Post by Morg Stormhammer on Nov 14, 2003 8:57:31 GMT -5
I began writing this as a poem, but as the thoughts coalesced they began to take a different form. As time goes by and I add more to the story, I'll update it here. As of yet, it does not have a title. Also...if you've a mind to, feel free to add to the story, but not as a RP kinda thing.
The rain falls as the fog descends upon the land and from the shadows lurk visions beyond human ken. The darkness draws itself down like a blanket, to cover but not to keep warm. The moon is but a pale glow, just out of sight, like movement around the corner. The wolves howl an eerie song, calling to those lost in the fray and the nightbirds fall silent before the hunter's call. The ravens call out to the dead, calling to arms their masses, to frenzy upon the waste of the desert. The winds sing an evil tune, not unlike the harps heard in the last moment of life. From the hot, steamy jungle flora, glaring eyes search the clearing as though to pierce the very trunks themselves. A clawed hand, bloody from this morn's kill, pushes back the leaves with a softness and care not befitting such a visage as appears above the death dealing paw. Eyes of a color as a late summer sunset peer about with the ferocity of a dragon on the hunt, looking for the gods know what the tiny mind behind them can see. Sounds have all but ceased, save for the rain drops lightly beating the rhythm of life upon the lush foliage. The creature slowly enters the clearing, eternally chary of it's surroundings. With stealth far beyond any other creature, it descends ever so slowly, eyes darting to and fro seeking danger.
The rain falls as the fog descends upon the land and from the shadows lurk visions beyond human ken. The darkness draws itself down like a blanket, to cover but not to keep warm. The moon is but a pale glow, just out of sight, like movement around the corner. The wolves howl an eerie song, calling to those lost in the fray and the nightbirds fall silent before the hunter's call. The ravens call out to the dead, calling to arms their masses, to frenzy upon the waste of the desert. The winds sing an evil tune, not unlike the harps heard in the last moment of life. From the hot, steamy jungle flora, glaring eyes search the clearing as though to pierce the very trunks themselves. A clawed hand, bloody from this morn's kill, pushes back the leaves with a softness and care not befitting such a visage as appears above the death dealing paw. Eyes of a color as a late summer sunset peer about with the ferocity of a dragon on the hunt, looking for the gods know what the tiny mind behind them can see. Sounds have all but ceased, save for the rain drops lightly beating the rhythm of life upon the lush foliage. The creature slowly enters the clearing, eternally chary of it's surroundings. With stealth far beyond any other creature, it descends ever so slowly, eyes darting to and fro seeking danger.
