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| ...And so a tale of dreams is born... |
| A night such as this bore only flame, and from the qwuil of this man words quiver over the tavern, as though he writes his own eternity from a place where this cannot exist. marking of Black Ink onto the world as he Stares downward onto the Parchment lost in eternity, hiw soul all but wither and now like the rose on his stand, fallen and with more beauty in Decay. The room that over looks like a small chamber, all aged and yellowed. Years it stood without motion, other than the raveneous Qwuil...are casted downward like a beast possed his pen wander about the page and slowly a demon is painted into the tavern. A man about the age of 20 his eyes fallen to a Sylven maddness as if he too is possed. something about this man and insane maddness seem to match and walk hand in hand. As the demon now born seems to hold no place in reality, this reality, for he looks as though a cage - a vessel of something more. as though the sketch was never completed nor shall it ever be, left a man without a soul. The cage that now seems to be held within a world. Vunerable only in the smallest ways where his character seems to be lacking - Emotions something ever dark lucks behind him, as the man within the room seems to still write, a shadow collects around the man, as though he would run from them of fall into them. something about this seem to leave something that...well would draw mystery and death to those who behold the maddness. So a lost man, painted into a world that lacks any truth....a man without emotion and darkness that follows. Was it a story that was dreamt from a man...Or a Mans life that dreams can't even let him escape. The pen drops as a scar of ink seems to leak across the page, the man doesn't reach for the qwuil....but just lets it mark his imperfect sketch. His head tilts ever so slightly... The demon below in this world seem to mark his own eternity as he draws back into the shadows that now are like the ink and extend further like the bloch His eyes veiled in that seems like a silken spider eb as he looks outward onto the fools that reside within the walls of average thought Those who hold their own against the average and still fail, faulter and fall. Where words exist that can, and nothing more is demanded of it. where all that holds humanity withers, as does the rose within the image...Beyond the man as even now the peddles are like a rusty hase. Falling away. The man finally reachs the Qwuil once more, and takes it up, as the demon below raises from the shadows, like the templar of divinity...looking outward with the sunlight in his eyes How can a man painted in shadows, with shadow....ever hope to escape it, as the qwuil once more touchs into the ink and uses the bloch as a new reserve to his writting The demon below seem to be thin as though you could look through him...the qwuil still dances as the demon rises and falls, as his chest heaves. Something within the Demon seems as though it would rip from him, as the Man himself trys to draw the demon a Heart... Impossibility to a Man who has never felt a thing. Numb would best describe the man, who else would lock himself into a room of ages as the pages of his life are bleed away at the end of a Qwuil...No longer is it - but ink...It is his Blood he now Bleeds Freely. Ever breaking of his life, all his Tears and blood now seem to collect in Reserve as he now bleeds them away...His eyes so cold and distant... The hollows of his eyes seem to prove only to further the point, this man has lost all he ever held. Something even more so...His eyes look lost onto the paper, his pen caculated as though even he is the vessel of another possession More and More the Links between the Demon and the Man are Clear...As they are drawn though the pen. More and More...His eyes wish to weep and still he stares dead onto the page as the demon Carnage is born ever so softly....Immortality is Gifted to the demon... Even he knows that this gift will soon be hatted, that it will only lengthen the days...and the pain and make the4 Love and Happiness in his life seem Diminitive... Why so would he give onto the Demon all things he has came to hate...Why would he now pen it out, that he has given away all his life to ink... That even now the pages are wearing away, what shall his sotry be written on when the ink has dried up...and No parchment resides within this room... The door behind him holds no lock, nor is a cage, the door is held slightly open by the wind - that is the only thing that has entered the room that still has life within the room, for a lifetime... The rustic yellow and reds of the room seem to even further age as the world outside the door glos with motions, as though it were neon with life. His pen enevr stops, though his body seems to decay...as though moments pass in reality, a lifetime is stolen from him. - The Quiver of the pen and even his body seem now to shake...wondering if he should Relinquish the demon before he too has lost his life. Pausing to Stare out...His eyes raise and look down into the tavern where his demon now rests Nestled in this Humanity. somthing...Somethign deep. Deeper than words can Explain...A tear falls from the man onto the rage, and washs away all he has written, as though it never existed. The demon itself...Seems to be washed from the tavern...Believed to be the End of Carnage...The end of the Man who sits alon in a Room - A Room time has left to its own Demise... Shall he Empart Another with the Damnation of his pen...Will he Give it away...Will he be lost Once more.... The man Raises the pen, and Looks at it....Then Drops it...As it lands onto the Parchment, Breaking the Tranquility of the Tear Drop...Shattering it. The Man...The Demon, And the Illusion now seem to be Gone. |