“The Flames Taste Flesh, The Flames Taint Hearts.”

[Into Dust]

“ What a shame we all became such fragile, broken things;
A memory remains just a tiny spark; I give it all my oxygen,
So let the flames begin.

Somewhere weakness is our strength and I'll die searching for it;
I can't let myself regret such selfishness; My pain and all the trouble caused;
No matter how long; I believe that there's hope;
Buried beneath it all.

What a shame we all became such fragile, broken things;
A memory remains just a tiny spark; I give it all my oxygen;
So let the flames begin. ”

Let The Flames Begin - Paramore

[Into Dust]

“Every time my hands go warm, every time my hands go warm, every time my hands go warm, every time my hands go warm, every time my hands go warm, every time my hands go warm…”

The words repeated again and again in his mind like some perverse echo, only growing abominably painful with every repetition. He hated them. He hated the words.

Kiete Woodbraith was a façade. He was polite to strangers, he was helpful to all and he protected the forest and its denizens as if they were his flesh and blood. Then when he retreats into the solitude of privacy, he transforms. The mask falls down and the ugliness is revealed. The ranger is a mess. He struggles with a curse that he cannot overcome; he struggles with sins that he cannot serve penance for; he saves lives but takes more away. He turns innocence into dust.

He awoke today like he awoke every day, jumping awake as the nightmare finally ends, as if he is surprised at the images that he sees every night. His clothes cling to his skin, his torso drenched in the cold sweat of terror. His messy hair is clasps to his face and fastens to his neck like a cruel vice and despite the long hours he has slept, he is still tired. But worst of all, his hands are warm. He raises his palms in front of him and glances at them, hoping that they will cool down. But they never will. They pulsate heat and energy, they radiate murder and despair… this is his curse.

Kiete struggles to get out of bed every day, afraid that today will be the day that he succumbs. The temptation is there, dangled like a carrot in front of a rabbit. A tainted carrot for a weak rabbit, the ranger muses to himself. He stands up and goes to the bathroom, washing his face, hoping that the cold running water will cool down his hands. No such luck.

His facial hair has grown out again, stubble decorating his face like pictures detailing his inner strife. Kiete does not have the strength to shave today, he just wants to leave. Every place he stays is another place that might be gone when he wakes up. He wants to live in seclusion, he wants to become a hermit so that maybe he will not hurt anyone anymore. But he cannot; this ranger is not strong enough.

Kiete was staying in a lone room one storey above a pub known as Proudest owned by one of his old friends, Dentreas Kiljarsh. He leaves his room, after checking to make sure that his entire inventory is still with him. Somewhere inside him, the ranger wishes that someone would steal from him; then maybe that would go a long way to pay for his sins. He holds his bow, the precious Silver Morning in his two hands, feeling the wood with his hands, still alive with the heat of his curse. Solemnly, he lifts the bow over his head and straps it to his back using its unicorn mane bowstring. With one last look at the room, a bastion of his strength representing one night of victory over his curse, the ranger leaves.

As soon as the door behind him shuts, the ranger forces himself to smile, to try and take away the pain. No one needs to see my inner struggle, he thinks to himself. By the time he reaches the stairs, he has succeeded. The curse is on his mind and he is always resisting the energy building up in his palms, but no one would know about it. A friendly, handsome man approaching middle age descends the stairs, a smile across his face.

“Kiete Woodbraith!” the ranger turns his head as he approaches the bottom to see Dentreas greeting him, a warm grin across his chubby face. “Oversleeping again, I see! Luckily for you, you slept all the way into the afternoon and that means… It’s acceptable to start drinking! What a start to your day, ay?”

The bar owner turns to the back and calls for one of the waitresses to fetch two mugs of cold ale before beckoning the ranger to join him for a drink. Kiete, ever the gentleman and friend, obliges and walks over, all the while smiling through the pain, smiling through the words.


“Every time my hands go warm…”

No.

Just for today, I will be strong.

Closed. You can apply to be in here (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=14179&page=2)

[Canen Darkflight]

"Syrion...?"

Rouisa's subtle voice crept across the creaking oak table, barely audible in the thick of the background chatter of the Proudest's most faithful regulars. Syrion, fumbling with the handle of his half empty tankard, looked up, his hair falling over his face, and his eyes slightly lagging towards the oil latern in the centre of the table.

"I know what you're thinking..." He slurred, swaying slightly on his stool. "...but i'm not as think as you drunk I am..."

Rouisa frowned, shaking her head slowly. Her slim face and attractive features seemed to bring some radiance to the tavern, and with it the attention of a few of the patrons, who smiled and pointed as they whispered indecencies to their friends across the table.

"You're a bloody lightweight. How many have you had? One? Two, at a stretch?"

"Two..." Syrion corrected with a pair wobbling fingers. "...Just two..."

"And there you are, worrying about your cash flow, wanting to rebuild your house...spending the money on beer and women. Seriously..." Rouisa paused as if to dramatise her point, something women were very good at. "...How are you going to be able to make a living like this? Sort yourself out man."

"I love you..." Syrion slurred again, tipping the edge of his cup sideways and spilling a small dribble of beer onto his leg. "...I just want you to know that....hey....is that a peanut?" He gazed at her for a moment. "Are you gonna finish that? I'm starving!"

Rouisa sighed. The evening was rapidly approaching, and all she had for company was a drunk bodyguard, a group of hairy backed perverts and what would appear to be a bottomless tankard. Leaning back, she brushed herself off, took a deep breath, and prayed for something to take her away from all of this.

Syrion, however, had just stirred. Suddenly reacting to something he had heard whispered across the bar, he cast his glaring eyes from beneath a heavy brow at one of the drinking men from across the room. In this light, this man seemed like a shaved gorilla, his cheeks flushed and his pendulous chin raw where it met a tightly knotted tie. In his face he saw conviction, almost menace, and strength, but unwavering and unafraid to be the first to make a point, the Khaian slowly slid his stool backwards, got up and quietly walked over to the mass of fat and muscle who had offended him.

"Hey, you...Cigarette?"

This grizzly bear of a man looked up at Syrion, said nothing, nodded, and clenched a white paper rollup from Syrion's hand. The Khaian lit it for him, striking a match off the side of the bar, holding the naked flame up against the sweet tobacco. Carefully pulling up a chair, he sat down next to him, and made it private.

"So..." Syrion began in a hushed tone, lighting one for himself. "...What's your name?"

"My name?"

"Yeah, you know, your name. That thing your inbred, humunculous, mongoid parents gave you to distinguish you from the other apes at the circus. Everyone has one. Mine's just prettier than yours."

The man laughed, deeply, and with a venomous menacing tone that would have made an eskimo shiver.

"Do you know just who I am?...I'm..."

"I know what you are..." Syrion snapped a hand forward, smacking the lit cigerette out of the man's mouth, his voice deepening, suddenly more sober and forceful. His eyes aflame, Syrion shot proverbial daggers right through his aggressor, and then raised a hefty boot into his midriff, sending the ape-brained goon crashing to the floor.

"Get up! Get up and fight! All night i've listened to you and your fucking cracker spawn friends run your mouths about my lady friend over there. Why don't you repeat what you just said for me? Huh?"

"I said she had nice tits, so wha-oophh!" Syrion's foot crashed down on the mans stomach, the heel striking his gut with so much force, vomit cascaded out of his mouth in a grizzly fountain. No one around Syrion and his prey dared to move an inch, deciding they would rather see how this would end than intervene on their friend's behalf and risk facing the same treatment.

"Wrong fucking answer. Try again for me."

"I...I said...I'm sorry...."

"Sorry? I can't hear you, there's sick in your mouth."

"I'm sorry, I'm bloody sorry!"

"Good lad." Syrion picked up the rollup from the floor, still smouldering, and placed it loosely into the corner of the man's vomit stained mouth. "Now, be a good fairy, have a drink and a smoke, and then get the hell out of my sight, and my watering hole...comprende?"

He nodded to confirm. With a pat on the back, Syrion left him to find his way up, and calmly sat back down.

The night, all in all, had not gotten off on the right foot.