Shirosaki
The Hollow Within
- Joined
- Dec 29, 2008
- Messages
- 3,082
- Reaction score
- 86
- Points
- 150
- Age
- 29
The Hybrid.
They called him the demon scholar, a paradox of a being. He always wore half dyed clothes, dividing his personality in the great contrasts of black and white. His body complexion was greatly admired at the time, although it was never understood how a person could maintain a halo perching on a pair of curled horns.
His aura was a nexus of confusion; chilling the bones but at the same time maintaining a great amount of respect. Of course, he only ever used the crucible for his main objectives in life; killing and observing.
Sure, a legend that he was, he lived a very confusing life, and one that any philosopher such as myself could ever completely understand. Really, how could one ever thirst for the blood of an oncoming enemy, and calmly strike them down with such a grace, just to return to their study to write about the day's efforts. Some curse his corpse as a brutish creation, others say that he was an artist and agent of God.
His downfall, so to speak, was an ironic tragedy. A halo and horns maybe, but an extremist is never completely satisfied. The man actually grew angel wings and the tail of a devil, however the mutation was premature; in a fight against the Hobbes, the legendary challenger took flight and mocked the Hobbes from above the pit in the middle of the arena. A martyr Hobbe jumped at the man, as did many before it. However, the demon shot the Hobbe between the eyes. A through and through, apparently.
The bullet hit the powder keg on it's back and exploded. It knocked the creature off balance, and his premature wings gave way. Irony, it seems, delivered the 'hero' to his fate. Once as high as God and his angels themselves, the figure descended into an eternal pit of darkness. His body was never recovered; although a single blemished and singed feather laid at the edge of the pit. It is now framed in the crucible trophy room, marked with the two words that imprint the owner's identity on history itself; 'The Hybrid.'
The moral of the story is to never trust one's self completely, hone what can be honed, love what can be loved, and never let status go to one's head. And certainly, don't let the grasps of insanity clutch you, for you will descend into that pit, and you shall suffer your wrongs tenfold for an eternity.
Now then, Markus, Eve, go to sleep, and don't let the bed bugs bite.
They called him the demon scholar, a paradox of a being. He always wore half dyed clothes, dividing his personality in the great contrasts of black and white. His body complexion was greatly admired at the time, although it was never understood how a person could maintain a halo perching on a pair of curled horns.
His aura was a nexus of confusion; chilling the bones but at the same time maintaining a great amount of respect. Of course, he only ever used the crucible for his main objectives in life; killing and observing.
Sure, a legend that he was, he lived a very confusing life, and one that any philosopher such as myself could ever completely understand. Really, how could one ever thirst for the blood of an oncoming enemy, and calmly strike them down with such a grace, just to return to their study to write about the day's efforts. Some curse his corpse as a brutish creation, others say that he was an artist and agent of God.
His downfall, so to speak, was an ironic tragedy. A halo and horns maybe, but an extremist is never completely satisfied. The man actually grew angel wings and the tail of a devil, however the mutation was premature; in a fight against the Hobbes, the legendary challenger took flight and mocked the Hobbes from above the pit in the middle of the arena. A martyr Hobbe jumped at the man, as did many before it. However, the demon shot the Hobbe between the eyes. A through and through, apparently.
The bullet hit the powder keg on it's back and exploded. It knocked the creature off balance, and his premature wings gave way. Irony, it seems, delivered the 'hero' to his fate. Once as high as God and his angels themselves, the figure descended into an eternal pit of darkness. His body was never recovered; although a single blemished and singed feather laid at the edge of the pit. It is now framed in the crucible trophy room, marked with the two words that imprint the owner's identity on history itself; 'The Hybrid.'
The moral of the story is to never trust one's self completely, hone what can be honed, love what can be loved, and never let status go to one's head. And certainly, don't let the grasps of insanity clutch you, for you will descend into that pit, and you shall suffer your wrongs tenfold for an eternity.
Now then, Markus, Eve, go to sleep, and don't let the bed bugs bite.
