Cannibal || Not applicable || repost gocruentatafoedusJune 28 2011, 07:43:45 UTC
A rough, tangled voice made of dust and age crawls in through the woodwork, nipping away with a gut wrenching laugh. “It's easy, child, just find the throat and tear it open - easy as wrenching the head off a chicken.”Faint, scrabbled breaths, bright, stormy grey blues weeping into golden dust as the ungainly mop of blackened hair obscures a gargling voice down on the cold stone floor, struggling to rise. It is not unlike cutting the throat of a goat, something he has done in sport or jest before, the antics of a much younger child innocently learning the way of silencing the already dead - you just grip horns instead of hair, digging your heels in against the inevitable kickback and let the edge slide across an upturned, white throat, shimmering jewels staining a blackened waistcoat while the inverted eyes cross and bulge
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Morning Routine || Partially applicable?cruentatafoedusJune 28 2011, 07:47:09 UTC
It never failed, not in the last 15 years to wake him, the same hour, the same birdsong. Roused by flickering, golden fingers streaming into his insides, the man groaned and pushed his blackened-brown, curling hair from out of his face
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Absent || Somewhat applicable?cruentatafoedusJune 29 2011, 06:01:44 UTC
A badly kept secret, that sigh was. A bitter brow contracts, gazing at the pool of red developing in his hand with morbid curiosity. He speaks lowly, faintly, a ghostly window to the bastille of Vayne Solidor. "Touch me. Tell me I feel, for I know naught what feeling is." A pause, his voice fluttering in pain. "I have forgotten
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History || I don't even know || prompted!cruentatafoedusJuly 9 2011, 05:56:01 UTC
Heavy handed books, at first, were the only companions of two young men, one learning, the other staring blatantly over his slightly scuffed hardback, the novel's words the furthest thing from his sharp blues
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