Post by Arche on Jan 3, 2010 17:43:07 GMT -5
A R C H E
This is how we like to do it in the murder scene;
can we settle up the score?
.\-/.
Pacing.
She could hear the crunch, crunch of her paws in the snow, she could feel the air around her as the frost hardened and the water in the air froze and fell. She could see her breath fogging from her mouth and nose, see it as it clouded the edges of her vision and dissipated into the air. She could smell winter on the wind; she could taste it on her breath. But it had no numbing effect on her. She was painfully, so painfully aware.
It was as if every sound, smell, touch, sight, and taste were taking her, pinning her down and asking the ever-present, ever-haunting question - When will you be Queen, Arche? When will you be in control?
She growled at herself; her surroundings; her memories. Her head snapped from side to side, trying to shake the feeling away - the feeling of being watched, and of being disapproved of, and of being controlled. She threw her shaggy head up and howled angrily at the trees, the bare, skeleton trees. The dead trees.
Another howl; this one pained. Mourning, crying, desperate for justice.
She could mourn and cry all she wanted. But the justice, her justice, for now, was not possible. After the old King died, there was only one other left to loathe. The insane one, the deranged one. The one that didn't deserve to breathe along with the living. Her eyes were flashing, imagining the moment when she, Arche, came out on top. When she would finally have her justice, her revenge, her freedom - her control.
She found a slippery patch of ice under a tree, caught her muddled reflection in it. But she didn't see herself; her subtly-hued, mostly-grey coat. She didn't see the way her fur was shaggier than normal, thick for the cold, cold winter upon them. She didn't see her large ears, her large paws.
She saw, in the vague wolf shape in the ice, golden eyes. Dark fur with tan accents, a scar running across a shoulder blade, long and hinting at a violent, dangerous history.
"Braize..." her voice ached at the name; the sound of it filling her ears and sinking her heart with its once fiery connotation, fiery and impulsive and irresistibly alluring. Now, the name brought only pain. Pain, and a motivation. Motivation for vengeance, vengeance against a dead wolf. Vengeance against an insane wolf.
She would make her pay. Make her pay for the golden eye she stole, pay for the sickening, devilish dishonor she had given. Pay for being a catalyst, being the rock to the landslide that finally crushed him, threw him over the edge.
The illusion fogged; like her breath, and she saw a murky, amber-eyed grey fae in the ice.
She turned away, her eyes suddenly wet.
Pacing.
And in every sound, smell, touch, sight, taste:
When will you be Queen, Arche? When will you be in control?
./-\.
(song : Give 'em hell, kid)
This is how we like to do it in the murder scene;
can we settle up the score?
.\-/.
Pacing.
She could hear the crunch, crunch of her paws in the snow, she could feel the air around her as the frost hardened and the water in the air froze and fell. She could see her breath fogging from her mouth and nose, see it as it clouded the edges of her vision and dissipated into the air. She could smell winter on the wind; she could taste it on her breath. But it had no numbing effect on her. She was painfully, so painfully aware.
It was as if every sound, smell, touch, sight, and taste were taking her, pinning her down and asking the ever-present, ever-haunting question - When will you be Queen, Arche? When will you be in control?
She growled at herself; her surroundings; her memories. Her head snapped from side to side, trying to shake the feeling away - the feeling of being watched, and of being disapproved of, and of being controlled. She threw her shaggy head up and howled angrily at the trees, the bare, skeleton trees. The dead trees.
Another howl; this one pained. Mourning, crying, desperate for justice.
She could mourn and cry all she wanted. But the justice, her justice, for now, was not possible. After the old King died, there was only one other left to loathe. The insane one, the deranged one. The one that didn't deserve to breathe along with the living. Her eyes were flashing, imagining the moment when she, Arche, came out on top. When she would finally have her justice, her revenge, her freedom - her control.
She found a slippery patch of ice under a tree, caught her muddled reflection in it. But she didn't see herself; her subtly-hued, mostly-grey coat. She didn't see the way her fur was shaggier than normal, thick for the cold, cold winter upon them. She didn't see her large ears, her large paws.
She saw, in the vague wolf shape in the ice, golden eyes. Dark fur with tan accents, a scar running across a shoulder blade, long and hinting at a violent, dangerous history.
"Braize..." her voice ached at the name; the sound of it filling her ears and sinking her heart with its once fiery connotation, fiery and impulsive and irresistibly alluring. Now, the name brought only pain. Pain, and a motivation. Motivation for vengeance, vengeance against a dead wolf. Vengeance against an insane wolf.
She would make her pay. Make her pay for the golden eye she stole, pay for the sickening, devilish dishonor she had given. Pay for being a catalyst, being the rock to the landslide that finally crushed him, threw him over the edge.
The illusion fogged; like her breath, and she saw a murky, amber-eyed grey fae in the ice.
She turned away, her eyes suddenly wet.
Pacing.
And in every sound, smell, touch, sight, taste:
When will you be Queen, Arche? When will you be in control?
./-\.
(song : Give 'em hell, kid)