Violence

Stitches finds himself younger, and on his knees within a cluster of trees. His hands are red. His knife is red. The corpse of a maimed doe paints the ground below. His breath is slow, he feels calm, and in a way, even happy. Footsteps behind him alert him to turn his head. Another adolescent approaches him, breathing shakily as she addresses him. Her hair is red like a sunset, and down to her lower back. Her skin pale and fair, offset with greatly wide and colorful green eyes.

(OOC Trigger Warning: Graphic Violence)

Just a couple of inches.

That is all it was, the gap between Narys and Taraborn, but for all it mattered it could have been the Belegaer. He lay there, awake deep in the night, looking at her sleeping form with blurry eyes as he tries to make sense of the storm of emotions within himself.

((Note: I have started using words found in the Parf Edhellen dictionary in the Laurelin Resources, particularly primitive elvish and Qenya words. They sound most Avari like. Regarding grammar or words that are considered to be 'no longer applicable', oh well.))

Undómion leaned back in the chair with one leg swung over the other, one hand with a goblet of wine. He did not feel any form of remorse or feel for his actions towards Ráolor’s work of art. The blind elf had beheaded the statue. Ráolor yelled at him, and even threatened Undómion should he lay hand on the statue again…The blind elf did not seem to care; all he saw was he was trying to make a point clear. Is life really all in statues and jewels? What about being friendship, or marriage, bound to someone forever? What held more worth?

Seia Ilk Mizrak Dishi Kirimyzi strode the sands, the crowd following behind growing with every tent they passed. His brothers and sisters kept close, almost forty in all, armed with the heavy quarter-staves they favoured for training and bedecked in the thickly padded leathers that helped stop their bones from breaking. He could see the mumakil over the tents, as good a landmark for his destination as any, their enormous grey mass looming over their surroundings, even at rest.

Seia sat atop Antin, walking at a steady pace along those cold northern roads. He hated this place. It looked of death, and stunk of worse. He thought he might hate everywhere, now. Everything, everyone. He hadn't spoken to another Man for weeks, months since he'd met one that was friendly. His shield arm was tight from the last, two Hillfolk that were generous with their swings.