Shakna's Death (Bird Never Flies)The world was silent. Despite the raging battle around her, Chloe could not hear anything save the ever increasing ring in her head. Her eyes' focus slipped and slid, tunnel vision and spinning.She fell to her knees, her breath came ragged as she pulled him with shaking hands into her lap. The blood seeped through, stained her white and gold dress with sticky warmth. No words came to her, mouth gaping, hot tears falling unbidden to the inside of her glasses. Angrily she ripped them off and choked down a sob.He gazed up at her, the faintest smile playing on his tanned face. Soul brown eyes glazing with every passing second met her brown and blue ones. He raised his arm to gently caress her cheek. She quickly caught his hand, held it there as she shook her head. "No, no, Gods no…""Shh…" he whispered. "Shh…" He blinked slowly, his free hand resting on the dagger still hilt deep in his gut. The blood pooled between
Phoenix (Aura)The walls cracked under the weight of the attackers. Their ram struck the ancient castle over and over, eager to break through. Shouts could be heard through the din, a steady call of one, two, three, HO! Debris rained with every impact, dust and glass glittering among the erratic candlelight.The woman huddled in the corner, cradling the child to her breast and kissing its brow. Her home shattered around her, and she could do nothing but her best to protect the babe in her arms. Her flight had led her to a dead end, and now she crouched in the shadows with nowhere to run. There was a deafening explosion below her. The ground gave way, the windows burst – the assailants had made it through. Their heavy boots marched onward with nothing to bar their path. No door would hold them back, no army could defeat them. Fear shook her to the bone. Rigidly she stood, battered and bruised, broken and worn. Her tattere
Hills of Red (Moria)A thick gray mist clings to spindles of grass, rising up like black knives into the clouded sky. A dying sun allows the gaunt silhouettes to form. One by one they fade into the field, eternal sentries of the night, on watch for an attack that came and went without them. Soldiers of wars past, they stand atop the hills on evenings such as these, waiting for their purpose, their destiny. To fulfill their waking dreams of lives long lost, to fight the battles they so bravely faced. Men who no longer recall what it was outside of the blood and mud and screams that fill their endless war.Some nights, some very few cold and wretched nights every few years, the battalion crosses paths with that of their old foes, and they replay their last massacre. Shots are fired into the black, their echoes heard beyond the hills. Their fallen shouts of despair, their realization that their end is near, their slow agony. All is remembered on this stage of death.
Hell (Dada Jam) In our culture, we associate the color white with all things good. Life, prosperity, luck, holiness. Hell is white. White walls, white sheets, white floors. White hands in white gloves that hold white syringes punctuated by cold metal. White will never be anything good to me. All I feel is the dead weight of numbness. There can be no joy in a white world. Sometimes I see color. Sometimes they let me feel something. They forget to give me the shot at exactly noon and I know that there's something very wrong with what they do here. I know for a brief moment that there's more. Sometimes I happen to glance out of window when I'm in my short state of consciousness and I see the trees and the grass – the world outside of this prison, and I know that I should be there, in the open. I hear them coming now. The lock in the