Beaten (open rp)
Posted: Tue Oct 07, 2008 5:46 am
The elf felt cold. Very cold. He wasnt sure whether this meant he was dying, or if it was just the late winter air. He supposed he should be dying. Everything was so numb now he didnt know.
There was a hole in his chest where Rothman's sword had pierced his armor, breaking through his defences, smashing a path through bone, sinew and flesh. He had no idea whether the man had struck any organs. The hole was covered in dried blood and snow, bits off cloth mixed in with the battered flesh. His left leg was a crimson mass, a result of a long, deep gash running from the back of his ankle to the inside of his knee. The blood there had also dried, forming a sticky, black shield. Bits of broken armor and clothing lay scattered everywhere, quickly disappearing beneath the falling snow, forming a trail which led from the river to the spot where the halfnaked, half-blood-soaked, snow-covered elf had dragged himself to.
But the most appaling part of the elf was his face. A raw, red welt stretched from his forehead to his chin, while the rest of his face looked like one massive swollen wreck. One eye was shut tight, a massive lump hanging over it, and the elf's mouth and teeth were stained in blood. To any passerby.. and there were none, he looked like a corpse. Yet it seemed to the elf as if this body simply didnt want to die. It was almost as if it had a mind of its own.
But this was all nonsense of course. Of course he was going to die. After all, if the bloodloss, septic wounds or the hole in his chest didnt kill him, it was only a matter of time before the thirst took him. Or maybe the hunger. Or simply the elements? The elf made a noise, an odd, gurgling sound. It was his attempt at a chuckle. It seemed to him a wonderful game. All these different things.. competing to be the first to kill him. He felt like he was the centre of attention in his own little world. My wounds are my friends. Hunger is my friend. Thirst is my friend. Snow is my friend.
He opened his mouth, stretching forth his tongue and tasting the snow, letting it melt into his mouth, refreshing him. Thirst began to desert him, fickle creature that it was. There was a squawk behind him. The elf didnt have the energy to turn his head. He heard the sounds of wings fluttering, and then felt.. somehow through the numbing cold, a tiny pair of feet on his great back. Then something small, and sharp dug into his spine. He could barely feel it, yet he knew it was there. Another caw came from the creature, and he imagined it hopping along his back, pecking here and there at what it saw as a corpse. His mouth formed a slow grin, and with a strength he'd never fathomed he had, rolled over, snapping his head back, moving in an instant. A muffled caw was cut out by the sound of bones being crushed.
The crow lay beneath his back, squashed into the snow, its life taken in an instant. The elf rolled over once more, refreshed by the molten snow, and took the mangled bird in one large, pale hand. Food. They are all deserting me now. One by one. With this thought singing through his head, he began to eat.. slowly yet purposefully. Each swallow felt like he had a knife stuck in his throat.. but he continued untill every scrap of the crow had disappeared. Letting his head loll forwards once more, the great elf's dark green eyes closed, his sandpapered tongue hanging out like a dogs, not wanting to leave the snow be. For the first time since Rothman's blade took him, the elf slept.
There was a hole in his chest where Rothman's sword had pierced his armor, breaking through his defences, smashing a path through bone, sinew and flesh. He had no idea whether the man had struck any organs. The hole was covered in dried blood and snow, bits off cloth mixed in with the battered flesh. His left leg was a crimson mass, a result of a long, deep gash running from the back of his ankle to the inside of his knee. The blood there had also dried, forming a sticky, black shield. Bits of broken armor and clothing lay scattered everywhere, quickly disappearing beneath the falling snow, forming a trail which led from the river to the spot where the halfnaked, half-blood-soaked, snow-covered elf had dragged himself to.
But the most appaling part of the elf was his face. A raw, red welt stretched from his forehead to his chin, while the rest of his face looked like one massive swollen wreck. One eye was shut tight, a massive lump hanging over it, and the elf's mouth and teeth were stained in blood. To any passerby.. and there were none, he looked like a corpse. Yet it seemed to the elf as if this body simply didnt want to die. It was almost as if it had a mind of its own.
But this was all nonsense of course. Of course he was going to die. After all, if the bloodloss, septic wounds or the hole in his chest didnt kill him, it was only a matter of time before the thirst took him. Or maybe the hunger. Or simply the elements? The elf made a noise, an odd, gurgling sound. It was his attempt at a chuckle. It seemed to him a wonderful game. All these different things.. competing to be the first to kill him. He felt like he was the centre of attention in his own little world. My wounds are my friends. Hunger is my friend. Thirst is my friend. Snow is my friend.
He opened his mouth, stretching forth his tongue and tasting the snow, letting it melt into his mouth, refreshing him. Thirst began to desert him, fickle creature that it was. There was a squawk behind him. The elf didnt have the energy to turn his head. He heard the sounds of wings fluttering, and then felt.. somehow through the numbing cold, a tiny pair of feet on his great back. Then something small, and sharp dug into his spine. He could barely feel it, yet he knew it was there. Another caw came from the creature, and he imagined it hopping along his back, pecking here and there at what it saw as a corpse. His mouth formed a slow grin, and with a strength he'd never fathomed he had, rolled over, snapping his head back, moving in an instant. A muffled caw was cut out by the sound of bones being crushed.
The crow lay beneath his back, squashed into the snow, its life taken in an instant. The elf rolled over once more, refreshed by the molten snow, and took the mangled bird in one large, pale hand. Food. They are all deserting me now. One by one. With this thought singing through his head, he began to eat.. slowly yet purposefully. Each swallow felt like he had a knife stuck in his throat.. but he continued untill every scrap of the crow had disappeared. Letting his head loll forwards once more, the great elf's dark green eyes closed, his sandpapered tongue hanging out like a dogs, not wanting to leave the snow be. For the first time since Rothman's blade took him, the elf slept.
had to delete...now gotta redo))