<blockquote><ul><span style='font-size:7pt;line-height:100%'>for future refrence. it goes <b>kiche → jayse → vlar → eletrra</b></li></ul></span>
<i>"I can drag him out by his face, if I must."</i>
Who was that? The voice was foreign, cold. It was a godless, empty voice. The threat, on the other hand, was not empty. Fear rumbled in his throat, a growl somewhere between anger and trepidation. <i>Shit/</i> And then there was another voice, an absurdly polite question, and morbid laughter. Listening from the dank hole, he awaited the judgement of the cult-leader. He could hardly hear the death sentence over the phobic thrashings of his heart against his rib-cage. But she said it, she did. It was a simple, ironically civilized collection of four words, four flinches, four nails in his coffin. "<i>If you would please.</i>" She was playing God, this heathen! Afraid and sick to his stomach, Kiche's crouching stance faltered.
An amber spark in the darkness caught his eye. There was a beast at the lip of the den with a calculating stare, who was soon joined by a pair of soulless grey eyes. More than anything, Kiche wanted to close his eyes and have them disappear. What was he supposed to do? They wanted to <i>rip his face off</i>? Was he supposed to fight back? Kiche abhorred violence, and wrath was a sin. But they were going to kill him. He had to do something. <i>Pangur, oh Pangur, what am I supposed to do?</i>
A sharp set of teeth came well before his answer could, clamping down on his tail. He shrieked, and tried to jump away, but found that it only caused him more pain. Tossing his head backwards, his eyes snagged on the set of gray eyes attached to his tail. "<b>Oh God, oh God, OH GOD!</b>" He tried to whirl about in a circle, to jerk his tail out of his mouth, but <i>damn</i> it hurt. "<b>Let go of me, you bloody heathen!</b>"
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(This post was last modified: Apr 24, 2011, 07:54 PM by Kiche.)