GREYtheFLAILER
-- pawn ♟
i've got red hands, but i'm colorblind.
Posts: 12
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Post by GREYtheFLAILER on Feb 23, 2013 2:01:57 GMT
l a r k . » Chocolate eyes, brimming with the unyielding angst of an angered bull, narrowed, the brute’s glossy, ebon lips curling to reveal lethal alabaster ivories, skin pulling taut over the contracted muscles lining his stocky frame. Lark’s expression spoke of a deep, unfaltering focus and infuriation; he remained eerily still as he observed the alpha before him, his hindquarters itching to fold beneath him in an instinctual longing to spring and annihilate the threat of which was presented. The leader, a rugged-looking and imposing mutt of about five years older and three inches larger, had figured lying about the death of Lark’s kin to be a wise decision—that is, until the retriever cross reacted with the vulgarity and insolence of a famished jaguar upon finding out the truth, striking out without so much as a hint in warning. The alpha had never intended that such a falsity would be decoded, or so Lark had figured, and instead only proved himself to be of a moronic nature when Lark expressed his potent disapproval, ears flattening and eyes narrowing with the explosive reaction he was granted.
Back in those times, Lark hadn’t been ruled so firmly by logic; when someone wronged him, he only felt it necessary to wrong them in return.
His brother had been the most magnificent, resilient, and reliable male of which Lark had ever known—and, it was his alpha, his family, which had, ultimately, destroyed him.
A snarl exploded fourth from the ebony, younger male’s lips, an inkling of surprise blossoming with the subtle flinch within the male before him. Passion and anger could be powerful, all-consuming things within themselves—but, combined, that was a different story entirely. Devoured by a vengeance so strong, so encompassing, Lark quickly found his thoughts dispersing, mind succumbing to the most heinous of instincts. His body flexed, the thick muscle lining his legs and chest contracting, before the male reclined backwards, spine curling as he dipped his head, slinking near to the ground in a spit-second warning of what was to come.
His heartbeat slowed, lips parting to expel a single, gentle breath.
And then, with a mighty and animalistic roar, Lark flung himself forwards, jaw snapping in a desperate search for blood.
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The retriever awoke with a stir, heart thrumming fervently within his broad chest, body rigid and stiff, mind reeling with the inescapable ponderings of his dream. It was an unfortunately usual routine for Lark, awaking after the spell of a nightmare, however the brute was quick to work towards a solution, hoisting himself to his paws after having released a large, inaudible breath. His will to overcome the affect of such nightmares had grown, over the years, and by this point in time Lark was aware that peace would return to his mind hastily, should he simply give himself the time to soothe such reopened wounds.
At least, this time, he had not been forced to relive the death of his brother, mate, or children.
The male’s lips twitched with the very thought, teeth clicking as he wired his jowls closed in order to ensure a grimace would not slither upon his statuesque features. Lark was alone, that much was clear, but that could change in an instant, without warning—never, could he be observed expression any form of unwelcomed or otherwise unpermitted emotion. It would only earn him death.
Shaking in order to free his onyx frame of any clinging dust or debris of which littered the barn floor, the canine stretched, breath hitching as his back arched and shoulders rolled, before releasing, chest falling back to its natural position. He was oddly relaxed, at this point in time—a rare feat indeed, for the hefty brute. Ease of any sort, let alone the tranquility that came along with being in his lonesome, had long become foreign, to Lark. Both his mind and body had become accustomed to remaining tense and rigid, and thus, although he did enjoy the feeling, there was a part of him that was unsettled by the unfamiliarity. Relaxation, to Lark, nearly roused him to a point of anxiety. It did not register upon his stone features, of course, but the very revelation, the realisation that he was unable to feel content, pricked at the male’s heartstrings, slight dread weaseling its way into the forefront of his mind.
He took his time in exiting the barn, each movement calculated and precise, both body and mind tense, despite the casualty of the setting. Lark knew better then to allow himself reprieve—for, when one’s guard was dropped, their chance of survival was, as well.
Now, although a rather weathered and battered soul, Lark was of a compassionate, gentle, appreciative breed. As he slipped through the rustic, thick wooden door of the stable, he allowed himself a moment to observe the magnificent scenery of which surrounded him, lips parting to taste the cool and bitter air. Winter was a dreadful season, at times, and yet was beautiful in ways unimaginable to those with an unaware mind. A fresh snow had fallen, during Lark’s retirement to the barn, and thus coated the farm-grounds in a layer of shimmering, ivory snow.
If he could have smiled, then, he would have.
Paying no mind to the curling vapours clouding his lips with each and every exhale, the male reclined slowly onto his haunches, thick tail coiling around his body as his eyes, dull and pallid in color, surveyed the expanse of pale territory stretching out before him.
Relaxation may have been foreign, but beauty was something of which would never cease to perplex him.
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Post by l i a . on Feb 23, 2013 22:24:33 GMT
ambrosia her mind was a worn out slew of emotions, overbearing on her senses. the mixed concoction of devastation and despair had worked its way through her nerves, weaving through her ligaments and tightening around her lungs. a year had passed, and it was clear that its place was permanent. there was no removing the grip of her grief. and so, she did the only thing that her body could to survive. she disappeared inside herself, leaving behind a hollow cocoon. her emotions could no longer hurt her. for once, nothing could hurt her. she was untouchable; she could laugh at her short comings, find glee in her pain and sorrow. anything truly happy had the risk of bringing her out of her shell, and she refused to emerge into the world again. her personal labyrinth was much safer, and she felt no need to find her way out. she was happy, in her eyes. she had found her own version of peace. her body just hadn’t got the memo yet. it moved with an extreme reluctance, unable to find the point in continuing. even she was beginning to wonder if there really was a point. despite her bloody inner wars, on the outside her composure was maintained. she let her tired and defeated gait be interpreted as deliberate and patient. she was not struggling to move herself forward, she simply wasn’t in a hurry. she was not wishing she could collapse in a heap and never get up again. she was just careful with her steps. her head was kept high, her expressions incapable of being decoded. she was not the type to plaster her sadness all over her face, begging for someone to comfort her. she rejected any form of comfort or affection. it threatened to awaken her empathy, which she couldn’t afford to have. despite her attempts to ward away any suspicion, she was unable to be entirely normal. the condition of her body was something she couldn’t bring herself to alter. she simply didn’t have the motivation. mud clung between her toes, and stained her white ankles. dirt was beginning to clump on the long fur on her belly, and tangles were rampant along her coat. her physical appearance was in shambles. normally she would try to keep it on average standards, but again she was met with the question – what was the point? anymore, there was none. for once in a very long time, the numbness had sunk beneath the surface. it was a welcome relief, and she took the opportunity to escape from fellow pack members. just the presence of another dog could distract her from her thoughts, and so she clung to any form of company. but today, she could allow herself solitude. and oh, how she cherished the rare moments when she could trust herself. she was taking advantage of it as much as she could, and wandering to areas she had not previously explored. the world was a curious place without man. really, this world seemed like an entirely different world than before. there was only one thing that kept her from believing worlds really had switched. their structures still remained. the forsaken skeletons hung about, empty without their occupants. they were a silent reminder that yes, man really had existed – it wasn’t some dream. a large red barn was her north star, and she followed it without a purpose in mind. it stuck out in the frozen white landscape, and offered the hope of shelter. her thick coat kept her warm in the chilly air, but she craved a chance to close her eyes. her only fear was the possibility of someone else noticing its capabilities as a good resting place. and speak of the damn devil. she was not the only one who had ventured here, unfortunately. he stuck out in the snow as badly as the red barn did. the only difference was that his coat didn’t have the same blanket of snow on it. was there the chance he had already rested in the barn, and was planning his trip onwards? it was the most she could wish for. as she neared him, she caught the familiar whiff of westwood. strange, she had never seen him before. she was relatively new, but still managed to at least see much of the pack at some point. snow crunched underneath her paws as she neared him, and soon she was within close distance. she was met with the decision of whether she should say something, or simply walk past. being that he was from her pack and she was in such close proximity to him, she felt compelled to speak. he didn’t have to expect her to have an outright conversation. snow glistened off of her fur, the tiny crystals hanging off of her eyelashes. without stopping her slow trudge, she threw a brief glance in his direction. she acted as if her expression could betray her, and looking too long could be fatal. in reality, any life in her vacant eyes had long been extinguished. ”hello, westwood.”
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GREYtheFLAILER
-- pawn ♟
i've got red hands, but i'm colorblind.
Posts: 12
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Post by GREYtheFLAILER on Feb 28, 2013 18:11:55 GMT
l a r k . » The ebon mongrel had, long ago, become accustomed to showing little reaction to the sudden or unprovoked presence of others. Unfamiliars did as they felt was appropriate and, despite the fact Lark often longed for the solace that came with being in his lonesome, he knew far better than to express said opinion—a curt or blunt individual, perhaps, but intentional rudeness was a trait of which the brute did not pertain. With that said, however, the unprepared-for company of another was always a threat to his shattered well-being and self-security, hence why expressing little reaction always seemed far more appropriate. Emotion had become foreign to the male, and with good reason—it was little more than weakness; a tool to be used against him, in the near future.
So, it would only make sense for the brute to remain unmoving even when aware of the fact he was no longer alone, eyes dull and pallid, remaining firmly planted upon the ivory scenery before him. It was not out of insolence that he acted in such a peculiar and stoic way, but, instead, due to his own skewed perception of politeness; by not making eye-contact, he was not forcing social interaction. And, thus, by not implying he was in need of company, the other individual needn’t feel obligated to offer it. Even still, Lark would not simply turn a blind eye to the newcomer—although he appeared physically relaxed and unaware, such was not the case. The male’s thoughts ran rampant within him, mind reeling with the possibilities of what was to come as he inhaled, quietly so, in order to gather what he could about the possible threat he knew was approaching. It was somewhat unsettling, for the mutt, to be aware that trouble was nearing, and yet, have his logic so easily overrule his instinctual longing to face it.
But, it was as Lark inhaled, testing the various aromas surrounding him, that his lip twitched, eyes tempted—oh-so tempted—to turn towards the female, fellow-westwood.
It was somewhat of a surprise and, though it should have perhaps eased his avid mind, the male remained rigid, posture flawless. He was often observed as a vaguely forbidding figure, due to the regality of which he so effortlessly possessed; Lark was, in every way, shape, and form, a soldier—derived from the very definition of self-control, he could be compared to that of a statue, entirely unmoving both physically and in the aspects of his level and unwavering mood. When the female spoke, however, he couldn’t help but to offer a response. Slowly, as though not wishing to spook her, Lark craned his neck, eyes flicking to meet and hold her own. She was a large female, impressively pale coat tattered and soiled, and yet, he found himself relaxed by her equally detached demeanor; her eyes were quick to skirt away, body language nearly as standoffish as his initial impression had been. Never before, had Lark approached another with a gaze so lifeless, so undeniably void of emotion and zest—
never before, had Lark approached another with a gaze so similar to his own.
The male hesitated, mental on-goings pausing, as her quaint lyrics graced his audits. “Hello, westwood.” Such a tone was so, eerily familiar—it lacked something near to interest, and offered no more words then necessary. Lark nodded in a languid fashion, slow yet deliberate, eyes remaining upon her facial features as he willed words to his tongue, lips parting in subtle preparation. She was a uniquely appealing creature, despite the male’s avoidance of allowing his eyes to explore further; powerful and distant, something about her cool exterior both interested and captivated the weathered individual. His intrigue went little past a vague lack of understanding however, as his longing to be respectful easily overpowered any usual, instinctual, or primal desires of which encompassed an average male’s mind. Lark felt no need to near her, to touch her, or to otherwise make any sort of contact—he, quite simply, was curious. It did not show, of course, but it was certainly present, buried beneath the stone demeanor of his logic.
“To you, as well.” He replied after a long moment, his baritone lyrics colorless and flat, all sense of warmth and emotion having long evaporated from his spectrum of abilities. Although generally well-spoken, Lark often failed to grasp at the concept of social interactions; able to speak he was, though understanding of acceptable responses often prevailed in evading him. Lark, quite simply, struggled to speak freely and comfortably. Far too guarded and defined to allow anything past his lips that could bring forth immediate regret, he forced himself to succumb to a filter, no matter how quaint the sentence. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” His attempt to converse was a somewhat miserable and foul one, but it was an attempt nonetheless.
The mongrel had little experience in the field of verbal communication and knew there was little to fix said problem, even if he longed to—this female would, hopefully, just be of the understanding, or perhaps even uncaring, type. Even still, it dawned upon the male that there was a chance it would appear bad-mannered of him to imply the female offer her name, without granting his own in return; so, showing little of the haste he felt within himself, he did as he felt was appropriate. “My name is Lark.”
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