There was nothing but death around. On the streets, in the eyes, in the smells and sounds. Death surrounded the city and death was the only thing that was present. There was no joy, no peace or happiness and no nature. There was nothing but that bleak emptiness that drew everything down into it’s depths, that destroyed and killed until there was nothing left. And then it receded, but was still there, lurking and waiting for the opportunity to just swallow up the world. There was nothing else to do. The blood, the flesh, every part of it. The pain. The tearing, whether it was the tearing of the dark or the tearing of the light, it was torn in half. Painfully. Brutally. Nothing left but that grey world, where there was nothing but emptiness. And nothing could survive there, not for long and nothing could survive at all without damage. The sort of damage that when healed, healed into smaller wounds instead of scars. No one could even pass through here without damage. And it was a hard life. That grey world. Having to pass between so often. And the darkness had seen so much, but not as much as the twilight.
A lone wolf ran though the dark of the night. It was out of place. No wolfs ran free where no moon shone. There was not even a tiny sliver of the silver that would soon hang in the sky, and it was well into the darkness. But it fit. There was something wrong with that wolf. Witness’ that saw it later, those that knew, would say that it gave off a sense, maybe even an aura, that warned of danger, stuck of it, like you would stay away from a rotten package in the cupboard. No sane person, wolf or bat would go near it. They knew better. And so it ran. The glossy fur stained in patches by blood or wounds. Those wounds that would not heal. It’s paws bled and it’s eyes, the eyes of darkness, no light or purity there. Only black cold dark. And it still ran, stopping not for obstacle or road block, tearing and jumping, control less and harsh. The fur was black and the shadows blended into it perfectly, moving as it moved, altering their shape to cloak it. But there was still the dark and from the dark the Grey.
And the wolf slowed, slowly it slowed until there was nothing but the red on the ground and the harsh ragged breathing, of someone who was pushed past their limits hours ago, not minutes or second. Hours. Days even. That ragged breathing that signalled an end. And it looked up to where the moon should be, where that source of light should be to guide it, and saw nothing. And slowly it’s tears rolled down, slowly it was no longer wolf, but woman. Cold, bloodied woman, torn and beaten. And she had nothing left. Even that moon, that every month led her forwards, slowly, step by step back into the light as it dawned, even that had abandoned her. The right wrist of the woman was bloodied, bloodied and torn in the shape of three moons, full, half and crescent. And the fourth that should be there but wasn’t. But it was now. Far to strong. Always there. And she knew right then that it would never leave her, that she would hear and see this forever. And that forever she would be alone beyond all hope. There was no moon. No light at all. Just nothing.
And so the woman sat, tears now pouring freely. But even if she could have ever opened her eyes to see, she would have seen nothing. Nothing but the blood and battles of two hundred years o pain. All of that pain and suffering. Nothing at all. Just swords and flesh, of wounds and blood, all of the things that the woman had been blocking out for centuries. She had lost control. The one thing that she had sworn not to do. She could not see the alley in which she sat, she only saw herself, and her slaughters, as wolf and woman, With claws and teeth and sword and blade, all of the death she had given and life she had taken. Of injuries dealt and pain delivered. She saw it all and there was no relief. It was that grey zone, that constant shifting grey. She was stuck there, and it was tearing at her. And the barriers that she had put up had fallen, leaving her open to the horrors of her mind. Nothing. And that whispering voice, that cold whispering voice. It could be so easy to let go. But she could not. Not again. That would be to cruel for all of the world.
So the tears flowed. And the woman cried, silently. But with the pain of any and all. Wrapped and clothed in nothing but a thin rag, the one thing she could find in the alley. To see her hands and feet you would see the chunks dug out. Those wounds of raw flesh down almost to muscle taking up every space between bones, covering the tops of hands and feet alike. And on the arms too, and the ankles. The woman had struggled and it was obvious. The darkness swallowed her. It swallowed her whole and left only what she would need to survive. Nothing else. So she cried. And she bled. And with no idea of when or how, she was torn into pieces.
And slowly as the darkness of the absent moon retreated, and the sun returned, so did she, though it was not Alessa that emerged from that alley. It was Alessandra. The cold warrior from times past. It would take a long time for her to recover. She sat there, unable to move with the overwhelming mix of mentions, nursing her wounds and covering herself in the dirty sheet, she knew exactly what she had to do. And that she did not have the strength to do it.
Part 1 of the Alessa Saga
So this is the first roleplay post of one of my characters after a bit of a gap from the plot of the site.
LIttle bit of backstory… alessa is a lycan who has schizophrenia linked to her own peaceful nature conflicting with the dark nature of her wolf side. She was kidnapped and she escaped and this is where it starts off.
click here to read the rest of this roleplay
(I will probably post the rest of it and more of the alessa saga eventually. I am not sticking completely to the roleplay as I will be adding bits in and everything but fairly close)
Click here to see Alessa’s profile for a better understanding of the Character.