(Closed between Blink and Alexander)
The day was uncomfortably hot, and the daily rounds had been exceptionally troubling. In the highest room of the tallest building of Hope, stood a frustrated and bloody-faced ranger. The room itself was an oasis; isolated from the suffering and thirst in the settlement below. It was clean and well-kept, lit by the generator which hummed gently beneath the floor. The bed was still soft and the furniture was completely intact; an image of what a homestead would have perhaps been like all those years ago. Most notably however, was the small, faded metal faucet which featured in one corner of the room. The mark of wealth.
Clad in protective khaki and rags, Blink stared blankly and wide-eyed at the wall to her left. Her brows furrowed downward in an irritable fashion, and her breath was unsteady and audible. Her face, partly hidden by her shawl, bore a fresh and blooded graze on her right cheek, something which she was particularly displeased about.
“Dear child,” A voice spoke, low and melodic in nature. “What troubles you?”
Footsteps drew closer across the wooden flooring. The Overseer's approach was gracefully patronizing, and Blink's posture weakened as his shadow loomed over her. He took her jaw in in between metallic fingers, and forced eye contact. Kain was a tall, overbearing man, whose features were young and condescending. A virtuoso of sorts, The Overseer was an eccentric obsessed with power, art, and poetry.
A few moments of eye contact and the Overseer stepped back. His face was too healthy for this environment and his clothes were too fine for this time. His left arm was missing, and instead his shoulder held onto a vainly gold-plated bionic replacement, its movements as graceful and human-like as his other limbs.
“Perhaps I should understand your displeasure.” He continued. From the faucet, he filled a small bowl with the clear water he kept so selfishly for himself. The droplets rippled the surface perfectly, as precious as diamonds. Blink remained indifferent. She was approached again, this time being met by the soothing coldness of a wet rag being applied to her cheek. “It was unfair of me to send you by yourself, dear one. Forgive me. Do they still breathe?”
Blink's eyes softened, almost sadly.
“... There were children.” she spoke, her voice a shy, unpracticed whisper.
“Children who would have become the same men that you slain.” Kain's reply was cold, yet his words had a strange, manipulative wiseness around them. “You gave them the perfect finale; there is only suffering in adulthood out there, my child.”
Silence followed, and Blink spoke no more. The dirt and blood had been wiped away from the graze her face, and Kain tidied the shawl around her jaw. Blink's sheltered and puppeteered life resulted in a small inability to care for herself, often forgetting to eat unless she is reminded. Her proficiency in combat and ranged weaponry could not hide her fear of injury; even the smallest wound would be enough to throw her out of focus. The graze she sustained on her cheek was a big deal, disregarding the grave injuries she herself had inflicted on others.
Cleaned and consoled, the rounds continued as usual, and Blink returned to her perch within the stronghold. Like every other day and moment, she wandered the many roofs of the stronghold, above and away from the common people yet close enough to observe them. Her presence caused passing people to hush their voices, fearful that they may accidentally provoke persecution. The Overseer's Dog, they called her – a marionette. Blink's perception of the Overseer was no different than a father-figure, and she remained ignorant of his manipulative ways of control. Essentially, Kain had built a puppet from birth, willing to carry out commands under the false belief that he cared for her. And it was that idea which gave the reason for her endless wandering and fear mongering, perched atop buildings with hawk eyes that would never blink.
The day was uncomfortably hot, and the daily rounds had been exceptionally troubling. In the highest room of the tallest building of Hope, stood a frustrated and bloody-faced ranger. The room itself was an oasis; isolated from the suffering and thirst in the settlement below. It was clean and well-kept, lit by the generator which hummed gently beneath the floor. The bed was still soft and the furniture was completely intact; an image of what a homestead would have perhaps been like all those years ago. Most notably however, was the small, faded metal faucet which featured in one corner of the room. The mark of wealth.
Clad in protective khaki and rags, Blink stared blankly and wide-eyed at the wall to her left. Her brows furrowed downward in an irritable fashion, and her breath was unsteady and audible. Her face, partly hidden by her shawl, bore a fresh and blooded graze on her right cheek, something which she was particularly displeased about.
“Dear child,” A voice spoke, low and melodic in nature. “What troubles you?”
Footsteps drew closer across the wooden flooring. The Overseer's approach was gracefully patronizing, and Blink's posture weakened as his shadow loomed over her. He took her jaw in in between metallic fingers, and forced eye contact. Kain was a tall, overbearing man, whose features were young and condescending. A virtuoso of sorts, The Overseer was an eccentric obsessed with power, art, and poetry.
A few moments of eye contact and the Overseer stepped back. His face was too healthy for this environment and his clothes were too fine for this time. His left arm was missing, and instead his shoulder held onto a vainly gold-plated bionic replacement, its movements as graceful and human-like as his other limbs.
“Perhaps I should understand your displeasure.” He continued. From the faucet, he filled a small bowl with the clear water he kept so selfishly for himself. The droplets rippled the surface perfectly, as precious as diamonds. Blink remained indifferent. She was approached again, this time being met by the soothing coldness of a wet rag being applied to her cheek. “It was unfair of me to send you by yourself, dear one. Forgive me. Do they still breathe?”
Blink's eyes softened, almost sadly.
“... There were children.” she spoke, her voice a shy, unpracticed whisper.
“Children who would have become the same men that you slain.” Kain's reply was cold, yet his words had a strange, manipulative wiseness around them. “You gave them the perfect finale; there is only suffering in adulthood out there, my child.”
Silence followed, and Blink spoke no more. The dirt and blood had been wiped away from the graze her face, and Kain tidied the shawl around her jaw. Blink's sheltered and puppeteered life resulted in a small inability to care for herself, often forgetting to eat unless she is reminded. Her proficiency in combat and ranged weaponry could not hide her fear of injury; even the smallest wound would be enough to throw her out of focus. The graze she sustained on her cheek was a big deal, disregarding the grave injuries she herself had inflicted on others.
Cleaned and consoled, the rounds continued as usual, and Blink returned to her perch within the stronghold. Like every other day and moment, she wandered the many roofs of the stronghold, above and away from the common people yet close enough to observe them. Her presence caused passing people to hush their voices, fearful that they may accidentally provoke persecution. The Overseer's Dog, they called her – a marionette. Blink's perception of the Overseer was no different than a father-figure, and she remained ignorant of his manipulative ways of control. Essentially, Kain had built a puppet from birth, willing to carry out commands under the false belief that he cared for her. And it was that idea which gave the reason for her endless wandering and fear mongering, perched atop buildings with hawk eyes that would never blink.
(Kay sorry)
The sun beat down on the back of the wanderer, swaying with the rhythmic trot of the horse beneath him as it made a slow trudge through unforgiving sands. Like a ghost, the rattle of an empty canteen haunted his thoughts step after step. For what seemed like days he fought on through No Mans Land surviving off of the dirty, laughable puddles of water that condensed in the ruins that survived the beating of the weather and the tests of time. It was only the day before that he had seen it in the distance, a gleaming shine of the relentless Sun's beams reflecting off of some great tower. With every hour of travel he endured the sight became more clear. A massive outpost of sorts, some sort of stronghold. The thought of it, the thought of shelter and a people that had come together to form some kind of civilization. Hope was all he could call it then.
Now he could see the Gate coming up on him and like a shroud of relief the shade fell on the traveler and his steed, casting off the suns harsh light behind its enormous steely walls. He gazed upon them in awe and in a sort of fear, as their scale was intimidating to say the least, and the walls themselves left something to be desired in terms of a welcoming appearance. But alas, if it kept a home safe he could hardly see it fit to complain.
In the shadow of possible salvation, the beaten figure found a new revitalized sense of anticipation and spurred on towards the entrance with pleasant thoughts in his mind, something that for the past days had been only a distant wish.
"People, other people... Maybe they have water, food... A place to stay..? Of course, they must have it all. This place-"
Then the ground grew nearer, and with a heavy speed. All his weight brought him slamming into the ground as he struggled to break free of the mass that had trapped him.
"Falcon?! Oh no. No, no, no... Come on girl, get on up, we're almost there..! Just a little farther!"
Digging and clawing at the ground, he dragged himself from underneath the collapsed horse and quickly moved to its side. His hand brought her head up with gentle strokes, trying to console the heat exhausted and dehydrated beast. Ferverent hands searched desperately for another canteen, a bottle in the baggage that maybe had just enough water to keep his companion on the verge long enough to find it's chance to relax, and me well. All of it, everything. Empty. And he could feel them now. The thumps were loud and powerful in her lungs, and her breathing went from labored panting to a painful sounding gasp. Her whining was only further indication of the pain she was in and it tore into her riders will like a parasite. He could be of no assistance now. At least out of the scorching rays, the equine still struggled to hold on to consciousness. It was not unknown to the man that it may have very well been too late. The time he thought he had was far less in reality and at this stage there may have been no coming back. But that would not stop him from trying. And like that, he was off, stomping out towards the settlement kicking up dust with every intention of coming back to his four legged friend. His lungs burned and his head spun from his own parched body, but as his eyes reached past the gates to the rooftops of the strongholds great structures he fought off the warnings and continued, to Hope.
Now he could see the Gate coming up on him and like a shroud of relief the shade fell on the traveler and his steed, casting off the suns harsh light behind its enormous steely walls. He gazed upon them in awe and in a sort of fear, as their scale was intimidating to say the least, and the walls themselves left something to be desired in terms of a welcoming appearance. But alas, if it kept a home safe he could hardly see it fit to complain.
In the shadow of possible salvation, the beaten figure found a new revitalized sense of anticipation and spurred on towards the entrance with pleasant thoughts in his mind, something that for the past days had been only a distant wish.
"People, other people... Maybe they have water, food... A place to stay..? Of course, they must have it all. This place-"
Then the ground grew nearer, and with a heavy speed. All his weight brought him slamming into the ground as he struggled to break free of the mass that had trapped him.
"Falcon?! Oh no. No, no, no... Come on girl, get on up, we're almost there..! Just a little farther!"
Digging and clawing at the ground, he dragged himself from underneath the collapsed horse and quickly moved to its side. His hand brought her head up with gentle strokes, trying to console the heat exhausted and dehydrated beast. Ferverent hands searched desperately for another canteen, a bottle in the baggage that maybe had just enough water to keep his companion on the verge long enough to find it's chance to relax, and me well. All of it, everything. Empty. And he could feel them now. The thumps were loud and powerful in her lungs, and her breathing went from labored panting to a painful sounding gasp. Her whining was only further indication of the pain she was in and it tore into her riders will like a parasite. He could be of no assistance now. At least out of the scorching rays, the equine still struggled to hold on to consciousness. It was not unknown to the man that it may have very well been too late. The time he thought he had was far less in reality and at this stage there may have been no coming back. But that would not stop him from trying. And like that, he was off, stomping out towards the settlement kicking up dust with every intention of coming back to his four legged friend. His lungs burned and his head spun from his own parched body, but as his eyes reached past the gates to the rooftops of the strongholds great structures he fought off the warnings and continued, to Hope.
(This is a closed roleplay, sorry!)
From Blink's view, the rooftops shone blindingly in the overbearing sunlight. Buildings were scattered messily, some newly built from metal and wooden scraps, others had been regrown from ruins structured in years before the war. The buildings on the higher ground towards the centre of Hope were well kept, consistently repaired, and perhaps even attractive to the eyes of the post-apocalypse.
Towards the edge, beneath the shadows of some of the gargantuan halls, lie the homesteads of the unfortunate population. The grounds were dry and sick, out of reach of the rare and questionable charity of the Overseer Kane. Blink looked upon this area in indifference. The distance was no issue; from her rooftop perch, she could peer through the dust and make out the sickly shapes of the slums. The developing cataracts which shaded one of her eyes did not hinder the piercingly accurate vision of the other. Her wide eyes never lost their target; Blink, ironically, never blinked.
”Approacher!”
Blink turned with a sharp motion towards the gateposts, like the twitch of an owl's head.
In nimble movements, the light-footed Blink leapt across the rooftops, taking a straight route to the face of the wall. The thick metal plates of the wall provided footholds and the bolts provided short boosts as she reached for the very top of the watch tower on the western gatepost. On its highest point she perched, vision focusing like a lense. Dust and debris polluted the air of No Man's Land and stained it a light shade of brown, almost obscuring the view of the approaching stranger.
“Blink. What do you see?”
She did not turn to the gateguard who spoke to her. Her vision did not avert, for she was thinking. From the sillhouette she attempted to piece together this stranger. Adult. Male, judging by the shape of the shadow. Armed? Potentially. Alone? She pointed her vision the horizon, her optics slowly drifting along the line of the sky. She could not see anyone else.
With a swift moment, she reached her arm out to the side. Her hand, half wrapped in torn linen, gave an encouraging motion. A leather, sealed pouch was handed to her from a crate, bloated with clear and sun-warmed water risen from the pipes of Hope. A peace offering to all travellers who passed by; a lie of charity to maintain Hope's image as the Mother Stronghold.
A short walk to the edge of the gatepost, and Blink took in her other hand a heavy chain which connected itself to a crank used for hoisting in outside deliveries and resources. Except this time, it allowed Blink to descend to the barren floor of the outside below. She landed softly, a updraft of dust clouding around her from the gentle impact. From there, she approached slowly, with short and carefully drawn outsteps. She raised her shawl above her shin with her free hand for minimal protection against the polluted outside air. In her otherhand, the water pouch hung freely by rope cord.
The gateguard's voice echoed again.
“Release your weapons, and hands in the air!”
Blink's movements halted, about fifteen or so feet from the stranger. Her eyes made a downards gesture to the floor below, a motion to settle whatever weapons he possessed in front of him.
From Blink's view, the rooftops shone blindingly in the overbearing sunlight. Buildings were scattered messily, some newly built from metal and wooden scraps, others had been regrown from ruins structured in years before the war. The buildings on the higher ground towards the centre of Hope were well kept, consistently repaired, and perhaps even attractive to the eyes of the post-apocalypse.
Towards the edge, beneath the shadows of some of the gargantuan halls, lie the homesteads of the unfortunate population. The grounds were dry and sick, out of reach of the rare and questionable charity of the Overseer Kane. Blink looked upon this area in indifference. The distance was no issue; from her rooftop perch, she could peer through the dust and make out the sickly shapes of the slums. The developing cataracts which shaded one of her eyes did not hinder the piercingly accurate vision of the other. Her wide eyes never lost their target; Blink, ironically, never blinked.
”Approacher!”
Blink turned with a sharp motion towards the gateposts, like the twitch of an owl's head.
In nimble movements, the light-footed Blink leapt across the rooftops, taking a straight route to the face of the wall. The thick metal plates of the wall provided footholds and the bolts provided short boosts as she reached for the very top of the watch tower on the western gatepost. On its highest point she perched, vision focusing like a lense. Dust and debris polluted the air of No Man's Land and stained it a light shade of brown, almost obscuring the view of the approaching stranger.
“Blink. What do you see?”
She did not turn to the gateguard who spoke to her. Her vision did not avert, for she was thinking. From the sillhouette she attempted to piece together this stranger. Adult. Male, judging by the shape of the shadow. Armed? Potentially. Alone? She pointed her vision the horizon, her optics slowly drifting along the line of the sky. She could not see anyone else.
With a swift moment, she reached her arm out to the side. Her hand, half wrapped in torn linen, gave an encouraging motion. A leather, sealed pouch was handed to her from a crate, bloated with clear and sun-warmed water risen from the pipes of Hope. A peace offering to all travellers who passed by; a lie of charity to maintain Hope's image as the Mother Stronghold.
A short walk to the edge of the gatepost, and Blink took in her other hand a heavy chain which connected itself to a crank used for hoisting in outside deliveries and resources. Except this time, it allowed Blink to descend to the barren floor of the outside below. She landed softly, a updraft of dust clouding around her from the gentle impact. From there, she approached slowly, with short and carefully drawn outsteps. She raised her shawl above her shin with her free hand for minimal protection against the polluted outside air. In her otherhand, the water pouch hung freely by rope cord.
The gateguard's voice echoed again.
“Release your weapons, and hands in the air!”
Blink's movements halted, about fifteen or so feet from the stranger. Her eyes made a downards gesture to the floor below, a motion to settle whatever weapons he possessed in front of him.
The distraught man was caught off guard in his assault on the sands, hearing the shout of the gatekeeper towards him. Looking up over the wall to the bellowing voice, he found his feet slipping up and throwing him to the floor in a flurry of dust. The words were clear and straightforward and he had no motivation to argue as he thought about his steed lying just beyond him. As he pushed himself up onto his knees, he was taken aback to see the petite bundled figure before him, wondering for a moment when or where his company decided to make an entrance.
Quick to oblige, he let his backpack fall from his shoulders, along with the shotgun bound in its straps. His hands rose up above his head and he quickly tried to work up the least bit of saliva he could, trying to sooth his cottoned mouth enough to speak. "Please, you've got to help me, my horse. She's dying back there-" and with every word his pleads became more frantic as could be heard by the trembling in his voice. So close to salvation. So close. she could still make it.
"-can't you help me, please..?" And his voice fell silent in a bout of confusion and awe.
He gazed upon the character that had approached him, seeing no real threat, but instead seeing a pounch hung from her, with the voluminous swelling that seemed to suggest there was liquid inside, a thought that emboldened the stranger further. They had water. Is that a canteen? Wonder if perhaps I could use some of it, just a little. Or maybe I could buy some. They must have tons of it. She's going to be fine! She'll make it... Meanwhile some yards from him the sputter of the parched mare grew heavier and more frequent.
"Is that..? Can I, please..?!" With his sense of wit quickly becoming obsolete in his mind he trudged on with a powerful stride keeping his hands high, begging for any assistance. His approach had purpose, and therefore had he been thinking he may have tried to approach differently, but alas his voice raised and he quickly tried to close the gap between himself and the mysterious stranger. Whether it was his outburst of excitement or the ambiguity of his actions, he was not sure and he had not thought about it.
That was until now. All of a sudden he felt a dizziness like no other, as if his head was spinning on its spine. And the bright lights of the polluted sky began to fade into the shadow of the shade before it all began to blur into a dark image of what he last recalled. Then, he felt the sand hit his cheek again except now he was out like a cheap light. The gravel at his face stuck in bits to his skin and his eyes struggled to keep open, finally giving in to their exhaustion with one word on his lips.
"Falcon..?"
Quick to oblige, he let his backpack fall from his shoulders, along with the shotgun bound in its straps. His hands rose up above his head and he quickly tried to work up the least bit of saliva he could, trying to sooth his cottoned mouth enough to speak. "Please, you've got to help me, my horse. She's dying back there-" and with every word his pleads became more frantic as could be heard by the trembling in his voice. So close to salvation. So close. she could still make it.
"-can't you help me, please..?" And his voice fell silent in a bout of confusion and awe.
He gazed upon the character that had approached him, seeing no real threat, but instead seeing a pounch hung from her, with the voluminous swelling that seemed to suggest there was liquid inside, a thought that emboldened the stranger further. They had water. Is that a canteen? Wonder if perhaps I could use some of it, just a little. Or maybe I could buy some. They must have tons of it. She's going to be fine! She'll make it... Meanwhile some yards from him the sputter of the parched mare grew heavier and more frequent.
"Is that..? Can I, please..?!" With his sense of wit quickly becoming obsolete in his mind he trudged on with a powerful stride keeping his hands high, begging for any assistance. His approach had purpose, and therefore had he been thinking he may have tried to approach differently, but alas his voice raised and he quickly tried to close the gap between himself and the mysterious stranger. Whether it was his outburst of excitement or the ambiguity of his actions, he was not sure and he had not thought about it.
That was until now. All of a sudden he felt a dizziness like no other, as if his head was spinning on its spine. And the bright lights of the polluted sky began to fade into the shadow of the shade before it all began to blur into a dark image of what he last recalled. Then, he felt the sand hit his cheek again except now he was out like a cheap light. The gravel at his face stuck in bits to his skin and his eyes struggled to keep open, finally giving in to their exhaustion with one word on his lips.
"Falcon..?"
In this land, the sight of water was often a trigger of brief insanity for many men, but what was this one blathering about? A horse? Blink's brows furrowed inwards. His attempts to formulate a sentence seemed to get the better of him, and his sudden deterioration caught Blink off guard. She retreated backwards by a step or two, somehow managing to keep her footing in the unpleasant winds of the outside. These galed winds were unknown inside the Stronghold, cut off by the towering walls above.
She could hear the sound of loading weapons from the gateposts; they had noticed her stumble and assumed she might have been attacked. Blink raised an open hand clearly to the above watchtower, before turning back to the exhausted traveler. Dehydrated and fatigued, a common trait for outsiders. She knelt, using one hand to grasp the man's hair and lift his head, checking for signs of survivablity. A second of evaluation and she dropped his head (in a particularly uncaring manner) and turned on her heels again, breathing a sharp whistle to signal the opening of the great iron gates.
And so they did. Steel and iron was put into motion and a sound echoed so cacophonous that the loose ash and gravel quaked
before it. Great clouds of dust lifted in it's stead, before bowing again. The gates to Hope were titanic, and took a great effort to move. They proved to be a perfect solution to the frequent dust storms which blitzed the wasteland, and so only opened when the air was clear and the situation required it. A corpse at the front gates was not an ideal image, and Blink most certainly could not lift this man back up the chain lift.
Four men, clad in cloth and leather and armed to the teeth, passed through the gates. They stood around the stranger, and two prepared to carry him into the citadel.
"He lives... If possible." Blink's voice echoed a command, following the Overseers ideology of a flawless settlement. "Crow's Inn, take him there. Crow knows things... things..." She faded off. Blink's sentences always seemed to form backwards. Despite being raised by a lover of literature, Blink's ability to formulate speech was... Questionable. Blink handed over the water canteen, and with a nod, the men collected the stranger's belongings and took him to the heart of Hope. To an Inn owned by Crow; a peculiar man with a rainbow array of worrying concoctions and healing remedies.
Two of the men remained by the Ranger.
"He mentioned a horse," Blink spoke quietly. "And... Falcon."
"Falcon? Perhaps there are others?" One replied.
"Perhaps..."
"We'll look on."
The scouters parted ways with Blink, and she retreated back within the walls. The Overseer would no doubt wish to know the reason behind the unscheduled opening of the gates.
She could hear the sound of loading weapons from the gateposts; they had noticed her stumble and assumed she might have been attacked. Blink raised an open hand clearly to the above watchtower, before turning back to the exhausted traveler. Dehydrated and fatigued, a common trait for outsiders. She knelt, using one hand to grasp the man's hair and lift his head, checking for signs of survivablity. A second of evaluation and she dropped his head (in a particularly uncaring manner) and turned on her heels again, breathing a sharp whistle to signal the opening of the great iron gates.
And so they did. Steel and iron was put into motion and a sound echoed so cacophonous that the loose ash and gravel quaked
before it. Great clouds of dust lifted in it's stead, before bowing again. The gates to Hope were titanic, and took a great effort to move. They proved to be a perfect solution to the frequent dust storms which blitzed the wasteland, and so only opened when the air was clear and the situation required it. A corpse at the front gates was not an ideal image, and Blink most certainly could not lift this man back up the chain lift.
Four men, clad in cloth and leather and armed to the teeth, passed through the gates. They stood around the stranger, and two prepared to carry him into the citadel.
"He lives... If possible." Blink's voice echoed a command, following the Overseers ideology of a flawless settlement. "Crow's Inn, take him there. Crow knows things... things..." She faded off. Blink's sentences always seemed to form backwards. Despite being raised by a lover of literature, Blink's ability to formulate speech was... Questionable. Blink handed over the water canteen, and with a nod, the men collected the stranger's belongings and took him to the heart of Hope. To an Inn owned by Crow; a peculiar man with a rainbow array of worrying concoctions and healing remedies.
Two of the men remained by the Ranger.
"He mentioned a horse," Blink spoke quietly. "And... Falcon."
"Falcon? Perhaps there are others?" One replied.
"Perhaps..."
"We'll look on."
The scouters parted ways with Blink, and she retreated back within the walls. The Overseer would no doubt wish to know the reason behind the unscheduled opening of the gates.
The ambient noise of a settlement flowed into Alexander's ears, toying with the thoughts that lingered in his mind as his body lay still and recovered. He could feel the movement around him, he was being taken somewhere. Carried, dragged, he could not figure. He was not quite awake enough to acknowledge his situation. He was just barely alive. And his mind had wandered off to its far corners exploring the inner most depths of himself. His brief lapse in cognizance ended abruptly again, and he found himself opening his eyes.
Green. The eyes of the young traveler almost couldn't process it. The landscape was luscious, and living. Rolling fields dotted with blossoming trees for miles, and a sky that seemed unnaturally blue. The air was in soft, gentle movement, bringing a cool breeze to the dampness of his sweaty, beaten face. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. Relief welled up in him tremendously as he looked out upon the healthy pastures. He had no recollection of where he was or how he arrived but now he couldn't care. He only saw what was past the gates. He swung around with glee to greet his friend, Falcon. She would surely be in love with this, and he could already picture her galloping about in happiness, exploring her new stomping grounds. But as he turned around he saw nothing. The towering gates he thought he had seen, they were not there. The walls of the great fortress were all, but absent. Behind him was just more land, eerily similar to the image he saw before him when he first opened his eyes. Except for a new detail. Not but a few hundred feet away in this direction, there she was. Falcon. But this was not the horse he knew, she was not the companion he had traveled for so long with. She was emaciated and sick. Her ribs poked through her skin looking as if they would rip through her fpesh any moment, and her face was just barely skin over a withered skull. From this distance he could hear her every sound. She only cried, and screamed. An unholy sound that should never have left the mouth of anything living. The shrieks became louder, and louder until it filled his ears rendering him unable to think. He gasped for air and tried to shout. He desperately tried to call out to his companion and let her know he was there. Yet he could only watch on as the poor creature writhed and twisted in agony as it's skeletal body seemed to melt into the soil beneath her. In terror, Alexander covered his ears and fell to the ground, turning away from the horrid sight. He tried clawing and grabbing at the ground, trying to crawl away in the other direction. But know even those green pastures fooled him no longer. The land was bleak and vile, and he could see people, women and children crowding among the exhausted landscape. They all seeped in pain and hunger and he watched as great flames in the distance ravaged far off lands. All this became to much to take in and Alexander froze, feeling his heart race to the point of exploding in his chest. The powerful feelings of anxiety and overwhelming sense of panic ambushed him m, leaving him helpless to himself. He threw the backpack off his shoulders and grabbed for the gun he had slung over it. With hurried empty breaths and trembling hands he stick the barrel into his forehead, with tears rolling down his face. He reached for the trigger and without hesitation slammed it down, hearing the deafening crack, blinded by the bright flash of the muzzle. And he fell into darkness again.
Slowly, Alexander found his eyes opening again. Tired, and struggling. He lay still as the feelings of terror paralyzed him, coming back to the world piece by piece. He could feel a stiff mattress beneath him. He heard voices, only mumbles at first speaking around him. He stared up at a blank ceiling and lay still. Only one thought could cross his mind.
I am alive.
Green. The eyes of the young traveler almost couldn't process it. The landscape was luscious, and living. Rolling fields dotted with blossoming trees for miles, and a sky that seemed unnaturally blue. The air was in soft, gentle movement, bringing a cool breeze to the dampness of his sweaty, beaten face. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. Relief welled up in him tremendously as he looked out upon the healthy pastures. He had no recollection of where he was or how he arrived but now he couldn't care. He only saw what was past the gates. He swung around with glee to greet his friend, Falcon. She would surely be in love with this, and he could already picture her galloping about in happiness, exploring her new stomping grounds. But as he turned around he saw nothing. The towering gates he thought he had seen, they were not there. The walls of the great fortress were all, but absent. Behind him was just more land, eerily similar to the image he saw before him when he first opened his eyes. Except for a new detail. Not but a few hundred feet away in this direction, there she was. Falcon. But this was not the horse he knew, she was not the companion he had traveled for so long with. She was emaciated and sick. Her ribs poked through her skin looking as if they would rip through her fpesh any moment, and her face was just barely skin over a withered skull. From this distance he could hear her every sound. She only cried, and screamed. An unholy sound that should never have left the mouth of anything living. The shrieks became louder, and louder until it filled his ears rendering him unable to think. He gasped for air and tried to shout. He desperately tried to call out to his companion and let her know he was there. Yet he could only watch on as the poor creature writhed and twisted in agony as it's skeletal body seemed to melt into the soil beneath her. In terror, Alexander covered his ears and fell to the ground, turning away from the horrid sight. He tried clawing and grabbing at the ground, trying to crawl away in the other direction. But know even those green pastures fooled him no longer. The land was bleak and vile, and he could see people, women and children crowding among the exhausted landscape. They all seeped in pain and hunger and he watched as great flames in the distance ravaged far off lands. All this became to much to take in and Alexander froze, feeling his heart race to the point of exploding in his chest. The powerful feelings of anxiety and overwhelming sense of panic ambushed him m, leaving him helpless to himself. He threw the backpack off his shoulders and grabbed for the gun he had slung over it. With hurried empty breaths and trembling hands he stick the barrel into his forehead, with tears rolling down his face. He reached for the trigger and without hesitation slammed it down, hearing the deafening crack, blinded by the bright flash of the muzzle. And he fell into darkness again.
Slowly, Alexander found his eyes opening again. Tired, and struggling. He lay still as the feelings of terror paralyzed him, coming back to the world piece by piece. He could feel a stiff mattress beneath him. He heard voices, only mumbles at first speaking around him. He stared up at a blank ceiling and lay still. Only one thought could cross his mind.
I am alive.
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