Post by Grin on Jun 28, 2007 19:22:21 GMT -5
An ill wind moved through the night as blistering and cold as the winter's bare limbs and naked form. Its footsteps were hollow hoofbeats, echoing in the shrill whistle of its own voice. It hummed through the alleys, breezing past doorsteps, cloaked in the shadows themselves, carrying something wicked.
From the shadows rose a figure upon a horse, swaying lazily back and forth upon the huge beast that seemed outgrown for every other man but the man that rode upon it.
So dismounted M.Z. Gringle from the back of the darkly hued warhorse that he rode. So dropped SinisterGrin, back into the abode of wickedry and heathen vampire whom he adored with all the blackened beatings that his canine heart pumped.
The Hellhound had aged, streaks of silver in his once-inky locks, and a more present pain in his stormy eyes. The limp that had been previously hardly-noticeable when he walked had returned with viciousness, and he held his body upon a cane, standing tall, crooked, and proud beside the furred beast. A gloved hand was shoved into its mane, using it for support as he went, moving slowly.
He was making his way through the streets of The City, watching all he saw as closely as possible, hoping for a glimpse of a familiar face or a knowing passer. With a shake of his aging head, he got lost in the Spiritworld just as easily as one might fall into a daydream.
He had spent the past few months of the mortal-realm in years of war in the Spiritworld. He had aged, most definitely....Aye, indeed....He had aged...
The limping man continued on his walk through The City, watching, waiting, and hoping that with any luck at all, he'd run into his dear, forever-young, bitch-cat wife.
From the shadows rose a figure upon a horse, swaying lazily back and forth upon the huge beast that seemed outgrown for every other man but the man that rode upon it.
So dismounted M.Z. Gringle from the back of the darkly hued warhorse that he rode. So dropped SinisterGrin, back into the abode of wickedry and heathen vampire whom he adored with all the blackened beatings that his canine heart pumped.
The Hellhound had aged, streaks of silver in his once-inky locks, and a more present pain in his stormy eyes. The limp that had been previously hardly-noticeable when he walked had returned with viciousness, and he held his body upon a cane, standing tall, crooked, and proud beside the furred beast. A gloved hand was shoved into its mane, using it for support as he went, moving slowly.
He was making his way through the streets of The City, watching all he saw as closely as possible, hoping for a glimpse of a familiar face or a knowing passer. With a shake of his aging head, he got lost in the Spiritworld just as easily as one might fall into a daydream.
He had spent the past few months of the mortal-realm in years of war in the Spiritworld. He had aged, most definitely....Aye, indeed....He had aged...
The limping man continued on his walk through The City, watching, waiting, and hoping that with any luck at all, he'd run into his dear, forever-young, bitch-cat wife.
