Felwood, where for some, not all the demons one faces are visible.
The wind carried many words this eve. Among them, new found soldiers and companions sought the rogue's company in an old battle. The Basin called.
Smirking slyly, Buthaleirus pulled forth a knife, twirling it slowly, gathering its "feel" in his left hand. His soft fingers wrapped around the blade's hilt easily. He held out his right hand. Palm facing skyward. Scars, new and old, shown on this rough meaty appendage. He paused and looked at his hands. Half-giggling, half-growling as he noticed the difference in them. His left hand had kept its skin, soft and tender. It bared no scars. Its texture smooth and clean. While, his right hand shown the marks and wear of battle. Scars and callouses created from wounds opened and healed covered it's surface, hardening it to the core.
His smirk flatened and his eyes grew dark."It time ta bleed da ground again."
Speed and deftness of blade marked his movement, as he sliced a new wound on the battered hand. Balling it tightly into a fist, he rolled it back and forth as he whispered over and again:
"Ah' give meh blood fo' da blood Ah' bouts ta take."
The long dead trees of Felwood cracked and bristled, as the wind picked up. It blew with a force he seemed to feel from within. His Khan, Volk, spoke.
There was an attack to be made, and the greatest of trolls sought Butha's presence.
Butha looked down as his blood trickled from his fist dampening the ground. His dark eyes, brightened as memories of the blood paw flooded back. But, tonight, he promised his blood to others.
Then, Butha felt something he hadn't felt in a long-long time...happy. The Wolves were running again. This made him happy. The thought of a future venture of mayhem with his brethen made him smile.
The wind carried many words this eve. Among them, new found soldiers and companions sought the rogue's company in an old battle. The Basin called.
Smirking slyly, Buthaleirus pulled forth a knife, twirling it slowly, gathering its "feel" in his left hand. His soft fingers wrapped around the blade's hilt easily. He held out his right hand. Palm facing skyward. Scars, new and old, shown on this rough meaty appendage. He paused and looked at his hands. Half-giggling, half-growling as he noticed the difference in them. His left hand had kept its skin, soft and tender. It bared no scars. Its texture smooth and clean. While, his right hand shown the marks and wear of battle. Scars and callouses created from wounds opened and healed covered it's surface, hardening it to the core.
His smirk flatened and his eyes grew dark."It time ta bleed da ground again."
Speed and deftness of blade marked his movement, as he sliced a new wound on the battered hand. Balling it tightly into a fist, he rolled it back and forth as he whispered over and again:
"Ah' give meh blood fo' da blood Ah' bouts ta take."
The long dead trees of Felwood cracked and bristled, as the wind picked up. It blew with a force he seemed to feel from within. His Khan, Volk, spoke.
There was an attack to be made, and the greatest of trolls sought Butha's presence.
Butha looked down as his blood trickled from his fist dampening the ground. His dark eyes, brightened as memories of the blood paw flooded back. But, tonight, he promised his blood to others.
Then, Butha felt something he hadn't felt in a long-long time...happy. The Wolves were running again. This made him happy. The thought of a future venture of mayhem with his brethen made him smile.
((Art by Volk-Thanks V :) ))
No comments:
Post a Comment