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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
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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