div> <div align="justify">When she had found him, she almost hadn't recognized him. It was dark in the cave, and at first, squinting through the obscurity, she had mistaken him for a strangely-shaped mineral deposit. Only an agonized groan had prevented her from passing him right on by. Even so, she could hardly believe it was him - the Atti she knew was a tall, suave, regal arden, not this mangled heap of blood and bones laying half-dead in a dank jungle cave. She had done her best to unfurl him, careful not to aggravate any of his numerous existing injuries. He was breathing - that was the most important thing - and she checked this fact every minute or so by lowering her cheek to the level of his open jaws, feeling his warm exhalations on her fur. He also had to be kept warm, and this she did by donated her own coat, the designer piece her father Rjuneum had sent her as a gift. It seemed almost silly, the ultrafeminine lavendar corduroy wrapped around his slender frame. She wanted to patch up some of his wounds, stop any bleeding that he was suffering, but without his help Pyemme didn't think she could correctly discern what blood what Attrius's and what was not. All she could do now was wait for him to wake up... or slip into critical condition. Prepared for the worst, the lukuo sat crouched beside him, clutching one of his wrists with two fingers firmly on his pulse, and wielding a syringe with an almost comically long needle in the other. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"Don't die yet, you son of a bitch,"</span> she told him, voice wavering on the brink of emotion but face still stern, <span style='color:#9966CC'>"if you do I'll fucking kill you."</span> </div>And in the satellite rides a star</span></span></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4; "><tr><td background="http://s140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/attttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><font color=white style= "font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><br /> <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc]sometimes i think</font></div><br />ahh. my coding is screwed. :/<br /><br /> <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic]i can see right through myself</font></div><br /><br > There were nightmares running through the forest. And they wanted him. Attrius knew this, and so pressed to the very back wall of the cave with his fangs bared, his endless baritone growl feeding upon the silence. Serrated cutlery flashed even in the darkness as the arden with eyes of dead ice snapped at the imagined terrors of the night. Defensive. Wary. He had to defend the cave, otherwise Pyemme might never come back and he'd be alone again. In the swamp. With the murderer. Only 'Emme could get him out, you see. This the black knight knew with every fiber of his being. Pyemme was the only one who could save him. The only one who had ever wanted to save him. Dimly, the Black Knight realized that his teeth and gums were aching, bleeding- he'd clashed his jaws against something in the throes of his frenzy. Something's coming. He scarcely knew who he was now, having been so long without his sun and moon to guide him. Words barely registered in the once articulate male's broken mind. All he knew was that the night would soon swallow him up. He ran. Paws scrabbled, their talons gripping stone and dirt and moss as he flung himself brutally about- his hind paw was caught on something. A root, perhaps. With a snarl that put an end to his mournful cry, he savaged the now-lifeless plant matter, worrying it like a terrier might. Only difference was that Atti had more than 1800 pounds of pressure per square inch clamping down on that hapless bit of flora. He was falling, now, into the black murk. Dimly, his eyes opened, and he broke out of the glass dream-shell. For the umpteenth time in his life, the shadow-enamored pendragon was reduced to a puddled mess of fur, flesh, blood, and swampwater. This time, however, he was somewhat oblivious to fate's caustic laughter at this irony. He sprawled- motionless, helpless- where he had collapsed, bruised and battered limbs tangled in a sodden and biting parody of his first encounter with the ever-hungry sea. Distantly, he thought of Pyemme. The faint fluttering of his breath was frail, so frail, the rising and falling of his flank a barely visible shift in movement. The flame of life within him had died down, a candle in the wind, burning itself slowly out. It was reduced now to the faintest flicker, fragile and fleeting. Who am I now? Where am I? What have I become? Questions. They seemed meaningless now, immaterial. The pool of black glue that was slowly dragging Attrius under paid no attention to them, and thusly neither did he. It was easy to lose himself here. It was easy to fall into the embrace of liquid confusion. And so the Black Knight relinquished himself to the darkness for awhile. Ages. Eternities. Time ambled by with the numbed ease of unconsciousness for the former healer. It didn't seem to matter. Not much did, really. The syllables that formed were a bothersome- though direly needed- sort of shock. They filtered through his haven of cloying black now, trespassing upon his no longer opaque sentience. There was... something about the voice. About the speaker. "Don't die yet, you son of a bitch. If you do, I'll fucking kill you." Oh, he was so tired. And weak. Nevertheless, he was compelled to push through the black glue, as thick and comforting as it might've been. And he began struggling blindly for the surface as he'd done in the swamps only a few moments ago. His heartbeat quickened, picked up its sluggish, thudding pace. Gradually, his breathing began to deepen and regulate in response, tugging up and pushing down his waterlogged side where he lay. He stirred now, paws twitching, an ear flicking. Slowly, he unshuttered those sky-tinctured globes. <font color= "abcce4">"Pyemme?"</font> he breathed, the first comprehensible word he'd spoken for months tumbling effortlessly from his jaws. As quickly as the sanity came, though, it dissipated, leaving the black-as-sin male in darkness once more. Until he saw those heartbreaking, ice-blue eyes. <font color= "abcce4">"Pyemme?"</font> he whispered again, incredulously- brokenly- the only word he knew. The only word he cared to know. <font color= "abcce4">"Pyemme..."</font> I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll get better for you, I promise. I just don't know how I don't know how Abruptly, he stumbled upwards, and stared at her, half-kneeling and half-sitting. Attrius had never cried. He was not programmed nor permitted to do so. Sure- he'd gotten teary-eyed- bringing to mind a certain set of incidents, both of which had happened with 'Emme- but never full-out sobbing or anything. But something inside him was dying now, as he looked at his beautiful, beautiful lover. He didn't deserve her, and sought to slink back into the den where, if he was lucky, he'd disappear. But the need in her eyes, that naked longing, and the plea that she dared not utter, stayed him. With a low moan that signified the breaking of a heart that had not, until now, felt alive, he sank into a broken puddle at her paws, gave a great shudder, and groveled. And as he did so, the light touched him and revealeda monster. A crying monster. The proud head, once so aristocratic and handsome, was bleeding from the cuts he had sustained. Ears that had once been pricked and velvety with unscathed alertness were tattered and torn, the tip of the rightmost torn completely off. His ice-colored eyes had lost their earnest glitter and now sparked with panic and something that whispered of delusion. And his body, too, was broken. Hip bones and ribs jutted unnaturally from beneath pelage that had once been a rich, lightless black. Now it remained a deadened color from a general lack of good health. Forgive me. But who on this earth would forgive him this time? <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table width="350"><tr><td style="border: 1px solid #FFFFFF; background: transparent; padding: 5px;"><span style='font-size:8pt;line-height:100%'><span style='color:#CCCCFF'><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>out of character · oh, it was bound to fail because of where I'm from</span></div><div align="justify"> I'm confused. The first four big paragraphs (not counting the one-liners) was a bit of ghost-posting, right? </div><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>in character · now the moon's at four o'clock and it's high time kingdom come</span></div><div align="justify"> The lukuo didn't know he would wake so soon. It was not much longer after she swore to kill Attrius than the arden rose into consciousness, his pulse and breathing becoming more regular, minor signs of awareness. Pyemme set the adrenaline syringe she'd been brandishing back in the lab medical kit, and by the time she turned back to her impromptu patient, his eyes were open. Although she couldn't clearly see his face through the inky darkness, she got the sense that he was mildly disoriented, judging by the way his cerulean eyes searched about for hers. "Pyemme? Pyemme?" The way he spoke, his hushed, uncertain tone made something inside the thill twist in throes of agony. She couldn't bear to hear him sounding so small and afraid. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"Sssh, it's okay. I'm here,"</span> she cooed soothingly, reaching out a hand towards what she suspected was Atti's forehead. Very delicately, she stroked his hair, which was so matted and twisted that it could easily have been a bundle of vines or roots atop the arden's head, then immediately recoiled her hand. It was covered in blood, and not all the fresh, red blood of the healthy body, but also the gummy, caked blood of old wounds. Atti's sudden movement surprised the thill: when he shifted in the darkness she nearly fell back on her tail. His countenance was still hidden from light, but Pyemme could now see the silhouette of his body when she squinted. Attrius... she hadn't seen him in months. At first, after he'd left, she had been beside herself with worries and fears, thinking he had died. A month later, it became apparent that he was dead and Pyemme very closely followed the Corlaj-Jytt model of grieving, until finally she had accepted his passing and emptied her life of anything that was his or that reminded her of the time she lived with Attrius. Everything went except the room itself. Even the drugs. But now that she knew he was still alive, more than anything in the world she wanted to see his face once again. The lukuo held her breath as she felt him shift - and then, suddenly, time slowed as he flung himself forward at her feet. The light hit his body slowly, timidly, revealing more and more sickly gore. She almost screamed at the sight of him, blood streaming through his fur, ears destroyed, ribs protruding grotesquely like those of the mouse that had starved itself to death inside Pyemme's laboratory. Horrified, she clapped her hands over her eyes like a child in a ghost movie, inadvertently stamping several fingerprints in blood over her right eye, blood she had accidentally touched on Attrius's body. This was not the arden she had wanted to see. This was a terrifying construction of pendragon parts, resurrected from the grave. This wasn't Attrius. It couldn't be. Attrius was dead. Forgive me, he thought straight into Pyemme's own mind. She couldn't, not yet. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"I gave all your things to charity,"</span> she said, hugging her knees and looking down at the pitiable pendragon at her feet. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"And I threw away your toothbrush."</span></div></span></span></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><font color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]and i swear that i'll</font></div> yepyep. <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]never let you down again</font></div> Pyemme's black knight, reduced to a bristling, seething mass of abused flesh and matted fur, spasmed drunkenly between the reality he had grown to understand and the reality that truly was. One moment, there were nightmares all around him, closing in on him, burying like ticks into his flesh and eating him alive- the next, there was only Pyemme. Pyemme. The wind was shaking him like dead leaves over a burial ground as he sought to just plunge into the threatening darkness and die. Sides heaved shallowly, ribs jutting grotesquely awry; it was clear that one of them had been broken in his travels, and had never correctly knitted. He eased a little as she brushed his tangled hair; it was matted enough now that it'd almost begun to dread (which he feared, as he'd probably have to cut it all out, then). He wanted to speak, but his throat was so sore that he thought it best to just let it stay in his head, where she could probe as she liked. Most of it isn't mine, I think. I know that the blood on my ears is. And on my head- but there's nothing major there. Just scratches. There's another cut on my left thigh and between my shoulderblades, I think, and there was another on my left shoulder- but that one's old. There was a bullet in there, but I dug it out and cleaned it best as I could, and I think that it's pretty much scarred over by now. Dug it out with the same knife that he'd used to stab the killer. He swallowed. And right over my tattoo, sadly enough. The thought brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. And- there's more on my arms and legs. He cringed. No one had ever seen those scars before. Not even Pyemme- and he himself couldn't even bear to look at them for long without breaking down emotionally, or just getting disgusted by the destroyed flesh. It was then that 'Emme spoke, her voice a ghostly parody of the strangled cry that had broken the silence an eternity or so ago. "Sshh," she murmured, voice breaking on a moan of sorrow. "it's okay. I'm here now." Immediately, the wraithlike arden quieted, soothed, fixing his tanzanite eyes wordlessly upon the face of his only love while his feeble hackles fell to cessation along his bony back and shoulders. His tattered ears flicked backwards. The two silver hoops on the left still remained, their rightwards counterparts torn straight out of the holes. The database in his computer-like mind had been ripped apart by a virus incurable; all but nearly erased, only one file remained. And he remembered, most distinctly, Pyemme. Bloodied, silver-studded tongue traced the dry contours of its dark prison, mind reaching blindly for words. Speak, you abomination! Speak! And a low whine scraped up through his throat and spilled like bile out into the silence, a hushed perversion of his former baritone. <font color= "abcce4">"Yours,"</font> he said firmly in response to her first utterance, submitting weakly to her gaze. He wouldn't, couldn't ever belong to anyone else. Nobody else would want him. Nobody else would forgive him. And knew, just by looking, that he hadn't been forgiven, and furthermore, that he didn't deserve it. He was a monster. Could Pyemme love such a thing? Could she even look at him? No. She was cringing away from him, and when the light hit his ragged, blood-laced form, her hand clasped over her eyes, andÂ… andÂ… She was gazing only into black, curled in an upright fetal position. "I gave all your things to charity, and I threw away your toothbrush." And he wondered. Why was his toothbrush special enough to be mentioned individually? I don't blame you, he mind-spoke. ButÂ… um, why is my toothbrush special enough? 'Cause it has my plaque on it or something? I dunno- the cells or germs or material... stuff of me left there. He studied her intently- the way that she recoiled from him; the way that her hair hung like spun moonlight around her hidden face; the delicate arch of her curved spine and those long, articulate, chocolate fingers- Slowly, he edged back about five feet into the welcoming dark of the caverns, swallowing the lump in his throat so that his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a meter of pain. His frame was only etched out now in the cold, cold blue of his tail-frame, punctuated by the two ice-tinctured lanterns which no longer seethed and burned like they once had. Pensively, he bit his lip. He felt a little stronger now. Shaking, he pressed against the wall, and, using whatever shallow handholds that he could find, began to stand up. Still trembling, he delicately lurched forward- remembering, of course, to keep a wide, wide, perimeter around 'Emme- like some shadow-enamoured wraith towards the translucent curtain of the waterfall. Att crouched and then sat on his hindquarters so that both of his feet lingered on the bowl of earth. Slowly, he dipped both feet in past the rim- and quickly pulled them out. Then hesitantly, he slipped into the ice-laced water. Even here, in the usual warmth of the Vivuli- it was still damn cold. Shivering, he hissed forward to head directly into the waterfall. The water level had grown since they'd last been here- made very apparent by the fact that it rose to his hips. Finally, he stood directly in the liquid-boreal flow. It was past even the fact of being cold that bothered him. Now, as the water washed over his head and shoulders, the mud and blood mingling and seeping into his cuts- it stung. As he worked out the stuff that matted his coat so, Atti, as he realized, was not only ridding himself of the blood, gore, and various other nasty substances that coated his body, but also the scabs. Surely enough, the shit-brown mud and sanguine stuff pooled around him, tainting the water with two-toned melochany. His cuts now were freshly bleeding once more- which, in this case, was actually good- but the old blood, both his and that of other(s), had been washed away. And now, Atti seemed less like some nightmare monster, and more... alive. Maybe, maybe- even a little like what he used to be. Except a lot thinner. And more vulnerable, both emotionally and physically. And just- feeling a lot more. Beneath the now-vanished crusting that had coated his face and torso and limbs, it was made apparant exactly how thin that he was. He'd been stripped of whatever body fat that he'd had, and his musculature had seemed to almost shrunken. It was still there, of course, but unsupported by nutrition, had been seemingly drained. He pulled off his pants and swished them around for a minute or two, getting rid of the muck best as he could before slipping them back on, slipping a bit clumsily in the water and his struggle with the faded and torn cargos. He could feel his .45 still in the front pocket. His hands shaking, Atti dropped it on the rim of the ground. He was beginning to numb now from the cold. And he was glad at that, as the sharp pain and stinging that tore at him was dissipating. He bit his lip again, drawing a little blood. It was all that he could do to not cry out. He didn't want Pyemme to hear him scream, and he certainly didn't want to make her see him cry again. He wasn't allowed to cry. Slowly, still running his hands through his now-untangling hair and mane, he turned at the waist, his torso swiveling 'round to face her. He glanced at her crouched form before turning away from her to let his his bloody and serpent-inked back face her again. I'm sorry. Shivering violently, his back turned to her, he drew his legs up to his chest and lay with his head in his hands so that she wouldn't have to see him, bandaged elbows supported by his knees. He rocked back and forth on his heels, moving a little desperately for warmth. <font color= "abcce4">"Pyemme,"</font> he whispered hoarsely, desperately, eyes flying open, some of the feverish glitter already fled and slowly being replaced by a bit of that old, seething flame as he dragged air into his lungs. It was the only word that mattered- his plea, his promise, and his only prayer. I'm sorry, I'm not worth this, I need you- goddamnit, just leave me here to die before I ruin you! A low, sobbing moan swelled within Attrius's breast, bubbled up through the lungs, and mushroomed like an atomic bomb inside his throat. I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it! Jaws clenched, he sought to swallow his agony, but it emerged from him nonetheless, a barely audible undulation of utter despair. I didn't want to hurt you! <font color= "abcce4">"I love you,"</font> he vowed, flinching miserably away from her unacceptance in utter shame, wondering whether she had truly run yet, if she'd had any kids, if she loved anyone else, if he repulsed her, but most importantly ifÂ…ifÂ… Â…if she loved him still. <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table width="350"><tr><td style="border: 1px solid #FFFFFF; background: transparent; padding: 5px;"><span style='font-size:8pt;line-height:100%'><span style='color:#CCCCFF'><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>out of character · you can't escape the jails</span></div><div align="justify"> Sorry if my posts don't match yours in length. I'm having trouble reconciling my short fiction writing style with my roleplaying writing style. xD </div><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>in character · or the crucifier's nails</span></div><div align="justify"> Love. What a cheap, sentimental name for need, Pyemme thought to herself bitterly. Attrius was seriously testing her accumulated knowledge on the subject, now. Before the disappearance, the lukuo thought she knew the truth behind the word "love" - what it meant, what it felt like. Love was the way they looked at each other; love was the soft touches. She learned so many things about love from Attrius, but she learned more when he left. After the disappearance, Pyemme learned about abandonment, aloneness. Now she knew those words inside and out, what they meant, what they felt like. She learned the meaning of hope and disillusionment, nostalgia and surrender. Anger, depression, desire. She became intimate with despair. Forgiveness would not enter her vocabulary so quickly. From where she sat, huddled in a ball, the honey-furred thill could see Attrius move back into the shadows, his horrible, blood-stained features disappearing into obscurity once again. Her hands dropped slowly until they rested atop her bare knees. She shivered. Attrius had moved away. Her long, two-toned ears sprang to attention as she heard him slip into the water and let the falls wash over him. A small hope flickered to life somewhere inside her, like a candle flame, tiny and delicate, ready to be blown out at any moment by the slightest breeze. Maybe Atti was really the same arden he had been when he left, Pyemme wondered. Her icy eyes turned towards him, watching the indistinct peripheral image of the arden under the waterfall. Maybe he could be cleansed. She turned towards him ever so slowly, unfurling her body from the tight fetal position it had assumed. The blood was running through his fur in tiny rivulets like veins, glinting in the dull light. In mild horror she watched as he rid himself of all the old carnage, letting it run down to the water below, pooling out like a dark cloud over the surface. It soon became apparent, when enough of the grime had been washed away, exactly how badly Attrius had suffered during his long absence. He appeared to be emaciated to the point where he hardly looked like a pendragon - he seemed more closely related to a stick figure of grotesque proportions. The luster of his coat was gone, the strength in his body drained. He was less than a shadow of his former self. A ludicrous imitation. When he slipped off his pants, Pyemme blushed and immediately looked away, suddenly aware of the way she'd been staring. Her cheeks became a glowing rosy red, mostly hidden by her gossamer fur and the darkness, while her agitated heart began beating faster. She pressed her chocolate-lined eyes shut, out of respect for the arden's privacy, and extreme embarrassment. When she looked again, she saw that Attrius had redressed himself and sat down with his back to her. Now that he was clean - or, at least, cleaner - she could tell where his cuts and wounds were. One of them was staring straight at her, a gash between the shoulder blades. She clutched the medical kit and crawled across the stone cavern floor, hands and knees pressed to the frigid ground. When she came to sit right behind the arden, she could feel a gentle warmth radiating from his body. She didn't know if she wanted to touch him at all. Hesitantly, she began to dress his wound, first by taking an antibacterial cloth and removing it from its sterile packet. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"This will sting a bit,"</span> she warned him, and without waiting for a response she dabbed the cut, cleaning it thoroughly. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"I would call an ambulance,"</span> she said thoughtfully as she worked on the dressing, applying bandages and gauze as she'd been taught in Lab Procedures 201, <span style='color:#9966CC'>"but I don't know if handing you over to the authorities would only make things worse."</span> </div></span></span></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><font color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.] tell me you love me</font></div> I think that this is the longest post that I've ever written. :o Lyrics are from "I Don't Have Anything" by Vast, "Heart-shaped Box" by Nirvana, and "Vindicated" by Dashboard Confessional. <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.] come back and haunt me</font></div> hope dangles on a string like slow-spinning redemption- winding in and winding out the shine of which has caught my eye and roped me in, so mesmerizing, so hypnotizing. i am captivated- The world was passing him in a blur on its way down, muscles taut and stiffened as he forced himself to remain alive. Remain standing. Remain strong. There had been passion, once. Here and now, only submission and a desire to be forgiven dwelled. And something else. He didn’t know what it was, but- -snapshots. The world was tumbling down in a frame-by-frame interpretation that had the power to shatter the once stalwart ‘Knight, and he was helpless to stop its desolate, destructive progress. Every weary inch of his body was trembling with exhaustion now, the adrenaline that had fueled him for so long fading in the face of sheer hopelessness. In the face of the heartache that had seeped through to his very bones in a manifestation of pain. And he felt just as useless now as he had upon his cursed, cringing arrival. Useless. Worthless. Abomination. And damn it, he couldn't quit now. Failure or not, it wasn't his way. His coat was no longer a dull black, matted with mud and dried blood and a world of loss. But, of course, it was no longer the glossy, obsidian silk it had once been- but it held now something akin to a matte sheen. He couldn't rightly say how long he sat there, swaying on his paws, but eventually came familiarity. And with it, pain. Realization took him by the paws and flung him out of his stupor. And slowly, the arden without a name began to remember. Attrius. Black Knight. Pyemme... Pyemme’s Black Knight. Crail. Prazen. Aese. Atti. Pyemme. Atti. His thoughts clicked rapidly from screenshot to screenshot. -vindicated. i am selfish, i am wrong. i am right- i swear i'm right- swear i knew it all along. and i am flawed, but i am cleaning up so well. and so i’m seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself... Blood. A gun- there was a gun. And then there was more blood, and a knife, and stabbing hurt kill kill kill animal instinct adrenaline drive monster- -and there were hospital sheets, tainted with sanguine and crimson. There was a slender wisp of orange dying in his arms. And half of his lovely, lovely face was blown away and tattered, leaving a mess of skin-stripped muscle and bone. And that… it was- no, no, Aese! And he wasn’t crying, because he wasn’t allowed to cry- but he was choking, strangled by guilt, the noose of regret and hurt tightening ever quicker around his throat. Prazen had died almost immediately. By the time he’d seen her, a half-hour after the accident, she’d been a cold string of gore and shrapnel, flesh blown away as if a vacuum had drawn the very marrow from her bones and the muscle from her frame. Crail had lasted a day longer, dying in his arms just as his nephew had. The old files were flung out of the recycling bin of his head and onto the desktop. Slowly, the amnesia that had plagued him for the past two months began to painfully lift and peel away from his mind. He’d previously needed that numbness to survive- but now, it seemed only to be a hindrance. Or maybe not. Bitterness- such a sweet, sweet emotion. It most frequently took the hand of a dancing partner, and attachment to some forgone representation. No, it rarely took the floor alone, for to be bitter almost always had a motive. And though it went about in beautiful ways, flickering and bounding in the most seductive way with that unnamed other, it was the last thing to fall for. To be sucked into that void, an abyss of rush, betrayal and confusion, was a suicidal vow. So many watched their original reason float away on its own euphoria, and be left only with the remnants of bitterness. Whatever it was, this empty thing- it seemed quite happy to desecrate and devour the bearer. For being bitter was perhaps one of the most unpleasant things to hold. For it allowed little contact of sanity with others, and merely festered and burned until the death of such a thing was brought about. But it seemed rare, for most stuck with stubbornness to their resolution, and did not yield. Bitterness was a desperate shield, an excuse. If one was bitter, what more did they need? Some grant was issued to ravage and rage, and simply be a monster to both society and one's self. Pathetic, really, but that was the nature of such an unsightly emotion. But lacking of all perhaps was euphoria in all. To lack pleasure, but never taste the sharp tang of the negative was an interesting concept. Of course, it was extremely shielding and protecting, but what really was it? To never even scent either extreme was confusion in itself. What was happiness without sadness? Perhaps the philosophy of yin and yang held a strong natural truth. What was death without life? Both relied so heavily on the other, to isolate one was a pointless thing. Yet, it seemed in a way, absence of both was not the worst. For to eternally be drowned in evil, the slightest sliver of goodness long past, was perhaps the ultimate torture. To always have hope, but never get anything past- that was never an enjoyment. Emotions were an unbalanced thing, something wretched and divine in the same instance. But they’re a completely bizarre thing, and probably never will be mastered by anyone. So through all philosophies of lacking and indulgence, it will never be completely harnessed. The masses are left in confusion, staring ahead in their world of chemicals and balances, never quite knowing the cause for their sanity or pleas for difference. And then, there’s love. Perhaps it was this unfailing devotion that had driven him just a little mad when he’d left. Shaking his still-handsome head to clear the clouding of his senses, he managed to shift a little to allow his coat to grow. His breathing was shattered, ragged, uneven; his damp fur stood in pinpricks on his cold, goosebumped skin. He swallowed hard against the pain. She was still afraid. ...so clear, like the diamond in your ring cut to mirror your intention, oversized and overwhelmed, the shine of which has caught my eye and rendered me so isolated, so motivated. i am certain now that i am... Something changed. Something indescribably palpable. And the change began in the burning embers that had become Attrius's eyes on the day he'd met his her. The ice-tainted gaze was as intensely piercing as it had always been, but where it had once been forged in fire and flame, it was now honed in such a cold, implacable steeliness that if Atti had seen himself, he wouldn't have recognized his own face. It was the machine that propelled him now. The endless tests, the constant abuse. He was caught in his own matrix as the rest of the world fast -forwarded in sound and color around him. And it tugged at him. It began to hurt. Even as he sighed that held breath into the uncomfortable silence, the tightness in his chest, the squeezing, grew tighter still. He had failed her. He had failed her. Quietly, he turned his attention back to his goddess, worshipping her with all of his breaking heart. ...vindicated. i am selfish, i am wrong. i am right, i swear i'm right; i swear i knew it all along. and i am flawed, but i am cleaning up so well. i am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself. She had sacrificed her lovely, broken soul for him. And words failed him. What the fuck had he done? He knew it was his fault. All his fault. And he accepted the self-inflicted blame, shouldered it with naught but a physical shifting of bloodied hackles to betray his distress and make it known. And he strove to tell her that she'd done wonderfully. That she'd done better than he ever had. Than he ever could have. And he was not worthy of her scrutiny. so turn up the corners of your lip- part them and feel my fingertips trace the moment; fall forever. A strange, exquisite calm had taken hold of his sentience now. The eye before the storm. The pause for breath before a sob so heart-wrenching it'd tear you apart. And in a baritone-going-tenor- his voice he mused, had gone up a shade higher, probably due to the lack of use of his vocal cords- some fragments and nuances of song that had broke in his head. And they were Crail’s songs, nonetheless. And he half-whispered and half-sung to himself, to no one, to pain and misery and the noose that was slowly and surely tightening ‘round his neck <font color= "abcce4">“I don't have anything. I’ve been stripped of everything, except some flesh that bleeds- and I’ve been robbed of everything except a soul, except a soul- that needs you… sweet you. I don't have anything, because I don't have you-“</font> He choked on his own words, and withered, they died in his throat. He dragged in a little puff of air and whispered another line- isolated, from some other song that lingered in the back of his throat. <font color= "abcce4">“I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black..."</font> defense is paper thin; just one touch and i'd be in too deep now to ever swim against the current. so let me slip away, so let me slip away, so let me slip away, so let me slip against the current. Inverse-alabaster pelt rippling with sheer effort, he drew another breath and, lifting his head and looking over one quivering shoulder, opened his intensely ice-painted eyes and focused them upon her beautiful, beautiful face. And what he found within those sky-tinctured depths answered every prayer he'd ever prayed. He swallowed hard, reached for and caught another elusive breath. He turned again, back to his previous posture. <font color= "abcce4">“I-“</font> he began, his head hanging once more, staring at the pair of knees that were folded up to meet his chest. <font color= "abcce4"> “-do you have any bandages? And some ointment, too, if… you have any." </font>Absentmindedly, he began to pick and tear at the long rip in the left side of his pants, laying clear the gash in his thigh. Subtly, he paused; swallowed the lump in his throat- he’d managed to choke his tears back earlier, but the effects of such still lingered. He bit his lip, this time drawing blood, and swung his arm onto his knees. Atti bent over the leftwards appendage, the vertebrae clearly showing from his bent back- which only served to accentuate the thin, shallow ribbons of scar that whip-striped his back. Almost tentatively, he began to unravel the bandages from the half-hidden appendage before, decidedly, leaving only about a inch revealed at the wrist- and even then, the pink and ridged flesh had begun to lace the skin. defense is paper thin; just one touch and I'd be in too deep now to ever swim against the current. so let me slip away, so let me slip away, so let me slip away, so let me slip against the current. He didn’t really notice when she approached. Or maybe he did, but he wasn’t really paying attention. He truly wasn’t sure- besides, he was used to it, having lived this zombie-like existence for the past two months, caught somewhere between the living and the dead. Faintly, ever so faintly, he heard her speak. “This might sting a bit." Att shook his head. <font color= "abcce4">“It’s just a flesh wound,"</font> he said. He closed his eyes, shuttering the cold blue flame, a cruel parody of he’d first done so. When the touch came, he nearly lost his composure. Attrius gasped in rapt surprise and brusque attention, contracting. The shock and sensation ripped through him, through flesh and bone, leaving him stunned and weak with the sheer force of it. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. Desperately, he arched his back against her fingertips, his eyes flying abruptly open. Trembling, shuddering, fully alive, he drew in quiet, shaky breaths of air as if he'd been trapped underwater for far too long. And perhaps he had. vindicated. i am selfish, i am wrong. i am right- i swear i'm right; i swear i knew it all along. and i am flawed, but i am cleaning up so well. and i'm seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself. The shock of just being touched by someone- something living- still held him in the fist of delusion. And just as abrupt as before, he tore away from her, and hanging his finely-chiseled head, sat in a fetal position again. He looked ahead. He didn’t dare to meet her gaze. <font color= "abcce4">“I’m sorry,"</font> he murmured, somewhere between a choke and a whisper. <font color= "abcce4">“No. The authorities would probably just make things worse. Especially after I’ve just killed someone. I personally believe in Shakespearean justice- an eye for an eye- but I don’t think that the rest of the world does, though."</font> Trembling, he closed his eyes. <font color= "abcce4">“Don’t touch me, Pyemme. You’ll dirty yourself."</font> my hope dangles on a string like slow spinning redemption... <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table width="350"><tr><td style="border: 1px solid #FFFFFF; background: transparent; padding: 5px;"><span style='font-size:8pt;line-height:100%'><span style='color:#CCCCFF'><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>out of character · well I like the way you walk</span></div><div align="justify"> Whoohoo! "Heart Shaped Box" is so on Guitar Hero 2. xD Sorry for the wait. Like, college applications, and stuff, been gettin' me down. </3</3</3 </div><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>in character · that's why I left my door unlocked</span></div><div align="justify"> Pyemme waited, silently, crouched on the cold stone floor of the cavern. Attrius didn't want her to touch him - he recoiled under the gentle pressure of an antibacterial wipe. At first she imagined he enjoyed the contact - at the touch of her fingers, his entire physiology changed. His breathing quickened, he moved closer, he trembled. If the arden were an experimental subject in laboratory conditions, she would put these symptoms down as signs of pleasure, for certain. However, her observations lead to a false hypothesis, as Atti quickly moved out of arm's reach, huddling himself into a tight little ball. The thill's's heart sank. It was not until he suddenly shrank away that Pyemme found she was the one who had enjoyed the contact. It was one of the rare moments since Atti's mysterious departure that she had felt a living, breathing thing - aside from mice - under her hands. She wanted to place her palms flat on the dark form's undulating back, feel his long, damp fur between her fingers, absorb the warmth from his skin. No... she wanted more than that. She wanted to connect with him, become so close that another separation could only be unimaginable. Oh, how she'd missed Atti, missed 'dragon contact, missed affection. Unfortunately, the arden himself seemed to feel differently on the matter. "I'm sorry," were the hushed words that came as his only excuse, her only benediction. I'm sorry. No, she wanted to say, no you're not. Because it didn't jibe. It just didn't make sense. Here was Attrius, battered and broken. He had found some way to call her to this place, although she still didn't understand it, through the sheer power of thoughts. He apologized profusely, in mind and word. He professed his love for her. But when she tried to touch him, he only pulled away. He wouldn't let her come near, when all she wanted was to be close to him. Pyemme had to choose whether to trust his words or his actions, and, being a psychologist, she knew immediately which was telling the truth. "Don’t touch me, Pyemme. You’ll dirty yourself." She couldn't decide between screaming or crying, so the thill decided to do neither. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"Fine,"</span> she said definitively, in a voice that was clear but rancid with anger, contrasting sharply with Attrius's course, choked vocals. She stood up quickly, her long legs unfurling with ease. From this higher viewpoint the arden seemed so small and pathetic, curled up in a little ball on the ground. She straightened her pencil skirt out of modesty and stood back, placing a pronounced distance between them. If he didn't want her to touch him, that was fine. If he didn't want her near, so be it. But why did he call her here, why did he even bother coming back, if all he wanted was to shun her? There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much frustration and desire that she felt like she might burst. Each word, every phrase, was filled with incredible anger. She loved him so much, but he was stupid, and selfish, ignorant, psychotic, confounding, dumb, a waste of good molecules that could otherwise be put to better use forming other lifeforms, and, and... and... Pyemme felt her face go suddenly hot and her eyes fill with water. Don't, she commanded herself, don't cry, don't cry. You're Pyemme Djaam, you don't cry. There was nothing she could do to stop it, however, except shut her silvery eyes. One hand went up to her face, fingers gently splayed to hide her visage in shadow. Twin tears rolled down her honey-golden fur, gently following the curve of her cheek, until they reached her chin and were brusquely wiped away by the back of her wrist. For a little while she stood in silence, resisting the urge to openly bawl. When she had gained a measure of control over herself and her voice, she managed to say, slowly and carefully, <span style='color:#9966CC'>"An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind."</span> Her shoulders shuddered in a silent chuckle that would have been a sob had she allowed herself the liberty.</div></span></span></td></tr></table>
