01-12-2016, 11:09 PM
It helped that the fog never disappeared.
Ballad had walked for a good five minutes, head down and gloved hands within his pockets. He had gone down the dirt path they were traveling through, following the sizable footprints he had plastered into the ground. Her cries grew fainter and fainter as the distance between the two increased, until even the soldier’s extra-sensory ears could not detect her despair, just as it should be.
He had stopped in the middle of an open field of sugary-white flowers. Their petals were moist, and they were blooming. They enjoyed the rain, as it brought life. It was once said that to willingly allow oneself to be caught in a rainstorm “purifies” one from their sins. From their past. They could be reborn as a new man. This was a common belief held by most, if not all religions, even if water wasn't necessarily the purifier.
The green man did not feel cleansed.
If anything, he felt like he had two voices inside his head. Each one with a contrasting idea on what he was supposed to be doing. One would cry for him to keep moving, the other would cry for him to turn back A disembodied shout to kill followed by a radiant saint urging him to make peace. Both fought within the battlefield of his consciousness, trying to see which one could prevail. Even here, in a world where he was immortal, could slaughter countless people if he found the effort to try, and the ability to cheat time to generate innumerable objects, food, and drink. Even here, conflict found its way to his doorstep. Like an old friend who believes that they had grown apart. And no matter how many times he would shut the door and tell it to go away, it would stubbornly return until he acknowledged its presence. It was a cycle that never ended.
The gunsmith looked up towards the sky, green leaves floating gently down towards him like snow.
Snow...
Then, without warning, he was home again.
His hand was clenched tightly around the rusty door handle, pulling it towards him. Thick, white snow blew into his metal abode. Not like it mattered, as the cracks in the roof had just enough room for the weather to take its toll on the inside. But Ballad did not mind. After an entire lifetime in the land of eternal winter, one learned how to deal with the elements to the best of their ability, and compromises were constantly made as a result of that. The gunsmith took a few moments observing the pellets as they flew into his home. They were too numerous for anyone to count, and they twisted and twirled as if they were performing some odd ribbon ballet. A delicate display of elemental beauty that one could always benefit from viewing, if only to practice for more important matters like building fires or constructing barriers or listening to the three people standing outside your door screaming for your attention.
“Oh, sorry...” Ballad said, his voice bewildered yet otherwise polite, “Was just... taking a moment to admire the world, you know?”
The trio were clad in black, winter clothing made of scratchy leather that felt wet from the snow whenever one would touch it. They stood in an arrowhead fashion, with one man standing ahead of the other two, who stood horizontally. The figures that formed the sides of the arrow carried large, brown rucksacks on their backs that were filled to the brim with supplies. Glass jars hanged on the left side of the sack, while what appeared to be pans and small baggies were suspended on its right. The left figure had his right hand grasping the strap of his bag, while the one of the right held his hands together. The figure that composed the tip of the arrowhead had a colorless scarf wrapped around his neck, similar to Ballad's own red one. Unlike the others, however, his trapper hat (also looking like the gunsmith's) had a bronze skull-and-bones emblem embedded in the middle. As the inventor looked from head to toe, he saw the man holding a piece of parchment in his hand. It was also at that moment did he notice that all of their eyes had dimmed; a peculiar sight that not many of his kind used unless something very, very bad had occurred.
“We understand, Ballad. At times like this, the most we can do is appreciate what little beauty there is left.” The paper-man replied, his voice disconcertingly solemn even as he seemed to be doing his best to sound cheerful.
“Especially with the war going on. Has it gotten any better?” The weapons maker said, his tone growing more apprehensive. He shifted his weight to his right, closing the door just a tiny bit. His grip lessened as he awaited the news.
“I'm afraid it hasn't, my friend. If anything, it's only gotten worse. Frozen Over's a war zone. It was damn near impossible getting out.”
“I can't imagine how perilous that must have been, brave soul. Why risk your lives to meet me all the way out here?”
“We... needed to bring this to you, Ballad.” He replied, not even trying to hide his sadness as he brought the parchment forward, “We thought it was important.”
The green man slowly drew his right hand forward, slipping the item between two of his protected fingers. He twisted it around, sliding both of his hands to the sides as he read through the lines written by ink. As he reached the end, he stopped, staring at the two words plastered at the bottom and circled with what looked red crayon.
LOVESONG. DAUGHTER OF POET.: DECEASED
SONGWRITER. SON OF AUTHOR.: DECEASED
The gunsmiths eyes dimmed, closing them as he felt his throat lock up and his eyebrows lifted. The blackened words rang through his mind like one of his father's anti-candlelight hymns. Like lyrics by his mother attacking the Wicker Men. He could envision how they had ended. An argument, or maybe not an argument given their views. They had probably taken a knife or maybe a gun (most certainly a gun) and killed each other with it. All because of some war. All because of two sides who hated each others guts for the wrong reasons. All because of some... of some dipshit homicidal fucking maniac who started this entire thing. It was all his fault. His weapon wreaked havoc on everyone else, and all for some false sense of self-righteousness. An excuse to slaughter people. And look what he had done. He sparked a fucking WAR, and he had no idea if it was going to end or what was going to happen to everyone else around him or whether his kind would actually be ERADICATED through GENOCIDE and he DIDN'T FUCKING KNOW. His mind went in circles, pointing fingers at the wicker men, pointing fingers at the church, pointing fingers at the man who destroyed the church.
Pointing fingers at the- at the-
No.... no it can't be. It can't be that. It just can't be.
But it could've. And the thought caused the glow to emerge.
An ancient text describing the anatomy of his kind talked about the almost mythological glow. It was a rare occurrence, far rarer than the dim, which was also extensively covered. The very few times they had, however, all had the same emotion tied to it even if the cause was different. To sum it up in a sentence, the author wrote the following as a means to describe the glow.
God help who/what/ever causes the glow.
The gunner's fingers clenched the list, almost tearing thumb-sized holes through it as he trembled. The coroner and his cronies immediately backed off, stunned at what was happening in front of them. Only the leader was brave enough to ask if something was wrong.
Ballad opened his eyes, raising his head to stare at the trio. His eyes were glowing yellow, visible from any distance. Their maws gaped in surprise as his eyebrows worked their way into a completely immovable frown. He spoke deeply, precisely, and with a cold as ice manner.
“Leave....now.”
“Ba-Ballad, please, calm down! I understand how you feel, but this isn't the-”
“Then you can help by leaving immediately, asshole.”
“Ballad, we have nowhere to go! We can't just go back!”
“I don't care.”
“Ballad, please!”
“Leave.”
“You can't do-”
The sharpshooter brought his right hand to his leather holster, pulling out his revolver. He jammed it into the forehead of the leader, cutting his sentence off completely. His index finger was dangerously close to pulling the trigger, which caused the guards to take a few steps backwards. Ballad's breath was slow, yet clearly ragged. He stared hatefully at the list-maker, his next words no longer quiet. Instead, they were the makings of pure, sudden rage.
“I can DO whatever the FUCK I want, you fucking idiot! Now do as I say NOW or ALL of you are going to be the NEXT three lucky bastards on this FUCKING LIST.”
Ballad had walked for a good five minutes, head down and gloved hands within his pockets. He had gone down the dirt path they were traveling through, following the sizable footprints he had plastered into the ground. Her cries grew fainter and fainter as the distance between the two increased, until even the soldier’s extra-sensory ears could not detect her despair, just as it should be.
He had stopped in the middle of an open field of sugary-white flowers. Their petals were moist, and they were blooming. They enjoyed the rain, as it brought life. It was once said that to willingly allow oneself to be caught in a rainstorm “purifies” one from their sins. From their past. They could be reborn as a new man. This was a common belief held by most, if not all religions, even if water wasn't necessarily the purifier.
The green man did not feel cleansed.
If anything, he felt like he had two voices inside his head. Each one with a contrasting idea on what he was supposed to be doing. One would cry for him to keep moving, the other would cry for him to turn back A disembodied shout to kill followed by a radiant saint urging him to make peace. Both fought within the battlefield of his consciousness, trying to see which one could prevail. Even here, in a world where he was immortal, could slaughter countless people if he found the effort to try, and the ability to cheat time to generate innumerable objects, food, and drink. Even here, conflict found its way to his doorstep. Like an old friend who believes that they had grown apart. And no matter how many times he would shut the door and tell it to go away, it would stubbornly return until he acknowledged its presence. It was a cycle that never ended.
The gunsmith looked up towards the sky, green leaves floating gently down towards him like snow.
Snow...
Then, without warning, he was home again.
His hand was clenched tightly around the rusty door handle, pulling it towards him. Thick, white snow blew into his metal abode. Not like it mattered, as the cracks in the roof had just enough room for the weather to take its toll on the inside. But Ballad did not mind. After an entire lifetime in the land of eternal winter, one learned how to deal with the elements to the best of their ability, and compromises were constantly made as a result of that. The gunsmith took a few moments observing the pellets as they flew into his home. They were too numerous for anyone to count, and they twisted and twirled as if they were performing some odd ribbon ballet. A delicate display of elemental beauty that one could always benefit from viewing, if only to practice for more important matters like building fires or constructing barriers or listening to the three people standing outside your door screaming for your attention.
“Oh, sorry...” Ballad said, his voice bewildered yet otherwise polite, “Was just... taking a moment to admire the world, you know?”
The trio were clad in black, winter clothing made of scratchy leather that felt wet from the snow whenever one would touch it. They stood in an arrowhead fashion, with one man standing ahead of the other two, who stood horizontally. The figures that formed the sides of the arrow carried large, brown rucksacks on their backs that were filled to the brim with supplies. Glass jars hanged on the left side of the sack, while what appeared to be pans and small baggies were suspended on its right. The left figure had his right hand grasping the strap of his bag, while the one of the right held his hands together. The figure that composed the tip of the arrowhead had a colorless scarf wrapped around his neck, similar to Ballad's own red one. Unlike the others, however, his trapper hat (also looking like the gunsmith's) had a bronze skull-and-bones emblem embedded in the middle. As the inventor looked from head to toe, he saw the man holding a piece of parchment in his hand. It was also at that moment did he notice that all of their eyes had dimmed; a peculiar sight that not many of his kind used unless something very, very bad had occurred.
“We understand, Ballad. At times like this, the most we can do is appreciate what little beauty there is left.” The paper-man replied, his voice disconcertingly solemn even as he seemed to be doing his best to sound cheerful.
“Especially with the war going on. Has it gotten any better?” The weapons maker said, his tone growing more apprehensive. He shifted his weight to his right, closing the door just a tiny bit. His grip lessened as he awaited the news.
“I'm afraid it hasn't, my friend. If anything, it's only gotten worse. Frozen Over's a war zone. It was damn near impossible getting out.”
“I can't imagine how perilous that must have been, brave soul. Why risk your lives to meet me all the way out here?”
“We... needed to bring this to you, Ballad.” He replied, not even trying to hide his sadness as he brought the parchment forward, “We thought it was important.”
The green man slowly drew his right hand forward, slipping the item between two of his protected fingers. He twisted it around, sliding both of his hands to the sides as he read through the lines written by ink. As he reached the end, he stopped, staring at the two words plastered at the bottom and circled with what looked red crayon.
LOVESONG. DAUGHTER OF POET.: DECEASED
SONGWRITER. SON OF AUTHOR.: DECEASED
The gunsmiths eyes dimmed, closing them as he felt his throat lock up and his eyebrows lifted. The blackened words rang through his mind like one of his father's anti-candlelight hymns. Like lyrics by his mother attacking the Wicker Men. He could envision how they had ended. An argument, or maybe not an argument given their views. They had probably taken a knife or maybe a gun (most certainly a gun) and killed each other with it. All because of some war. All because of two sides who hated each others guts for the wrong reasons. All because of some... of some dipshit homicidal fucking maniac who started this entire thing. It was all his fault. His weapon wreaked havoc on everyone else, and all for some false sense of self-righteousness. An excuse to slaughter people. And look what he had done. He sparked a fucking WAR, and he had no idea if it was going to end or what was going to happen to everyone else around him or whether his kind would actually be ERADICATED through GENOCIDE and he DIDN'T FUCKING KNOW. His mind went in circles, pointing fingers at the wicker men, pointing fingers at the church, pointing fingers at the man who destroyed the church.
Pointing fingers at the- at the-
No.... no it can't be. It can't be that. It just can't be.
But it could've. And the thought caused the glow to emerge.
An ancient text describing the anatomy of his kind talked about the almost mythological glow. It was a rare occurrence, far rarer than the dim, which was also extensively covered. The very few times they had, however, all had the same emotion tied to it even if the cause was different. To sum it up in a sentence, the author wrote the following as a means to describe the glow.
God help who/what/ever causes the glow.
The gunner's fingers clenched the list, almost tearing thumb-sized holes through it as he trembled. The coroner and his cronies immediately backed off, stunned at what was happening in front of them. Only the leader was brave enough to ask if something was wrong.
Ballad opened his eyes, raising his head to stare at the trio. His eyes were glowing yellow, visible from any distance. Their maws gaped in surprise as his eyebrows worked their way into a completely immovable frown. He spoke deeply, precisely, and with a cold as ice manner.
“Leave....now.”
“Ba-Ballad, please, calm down! I understand how you feel, but this isn't the-”
“Then you can help by leaving immediately, asshole.”
“Ballad, we have nowhere to go! We can't just go back!”
“I don't care.”
“Ballad, please!”
“Leave.”
“You can't do-”
The sharpshooter brought his right hand to his leather holster, pulling out his revolver. He jammed it into the forehead of the leader, cutting his sentence off completely. His index finger was dangerously close to pulling the trigger, which caused the guards to take a few steps backwards. Ballad's breath was slow, yet clearly ragged. He stared hatefully at the list-maker, his next words no longer quiet. Instead, they were the makings of pure, sudden rage.
“I can DO whatever the FUCK I want, you fucking idiot! Now do as I say NOW or ALL of you are going to be the NEXT three lucky bastards on this FUCKING LIST.”
C&C Thread
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New to OV? Need a question answered? Want a C&C of your work? Send a PM to me!
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