Post by Makes-No-Sense on Jun 4, 2010 5:05:56 GMT -8
2:02 a.m.
*Buzz* *Buzz*
*Buzz* *Buzz*
*Bzzzzt*
Hannibal's pocket was moving. There are others involved...
*Sniff Sniff*
I wonder...wonder if...
*Sniff Sniff*
*Sniff Sniff*
2:03 a.m.
[glow=red,2,300]
His rage even bleeds through the pack link. I've seen this before.
I see the spiders flee from the device in the umbra before time slows. My heart sinks before the inevitable.
I know this sensation. I know this moment. I know what comes next.
The flash happens first. There is no noise. The scream of the wind as it wisps to it's death, the fire breathing to life with the first inhale of destruction.
This is the moment. The catalyst or the cascade.
Then the sharp stab of the roar as time catches back up. The echoes begin as if on cue, behind the deafening screech of the high pitched ring.
2:03:02
Finally my eyes follow the reaction of the body. They face the remains of the weavers web as the wyld rips through triumphantly...they both know how this ends.
The first two are here. The third always comes. Always.
2:03:05 a.m.
The rain comes. It rains without water. Without coincidence...it rains...it rains...
...Brena.
Time again falls out of focus. Everything dims, except Vasilli. His form as stone before the two of the triad's struggle. Before the horror of recognition.
The light escapes from the image of him further. No, it flees. Only the eyes hold any left as the slightest twinge and twitch pass his expression. They restrain it. They bury it.
Divergence. This is the nexus of what is to come.
Nothing moves. The weaver is busy with the wyld, all his laws broken now by what comes to take.
The triad completes itself. Always.
Consumed by the third the cry is let out. In praise or panic, the stain that binds us all this moment is bleached from the core of Hannibal. Purged and corrupted, leaving behind only that which provides sustanance to the third.
Here they pledge. All of them. With all other.
The smoke has not yet escaped from the fire as the third denies the desires. Hannibal his grudge or Vasilli his urge. The light reclaims small footholds upon the scene, trumpeting the inevitable. Vasilli remains, unopposed.
This is not the end...
Wyld within his fire continues to challenge the weaver to contain him. The flow of time never returns that what has become lost now, but in these moments she is absent. She has stolen her prize and leaves cruelty behind. Everything returns to pace...
2:03:05.01 a.m.
...except Vasilli.
...this is the beginning.
