Post by Atraerus on Mar 22, 2017 19:00:45 GMT -5
The cinders danced through the dimming sky, the incandescence of the dying flame crackling upon their parting as if a final goodbye, and the cold suffocated their light into ivory ash. The smoke rolled over the canopy of the trees, the pleasant aroma of burning wood filled the nostrils and lingered in the atmosphere. Embers popped from the charred wood with a burst, bouncing and dying just before they could reach his bare feet which headed comfortably in the burning orange light. The even sky looked as if the gods had lazily painted over a canvas with deep, vibrant colors of pink, orange and violet. The sun smoldered like a burning hot coal over the horizon as it set against the earth; the alabaster moon slowly parting it's rays to illuminate the dark clouds on the adjacent end of the night sky. The birds had sang their last songs, and the crickets began to chirp wildly in their place. The night was young, and the flames kindled beneath Atraerus's cold hands as dusk took hold of Soul Society. The dogged sage rolled his shoulders as if to stretch and flex his fatigued muscles; placing himself comfortable on the makeshift mattress beneath him; stitched together in an amalgamation of different furs of previously hunted and harvested game. The wilderness was an unforgiving place, but the outer Rukongai was a place that had truly bred men.
The trees had been stabbed through and through by the cold black steel of his kunai, incantations lazily scrolled in obsidian ink stained over the surface of the old, tattered papers that clung to pommels of the miniscule armaments. They littered the dark forest surrounding the lone man, clad in scars and memories. The flexible ornate metal that covered his joints and arms glittered in the flames like sand on a sun-kissed beach. Embers floated and smoldered to dust over their surface, leaving small stains of charring against their surface that made the armor look as if it had been caressed by the edge of the abyss. His sepia irises seemed to reflect his age-old sorrows and equally archaic wisdom as he watched the cinders dance into darkness. Tattered azure garments the only modicum of clothing keeping him warm through those cold nights in the Rukongai. The wolf slid his fingers through his long brown hair, which he had kept up into a ponytail that flowed gracefully behind him. Mokumokuren, the ornate zanpakuto leaned against the bark of a nearby tree that seemed to be stricken with an illness; as it's bark seemed overgrown and tumorous in shape. It's guard and pommel were beautifully grotesque with designs of tendrils and eyes forged in a glimmering silver.
His lingering reiatsu settled over the fire as he watched old memories play out in front of him, as if the flow of time unfurled itself like origami before his very eyes to unveil the melancholy of his past. The old wolf adjusted himself upon fur sleeping back beneath him, looking back up into the sky in a deep reflection.The night had finally cascaded over the heaves to reveal all of the stars and their empyrean majesty. The air was now brisk and bitter, and with each exhale seemed to roll a puff of smoke from Atraerus's lips. The rogue shinigami waited alone in the quiet, lonesome night before the sun to rise again, and for his work to begin anew. For now, he'd rest, and try to survive the cold that plagued the wilderness.
Tonight, however, the prey, would play the role as wolf.
595
The trees had been stabbed through and through by the cold black steel of his kunai, incantations lazily scrolled in obsidian ink stained over the surface of the old, tattered papers that clung to pommels of the miniscule armaments. They littered the dark forest surrounding the lone man, clad in scars and memories. The flexible ornate metal that covered his joints and arms glittered in the flames like sand on a sun-kissed beach. Embers floated and smoldered to dust over their surface, leaving small stains of charring against their surface that made the armor look as if it had been caressed by the edge of the abyss. His sepia irises seemed to reflect his age-old sorrows and equally archaic wisdom as he watched the cinders dance into darkness. Tattered azure garments the only modicum of clothing keeping him warm through those cold nights in the Rukongai. The wolf slid his fingers through his long brown hair, which he had kept up into a ponytail that flowed gracefully behind him. Mokumokuren, the ornate zanpakuto leaned against the bark of a nearby tree that seemed to be stricken with an illness; as it's bark seemed overgrown and tumorous in shape. It's guard and pommel were beautifully grotesque with designs of tendrils and eyes forged in a glimmering silver.
His lingering reiatsu settled over the fire as he watched old memories play out in front of him, as if the flow of time unfurled itself like origami before his very eyes to unveil the melancholy of his past. The old wolf adjusted himself upon fur sleeping back beneath him, looking back up into the sky in a deep reflection.The night had finally cascaded over the heaves to reveal all of the stars and their empyrean majesty. The air was now brisk and bitter, and with each exhale seemed to roll a puff of smoke from Atraerus's lips. The rogue shinigami waited alone in the quiet, lonesome night before the sun to rise again, and for his work to begin anew. For now, he'd rest, and try to survive the cold that plagued the wilderness.
Tonight, however, the prey, would play the role as wolf.
595
