S
SoulSurvivor
Guest
Original poster
[Thought I'd strut my stuff a little, show folks how I write before I go bugging people for RPs. :P]
There was, in that little, quiet hollow of his mind where the knight still lived, an odd mixture of sympathy and hatred; he stared silently down at the squirming creature as it tried fruitlessly to push him away, to remove the sword from its chest. A group of red eyes gazed balefully back at him.
Remember, Artorias. Remember. That is all thou hast remaining. Remember.
The dark inside him was screaming through his limbs—that's what had propelled him into this coliseum in the first place, the Abyssal influence contorting his body beneath his armor. He found it, somehow, amusing that no amount of dark power could move his broken arm. The shattered limb dangled useless as the knight hauled the twitching abomination aloft with no apparent effort, still dangling from the blade of that massive sword.
Remember. Remember. Blonde hair. The color of sunlight. Porcelain. The color of snow. Remember. Remember, Artorias.
There was a man—no, a woman, standing before him. It was, perhaps, difficult to tell, what with the blue surcoat and closed helm, but something about the way they held themselves declared femininity. Not that it mattered, he supposed. Was this his target? The Abyss wanted their soul, regardless. The Abyss did not discriminate. The Abyss would consume all, just as it had consumed him.
Remember. The taste of lips on thine. The tension in thine hair as she tugged at it, to bring thee lower. The way she stood on her toes. Remember, Artorias. Remember.
The darkness wrenched his body taut; he coiled as the knightess before him drew her weapon—a long, slender blade with a decided curve. They would not submit, then, and simply allow the darkness to overwhelm them. It seemed so much easier, in hindsight—all that fighting, and what had it availed him? Now he danced like a puppet on shadowy strings. Now the dark shrieked up from his ruined throat, a battle cry—and he charged.
Remember. Remember the way thou felt with her head against thy chest. Remember. Remember the quiet moments. Remember, Artorias.
Her shield arm buckled under the first blow; the knightess found herself dancing backward in the face of the knight's unbelievable assault. He watched as his body lurched after her, the sword arcing 'round in a horizontal blow meant to cleave her in two, and marveled silently as she got her shield up in time for that one, too—but the force sent her stumbling to the right, unable to keep her footing. She would fall, too. The darkness cared not for his body's restraints, its limits—it would tear him apart, if it had to, to ward off this new intruder.
Remember. Remember the way she wove flowers into thy hair as thou slept. Remember, Artorias.
But she was holding her own; for every two strokes she parried or evaded, the knightess landed one, and while the knight's armor had once laughed off such weaponry, the darkness' taint had rusted the metal beyond repair. The knightess' blade was tasting flesh, again and again, and the shock of the sword's brutal kiss jarred him. This was more awake—alive—than he'd been in years.
Remember. Remember. Kiss. Flowers. Hair. Artorias.
Could this be? What talent, what incredible skill this knightess demonstrated—to stand against a knight of Gwyn, to battle him back even while the dark coursed through his veins, screamed and shrieked inside his head—could it be? Would she free him from this awful fate? His hopes soared: the darkness pulled him away from an attempted stab only to leave his leg exposed, and the knightess took full advantage. Tendons parted beneath the bite of her sword's caress, and the knight went to his knees. The darkness screamed, trying to tug the ruined body aloft—but the knight watched with grateful glee as the knightess prepared for the killing stroke.
Remember. Snow. Sunlight. Porcelain. Quiet. Lips. Sunlight. Artorias…
The sword descended; the old, eaten-through helmet was no match for the blade's vicious plunge. Long-ruined flesh gave way, and no amount of Abyssal energies could provoke it to life again. The knight, finally defeated, finally freed, slumped over, his last thoughts echoing off of the broken walls of his caved skull.
Ciaran.
There was, in that little, quiet hollow of his mind where the knight still lived, an odd mixture of sympathy and hatred; he stared silently down at the squirming creature as it tried fruitlessly to push him away, to remove the sword from its chest. A group of red eyes gazed balefully back at him.
Remember, Artorias. Remember. That is all thou hast remaining. Remember.
The dark inside him was screaming through his limbs—that's what had propelled him into this coliseum in the first place, the Abyssal influence contorting his body beneath his armor. He found it, somehow, amusing that no amount of dark power could move his broken arm. The shattered limb dangled useless as the knight hauled the twitching abomination aloft with no apparent effort, still dangling from the blade of that massive sword.
Remember. Remember. Blonde hair. The color of sunlight. Porcelain. The color of snow. Remember. Remember, Artorias.
There was a man—no, a woman, standing before him. It was, perhaps, difficult to tell, what with the blue surcoat and closed helm, but something about the way they held themselves declared femininity. Not that it mattered, he supposed. Was this his target? The Abyss wanted their soul, regardless. The Abyss did not discriminate. The Abyss would consume all, just as it had consumed him.
Remember. The taste of lips on thine. The tension in thine hair as she tugged at it, to bring thee lower. The way she stood on her toes. Remember, Artorias. Remember.
The darkness wrenched his body taut; he coiled as the knightess before him drew her weapon—a long, slender blade with a decided curve. They would not submit, then, and simply allow the darkness to overwhelm them. It seemed so much easier, in hindsight—all that fighting, and what had it availed him? Now he danced like a puppet on shadowy strings. Now the dark shrieked up from his ruined throat, a battle cry—and he charged.
Remember. Remember the way thou felt with her head against thy chest. Remember. Remember the quiet moments. Remember, Artorias.
Her shield arm buckled under the first blow; the knightess found herself dancing backward in the face of the knight's unbelievable assault. He watched as his body lurched after her, the sword arcing 'round in a horizontal blow meant to cleave her in two, and marveled silently as she got her shield up in time for that one, too—but the force sent her stumbling to the right, unable to keep her footing. She would fall, too. The darkness cared not for his body's restraints, its limits—it would tear him apart, if it had to, to ward off this new intruder.
Remember. Remember the way she wove flowers into thy hair as thou slept. Remember, Artorias.
But she was holding her own; for every two strokes she parried or evaded, the knightess landed one, and while the knight's armor had once laughed off such weaponry, the darkness' taint had rusted the metal beyond repair. The knightess' blade was tasting flesh, again and again, and the shock of the sword's brutal kiss jarred him. This was more awake—alive—than he'd been in years.
Remember. Remember. Kiss. Flowers. Hair. Artorias.
Could this be? What talent, what incredible skill this knightess demonstrated—to stand against a knight of Gwyn, to battle him back even while the dark coursed through his veins, screamed and shrieked inside his head—could it be? Would she free him from this awful fate? His hopes soared: the darkness pulled him away from an attempted stab only to leave his leg exposed, and the knightess took full advantage. Tendons parted beneath the bite of her sword's caress, and the knight went to his knees. The darkness screamed, trying to tug the ruined body aloft—but the knight watched with grateful glee as the knightess prepared for the killing stroke.
Remember. Snow. Sunlight. Porcelain. Quiet. Lips. Sunlight. Artorias…
The sword descended; the old, eaten-through helmet was no match for the blade's vicious plunge. Long-ruined flesh gave way, and no amount of Abyssal energies could provoke it to life again. The knight, finally defeated, finally freed, slumped over, his last thoughts echoing off of the broken walls of his caved skull.
Ciaran.