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Bleeding Hope

Member since 2002 · Posted 19 Apr 2004 · 1 comment

i discern there is truth in your face though not sterling, perhaps nickel? an object, you have become a touchstone of beliefs and bad memories that work together for good. i hold you firmly in my left hand, there is no right here; only judgments.. pieced together from better days of aliveness - gummy- logic that smells of fake leather, semisweet chocolate, and .. what is that?! dead fish. i go on eBay to search for another bright magnifying bauble of fate authentic, in case i should ever lose you.

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[10] -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I. 19-Apr-04/6:15 AM Reply

Quaerion the Dark-aelfe stealthily strode through the shadows into the dimly-lit tavern, ignoring the inebriated "tally-ho!"s of the ignorant knaves around him, quietly slipping through the crowd to a table in the corner. He was clad in a dark, hooded cloak of purest Gwynthymoryan mithril-silk, and the Whisper-Bootes of Rhydrissa the Pale, and although his pale, fine features did not reflect any emotion, save perhaps for a flash in his deep green eyes that reflected a certain amount of contempt for the surroundings in which he had been fated to find himself this evening, his ringed right hand was somewhat tensely curled around the hilt of his Spirit-clay'dh-dhmore, FyreDestyny.

Suddenly, a rough, oafish hand grabbed his shoulder, and a voice bellowed "Quaerion!"

Quaerion whirled around, green eyes flashing, to face his oppressor -- an unutterably fat, blond-bearded man in a loincloth and a plumed helmet.

"Who dares speak the name of Quaerion?!" spoke Quaerion in a quiet, commanding voice that caused all who in the tavern who were still conscious to fall silent and gaze in his direction, wondering who the powerful yet quiet hooded stranger named Quaerion could be.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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