Blazing Void Chronicles: Waking

Ashes of war

A cold wind blows through carrying the smell of death, decay and burning flesh. The land tainted with blood and desecration that only a demon would call a triumph. Ashes carried by the winds are scattered throughout the land. A toxic ash of which cannot be described. It causes no physical illness, no. Not a physical one. But the scars it leaves behind on those touched by them are those that reside within the mind. A horrible sight..... For not only are these the ashes of the land, the trees, villages and towns. They are also the ashes of those who once, till this tradgedy, had lived as part of the land.

Nothing seemed to remain except for bodies scattered and weapons burned. Flags of two armies are torn and tattered and burned with hate. They are planted into the ground by those who bore it's crest upon their last moments of living. The last remaining parts of these flags blow solemnly and remoursefuly with the breeze of war. The same breeze that carries the toxic ash and the stench of war's aftermath. These same ashes rise into the air high into the skies. For warm air rises and the cold shall descend. Whilst the warmth of the land flutters away high into the skies it is replaced by the cold hands of death. And the skies once clear are now clouded with the reflection of the land it governs.

Morbid and dark. Not a light to be seen. No blue or white nor yellow or orange. There is no sunrise or sunset. Just a moment in time. Armor is scorched and falling apart as the flames that once were had taken their strength. Everything in sight is now being taken back by the land. The land now tainted with the sins of those who lived there. Even those with a heart of pure were not spared on this most gruesome of days.

"How is this possible? What had happened here?"

The wandering eyes contemplate as they scan the sight laid out before them. These eyes once filled with hope, courage, valor and honor now blur. Blur with tears of fright and hate. Regret and confusion. These eyes blue like the skies that could once be seen from this most glorious of lands.

"Who did this? Why did they do it?"

These eyes suffering and broken inside. But not the eyes themselves. No. The man behind these blue eyes that are now clouded with tears. This man..... How did he survive such a thing?! What things has he seen? What did he do in this desperate time of delusion and chaos? Why does he still stand whilst everything else is burned and wiped away?

This man now places his hands to either side of him and attempts to push himself up. Weak and torn this man's body trembles and shakes. Almost up his arms give way and he falls back to the ground, face first into the ashes of despair. His tears now aid the ashes to cling to his face to blacken it. These ashes being of those who he loved. Those who he admired. Those who admired him. Not only this but of those who relied on him and of whom he relied on in return. His brothers and sisters of war and strife.

"I can't even pick myself up. What happened to me?"

His thoughts running rampid as his body lays limp and covered in stench he looks around and sees all that is. But what about all that could be? Him. He is still alive. He is still breathing. He lived through whatever this is. So live on he must do. Not to find out what had happened but to ensure it never happens again. But how? Will he be able to stand again? Will he be able to walk? If he can walk will he just run away from all of this? So many questions left unanswered.

"NO! These thoughts will be the death of me. These doubts. This disbelief. If i am to live i MUST STAND!!!!! Nothing else matters except that. I do not care about what has happened here. Not yet. I must stand!"

And with that being said he places his hands next to his body on either side, palms down, head held high. He looks within himself and a massive instinct to survive arises from within him. His nails begin to grow sharp. The knuckles of his hands begin to sprout fine little black furs. This fur begins to spread up his arms and down his chest and back. Even his legs and stomach begin to grow these little furs. And not just that. His long blonde hair transitions from it's golden hue to a pitch black tone even darker than the hell around him. His muscles throb in agony yet leak power on such an intimidating massive scale that it is almost incomprehensible to most humans. His ass end begins to bulge right where his tail bone is. A slight tingling pain arises as something from his body tries to push it's way past his clothing.

"Ahhhhhh!!!!! These clothes! They must come off!"

He snarls as he grasps his pants and rips them from his body in an instant. As he does so a long bushy black tail shoots from his tail bone and begins to sway in the breeze. But what is this? In the midst of tearing his pants off he stood!!!!!

"I am up?" he ponders to himself.... "Oh yes..... I remember now. I am not human. So it seems i still retain some knowledge of who i am then. In any case this shirt does me no good to wear if i no longer have pants to accompany them"

A wound on his thigh suddenly throbs and drops him to one knee. He looks down to the source of this pain instinctively. A shiny silver spear head is lodged deep into his upper leg. Seeing this he knows it cannot stay. This spear head is even more toxic than the ashes in the air. But unlike the ashes this spear head can kill him physically. So he reaches down, grasps the broken piece of wood still attached to the base of the head with both hands and he pulls as hard as he can.

"Ahhhhh!!!!!! Grrrrr.....!!!!! Son of a bitch!!!!!"

So much pain as his leg throbbing in an unbearable sensation of agony and suffering his body is triggered into yet another transformation. His teeth begin to grow long and sharp and a little of his face now grows the same black fur as the rest of his body. And with one final pull he yanks the spear head from his thigh as his teeth grind against one another so hard it sounds like bones being crushed under a boulder. Blood spurts from this wound as he throws the spear head into the ground tip-first and he grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head and arms. His shirt now off he begins to rip it into long strips and ties them tightly to the wound. But not before saving a piece of his pants and folding them into a pad-like object to provide a more suitable way to help stop the bleeding and placing it directly to the gaping hole in his leg.

Once again he stands. Stumbling and tripping on his own feet and tail he picks a single direction and begins to walk. The ashes of war being kicked up with each grueling step he takes. Where is he headed to now? Does he have a place in mind? Does he remember a home away from this? All we can say for certain is that he is headed to somewhere. And any time you begin to head to a destination, despite where it is or why you are going there, there is always a journey to be had along the way.