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Dask was never a very unique person, and had gave up the hope of ever
being a ‘someone’ at a very young age.Being born into the small, barely
noticeable clan of the Drakhorns, Brackden and his small family were
relatively high in the general hierarchy, as his father, The Great
Juktar, who had valiantly fought the rival clan, the Calverdi, and
succeeded in liberating their small clan from the Caldervi’s iron grasp,
but unfortunately passed from his wounds, surrounded by his vast
family, he passed peacefully. Brackden was only a child, fresh from the
womb for only 5 years, when he saw his father die. If you were to ask
him about his father, a sad glaze would wander over his dark, nearly
black eyes.. and he would answer. “I never knew the man, but from what I
have heard over the years, he was the very foundation of this clan. I
am honored to have his blood running in my veins.” With that, he would
curtly bow, bid you good day, and go on his way.
Liberation is Undertaken: Snippet. Thoughts?Stomping. The sound of a thousand feet, stomping to unheard song. The song of freedom, of liberation. Or at least, that was the message that was being broadcasted on every street corner. “You are your own people. You have been liberated.” Plastered on every wall, there stood the face of that so-called ‘liberation’. His face was as recognisable as any, with that mask taking up a massive portion of his face, namely his mouth and nose, and reaching over his shaved head, and connecting just above the fur lining of his jacket. His emotionless face stared out into the now deadened streets.
6 months..6, long, gruelling months . The marks on the wall of the skinny girls apartment noted each day. She waited, just like everyone else..holding their breath, wishing that their masked crusader, the Batman would come rescue them once again from their dire situation.. but it had been so long.. and there were no hints, no signs of his return. At the top of one of the r
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More