Post by Asher Branwen on Feb 29, 2020 23:01:25 GMT
Plip. Plip. Plip.
Red droplets slid along raven-black feathers, forming a small crimson pool on the stone beneath the half-blood fae. The viscous liquid filled in the crevices between the flattened rocks and created a small river of red the flowed out from the darkened alley into the streets of Taras.
The young noble stayed, motionless, his bruised and bloodied face leaning against the arm he had draped over the knees curled to his chest.
"What are you gonna do, you pathetic little crow? Cry for your mum?"
The taunting voice of his eldest half-brother, Teagan, rang inside his skull just before he could hear the brittle bones in his wings snap as the older and powerful pure-blooded sorcerer bent the appendage with his telekinetic prowess.
"Oh right. She's dead."
Asher's own scream of pain at the breaking of his bones ringing between his ears as his fist slammed into the ground he sat upon, splashing the small puddle that had formed mixed with his own blood and the dripping rain that pelted his hair making it fall across his broken features.
"I will kill them," he swore to himself, knuckles white as he clenched his fist, digging his nails deep within his own palm.
One wing was tucked neatly away, but the broken one stuck out at an odd angle, unable to pull itself closed without causing more damage to it than that which was already done.
He felt like a caged canary without his ability to fly away and hide above the streets, away from people and their cruelty.
His magic was weaker than even the youngest of his three elder brothers, all of them holding the pure blood of the magical Branwen line, but not him.
His blood was tainted.
Not entirely fae.
Not entirely witch.
He was exceptional in absolutely no ways at all,.
The shadows swirled around him with his erratic emotions, alive with hurt and anger in response to what power he did wield.
Darkness was his friend.
The one thing he could count on to always be there for him.
He needed to find a way to set his wing, to straighten it and brace it or else it would never heal properly, pulling himself to his feet with trembling legs, wincing at the slightest of movements the twisted appendage felt.
"Some-one..." he muttered, stepping slowly along the wall he rested his hand against to prop him up, the broken wing dragging through the puddles of rain behind him and leaving a trail of red.
"Help..."
He felt so dizzy, so sick to his stomach, like he might collapse.
So weak.
He hated that feeling.
The hopelessness of pleading for help he was sure would never come for something as pathetic and useless as himself.
"You're nothing."
His father's voice reverberating in his skull.
Reminding him what he was and would always be.
Insignificant.
Red droplets slid along raven-black feathers, forming a small crimson pool on the stone beneath the half-blood fae. The viscous liquid filled in the crevices between the flattened rocks and created a small river of red the flowed out from the darkened alley into the streets of Taras.
The young noble stayed, motionless, his bruised and bloodied face leaning against the arm he had draped over the knees curled to his chest.
"What are you gonna do, you pathetic little crow? Cry for your mum?"
The taunting voice of his eldest half-brother, Teagan, rang inside his skull just before he could hear the brittle bones in his wings snap as the older and powerful pure-blooded sorcerer bent the appendage with his telekinetic prowess.
"Oh right. She's dead."
Asher's own scream of pain at the breaking of his bones ringing between his ears as his fist slammed into the ground he sat upon, splashing the small puddle that had formed mixed with his own blood and the dripping rain that pelted his hair making it fall across his broken features.
"I will kill them," he swore to himself, knuckles white as he clenched his fist, digging his nails deep within his own palm.
One wing was tucked neatly away, but the broken one stuck out at an odd angle, unable to pull itself closed without causing more damage to it than that which was already done.
He felt like a caged canary without his ability to fly away and hide above the streets, away from people and their cruelty.
His magic was weaker than even the youngest of his three elder brothers, all of them holding the pure blood of the magical Branwen line, but not him.
His blood was tainted.
Not entirely fae.
Not entirely witch.
He was exceptional in absolutely no ways at all,.
The shadows swirled around him with his erratic emotions, alive with hurt and anger in response to what power he did wield.
Darkness was his friend.
The one thing he could count on to always be there for him.
He needed to find a way to set his wing, to straighten it and brace it or else it would never heal properly, pulling himself to his feet with trembling legs, wincing at the slightest of movements the twisted appendage felt.
"Some-one..." he muttered, stepping slowly along the wall he rested his hand against to prop him up, the broken wing dragging through the puddles of rain behind him and leaving a trail of red.
"Help..."
He felt so dizzy, so sick to his stomach, like he might collapse.
So weak.
He hated that feeling.
The hopelessness of pleading for help he was sure would never come for something as pathetic and useless as himself.
"You're nothing."
His father's voice reverberating in his skull.
Reminding him what he was and would always be.
Insignificant.
