Imagine having to lock your bathroom door because Strife has no personal boundaries and doesn't like to be separated from you for more than 5 minutes, so he will try to follow you in.
Oh He Is.... GORGEOUS! I am so fkcin mad at those Nephilim rn, his face is so angry and you know he's fighting for his life! The lines and flow of his face and armour are just superb, I'm in awe! I completely forgot about that hc, thanks for reminding me :D
Darksiders 2 was my first game from the Saga when I was a teen. I found Joe Madureira's art after buying the artbook and it just captivated me. I wanted to give it a try to create a fanart in their last games' style, Darksiders Genesis from Airship Syndicate and made a mockup too :3
A new stranger arrives at the Dead Kingdom, and you question if he is friend or foe...
The method of dying isn’t a stranger to War. It is an unwelcome experience than a closely held fear that all creatures hold close to their chests. He wouldn’t be one to boast about having been through the whole entirety of dying, but he wouldn’t shy away from exclaiming he doesn’t fear it.
This time however, War can’t ignore the waves of shame that ache like a slug to the gut. Indeed, he’d felt shame when he perished in battle when carrying the Ravaiim relic to safety. But this was beyond what he felt all those eons ago.
A failure to keep a relic away from enemy hands was vastly overshadowed by the obliteration of War’s image, his legendary honor. All knew of War’s pride of being the warrior he was, the oaths he’d made and the extensions he’d reach to see them fulfilled. He’d been a poster child, in a sense, of the perfect enforcer of the Balance. The favorite of the Council with his diligent work ethic, outshining them all in how he’d throw himself into his duties. As if he’d have something to prove despite the need not to.
How far he’d fallen…
Stripped of his power, thoroughly chewed out by the Council and put under their chopping block to serve as their punishment for a supposed crime he didn’t commit.
After War opened his eyes, he didn’t need to see the sickly green hue clinging to his being to know he’s been transported to the Kingdom of the Dead. The stench of stale air and a musk of the ever decaying souls assaults his nose. Beneath him is a ground devoid of any green, and instead substituted with layers of dust that flutter through the air at the slightest disturbance.
He can still feel the vague wetness of tears that trail his cheeks. The rider never felt more vulnerable than before.
The racing images of the past events came flooding through his mind, from the moment of the call to his arrival. The chance meeting with Abaddon…
Abaddon. He must be here, War vaguely thinks between the onslaught of thoughts that plague his mind. If he can find him here, then he will find out why he was there… one way or another…
But that very thought sends a wave of anger through his chest, as War is only able to reflect on the accusations and confusion that follows. What purpose did the Archangel serve among the ranks, he was leader of the Hellguard, a division dedicated to the protection from Hellish infiltration of protected areas, especially the borders of Heaven. They were not at all meant to march at the front lines of the Apocalypse as it wasn’t their duty.
Yet there they were, among the ranks fighting with just as much ferocity as the summoned legions. The gears in his brain churned at an incomprehensible rate as he tried to key together this mystery.
What purpose did they serve, and what secrets are they hiding?
Something greater was at play here. Abaddon, the Call beckoning him to do his duty, and no sense of his brothers and sister in the Earth.
All at once, the frustrations bubbled and broiled over within the Horseman. The memories that lay bare across his vision began to crumble and branch into webbing cracks as his own wrath, hot as frothing lava, rose in terrible tidal waves, fueling dead veins with his famously irremovable ire.
Then, akin to a weakened dam holding back a tsunami, the images of his mind, and the last of his reserves, explode in an extraordinary display.
Pulling his lips back to unleash terrible canines, War’s prosthetic arm clenched tight enough to nearly break the metal fingers. Eyelids snap open to reveal the blazing glow of glacial blue, near blinding as they’re fueled by his rage. He raises his fist above his head and, in one great swell of strength, swings it down with a terrible velocity as War unleashes an agonized bellow of betrayal.
The momentum of his arm stops short, colliding with the ground below, stone beneath shatters upon impact. Dust flies everywhere as the shockwave sends throughout.
War doesn’t need to see the ground to know he’s left a crater.
Though he doesn’t need air, War huffs as greatly as a rhinoceros. The fire within him surges through his body, showing no signs of slowing down soon. The rider can only stare hatefully at the cobblestone below as he tries to ride out this immeasurable wave.
For an immeasurable amount of time, the Nephilim stays motionless, sucking in deep lungfuls of dust laden air before forcefully exhaling. His right arm, the flesh one, shakes with tremors under his gauntlet, before the trembles slowly spread across his body.
The great injustice of it all enraged War greatly, he can’t help but reflect upon what the Council said to Fury of their elder brothers being absent. Strife had been sent out on a mission according to them, but Death’s case had his mind reeling.
The Eldest had done this before, in the distant past. Disappearing for five hundred years without a trace until finally showing his face in the wake of the Council’s urgent summons. He had disappeared, likely for his own sake of solitude after the Nephilim’s fall.
But what reason had he now to disappear? Where could Death go that not even the most sensitive ears or eyes could detect him on the furthest comer of Creation?
He wouldn’t abandon them. Not again… So caught up in the haze of his muddled thoughts, War doesn’t hear gentle footfalls coming up to his side. His hood, far over his head, obscures his peripheral vision and had he noticed, he’d be ashamed for letting an unknown person get so close.
But he doesn’t scold himself as he’s still caught in the fray. At least, that is until he hears a throat be cleared before asking him a question he’s never been directed to in his eons of existence.
“Hello there sir. Are you alright?”
——
The behemoth of a man doesn’t move when you call out. But you know he’s heard you if the tensing of his body is any indication. His face is obscured by the hulking copper pauldron and blood red hood pulled far over his head, blocking off any view of his features.
There’s a tremble to his figure, albeit faint, you can spot the quivers beneath his strange armor. You’d would’ve guessed him to be an Angel if it weren’t for the lack of wings and the doubt of seeing one so scared. Demon was far out of the question due to the obvious absence of a tail, malformed wings or the faint sulfur stink they possessed (a surprising fact to learn).
Was this stranger human? The question rattled in your head as you took in his huge figure, the apex of his shoulders were equal to yours at your full height. But the sheer size of him alone suggested Maker, but even this beast of a man would be minuscule compared to Engri.
But it didn’t matter who or what he was, but rather, the shaking that didn’t cease even as you both stood in silence. A pang of sympathy wells in your chest, remembering how you were just as frightened when you first arrived. Death throes, Engri had called them. The soul still yearns for life, and tries to command flesh that isn’t there anymore.
‘He could probably use a hand, after who knows what he went through.’ You shudder at the thought of the untold horrors that he must’ve endured at his death.
‘Friendly face…’ you remind yourself as you clear your throat and try again.
“Sir, are you alright?”
This time, you get a reaction. The man’s head whips around in record time, near startling you as you’re suddenly stared down by the mysterious newcomer.
Behind the copper pauldron and his hood, you spot two bright eyes staring you down, unlike anything you’ve ever seen. They’re pupilless, glowing like sulfur fire with just as much intensity. The twin flames stare you down like a wrathful lion roused from slumber, and you the mousy culprit.
You can’t help but find yourself lost in the void, sinking further into the crashing storm of anger and despair. It’s too powerful to pull away now, and you can’t gather the strength to as you spot something within him.
For just a moment, in the moment that time was creeping between the two of you, there was the slightest hint of fear swimming beneath the surface. As quick as you caught it, it was dashed away as those wild and raw eyes hardened. It was not unlike watching the surface of magma cool into solid rock, but beneath did the liquid fire still burn.
Caught up in the swirling hues of burning blue, you failed to catch the stranger’s face contort into something more offensive. If you did, you would’ve wisely backed away instead of gawk dumbly as lips pulled back to reveal glimmering teeth.
“What?” He snarls the question at you, the deepness of his breathy tone pulling you in like a magnet. You still don't give an answer, caught between the urge to swallow up your concern and run and to stay and comfort the man. If you could call him that.
Quicker than you’d expect a man his size to move, the stranger throws himself backwards. Adopting a protective stance, his left arm is poised to cover his body more effectively as he bares his teeth warningly. Simultaneously, you jolt back instinctively putting distance between you and him.
How ironic.
Dead as dust, and your mind is trying to keep alive as if you still possessed a beating heart and blood in your viscera. Even more so concerting, considering how you’d been so adamant on approaching him first.
Briefly, there’s a thought that comes into mind, asking if this was a wise idea. But what could one soul do to another when both are dead?
You doubt the dead can be killed again. With that logic you feel less insecure about an attack. So you gulp down your nerves and clear your throat.
“Everything‘s okay,” you begin, arms held up placatingly as the man eyes you warily, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Not that you could even land a single blow on your best day.
The man thinks the same, as his lips pull into a deeper scowl as his nose curls. Though he has no discernible pupil, you can feel him sizing you up. Definitely determining you to be as much of a threat to him as a fly is to a lion.
Seconds tick by like eons, neither one of you twitching a muscle as you stare each other down. One with barely restrained apprehension, the other suspicion and lingering animosity.
Until finally, the man curls his nose with a huff.
Completely unimpressed, he motions to leave you in the dust, metaphorically and literally as he spins on his heel and makes his way out of the tiny pocket of room off the road. The ground below shudders with a muffled tromp, displacing dust to flutter into the air and stray pebbles to rock.
If you’d a moment to think about his sheer impact on the ground, you probably wouldn’t have so brazenly charged forward to meet with him again. Hellbent on trying to understand what was his grand plan here.
Maybe you would’ve wisely backed off, especially when you were so hesitant to approach due to the very threat of bodily harm. Even beyond the grave. You’d definitely be reflecting on this tonight to find the answer to this crazy ass decision. But the only answer you’d receive after racking your brain to find is probably “whoopsie” or “I’m not fucking up my first day of Soul Guiding”.
Just as your hand is about to make contact with the man’s armored arm, there’s a great flash of gray as the world suddenly spins on its axis. Roughly, your back slams into the ground as the beanie hugging your head jostles loose, half handing to your skull. If you’d any breath it’d be knocked clean out, but all you do is gawk, breathless regardless.
In one swift motion you’d been slammed into the ground with the giant of a man hovering over you. Enormous legs cage you in as he keeps a grip so ironclad on your guilty arm you can legitimately feel the pressure near breaking. You fear he’d break your bones had you not been so caught up in staring him down, dead heart lurching in your throat.
Pinned, outsized and far in over your head, the only plausible thing your panic riddled mind can do is teeter on the precipice of two options. Gather the last remnants of human survival and urge you to break loose or relive the last moments of your life cornered in that concrete trap like you are now. The only difference you felt was no roaring of blood into your ears nor the stir of a certain pounding cardiac organ.
You swear in this very moment this man was really those hound monsters in disguise, ready for a part two in their revenge.
Get off.
You see those hungry eyes through the cracks. Blues bleed into fiery orange, the shadows eclipse into coal black leathery skin of hellish hounds.
Get off.
Pulled back lips contort into snarling maws like permanent grins. Bare gums glinting with teeth bigger than your arm. A heavy pant like laughter among the prowling pack that close in on their prey.
GET O F F !
The crushing grip melds into the pain of your arm —- your missing flesh arm —-
You can taste the blood, feel it running down your throat and flood your lungs—
G E T O F F !
The proximity between him and you is near atoms apart. You feel the wisps of breath he exhales, fluttering over your cheeks like ghosts in the wind. There is no heat, unlike the breath of the hounds who felt hotter than the pits of Hell. A complete antithesis-
“GET OFF ME!”
The shriek echoes across the empty field, rattling the naked limbs of a nearby tree and disturbing the dust to flutter around the air. Dancing between the two of you carelessly.
The man above you does not move as you demanded, instead he keeps his grip steady, the only indication of him listening to you are his raised brows and slightly widened eyes. Clearly surprised by the outburst. But he still doesn’t make a single move, instead vying to keep you pinned as his lips form words that your brain fails to comprehend. It’s only after a few seconds of silence after his words have passed his mouth did your brain catch it like a delayed echo.
“Who are you?! What is the meaning of this?” Though he nearly splits your ears with his bellow, the demand sounds as if you’re hearing him with cotton stuffed in your ears. And underwater.
When you don’t give an immediate answer, his patience seems to wear thin, given by the deepening furrow of his brow. Vaguely you think how it’s even physically possible before your ears pick up on a voice ring through the air.
“I-I just-!”
“It will do you good to let them go boy!”
Both you and the man’s head swivel to the origin of the newcomer. Poised for attack, the stranger is dressed in armored regalia, finely detailed with bone imagery long since worn down. He carries a glaive, or at least an imitation of the weapon due to its dramatic length of the blade. It’s pointed in your general direction, but not at you. But the head of the man above you.
He stares you down with well worn eyes, cataracts cloudy yet sharply focused on you.
The stranger doesn’t give away what he feels about the situation, but from the pinching of his brows and snarling of teeth, he doesn’t like what he sees.
The soldier jabs the weapon, the edge near kidding the red hood of the man above. He merely grunts at the proffer of the metal blade, unphased about this. Which was rather ironic given his need to attack weaponless you.
“I will not ask again! Let the ‘uman go.” He snarls, dripping with authority to make you rigid upon hearing. The man above you snaps his head between you and the newcomer, brows pinched together as you shoot him a weary grin, silently begging he’d listen.
“Yeah, uh, please let the human go…” you say weakly, struggling under his grip as you feel an atom more confident with this stranger. Though that is promptly squashed when the man glares daggers into you, sending a wave of cold dread shooting through your chest. The crushing grip tightening even more.
“I am not asking you again boy! ‘ave you no sense o’ ‘onor that you’d attack one without a weapon?!”
That gets his attention.
His ironclad hold violently wrenches free, and you immediately scramble out from underneath him. You drag yourself away from the man and put some distance between you and him, with the stranger as a barrier. Despite not knowing either, you’d take your chances with the soldier rather than the goliath.
The guard shuffles until he’s blocked the view of the red hooded behemoth, weapon poised at his head. He tilts his head back to eye you as he calls out. “You alright ‘uman?” Dazed, you can only offer an unsure grunt, grasping at the arm with fresh indents in the dead skin. You wince as you doubt there’s a chance it’ll recover.
“Y-yeah.” Is the feeble answer.
He grunts before turning his attention to your attacker, whose face is twisted into a vicious snarl half hidden by his hood. Those blue eyes are pure murderous as he glares at your savior. However, he is completely unaffected, instead vying to puff his chest out and raise his shoulders. Immediately, the man becomes larger than he already is, the armor assisting him as the oversized pauldrons that sweep towards the air flare out like boney wings.
The tension growing between the two is heavy, like a thick fog and tingling with electricity. Though you’re not caught in the middle of it, you can feel the sharp sting that leaves you dizzy.
Just when you’re sure the fog will stretch out to you and wrap you in the static blanket, it’s so abruptly interrupted.
“I do not know why you attack this ‘uman, but know that this will not go unnoticed by me. ‘owever that is not why I am ‘ere,” the man straightened his posture as he keeps his glaive pointed straight at the man, “I am ‘ere to escort you, Red Rider, to the King, for you are hereby summoned to appear ‘fore the Dead Court.”
That gets your attention.
Engri had spoken of the monarchy and his exclusivity on the few to no guests he harbors in his Court. In fact, practically no one has made company with the king in the last century other than his guards and royal advisors and overseers.
Not that making company was as simple as approaching the throne room and waltzing in to share your grievances. Between the tales of the men of the Arena who’s battle prowess could match that of the aged Maker and cynical advisors, you’d heard of one such obstacle to meet the king.
The Arena and its heralded unbeatable Champion.
Engri had shared the stories of the Champion, a creature of bone and sinew, nigh invincible. How she’d faced the beast before in boast, promising to bring the skull to the Court not for an audience, but to wipe the smirk off their smug faces when they claimed she’d be unsuccessful as the others. And they’d been right.
The monster was unpredictable in its attacks and twice as formidable in strength, even against a seasoned warrior as Engri. In the end, the battle mage decided it best to abandon her quest and turn tail to save herself the near severed limbs and a wounded ego during the excursion.
That was the only ticket to meet the king.
And this guy gets a free fucking pass.
A trickling sensation of horror and suspicion runs up your spine as you wearily eye the stranger. What had he done to warrant the king’s audience per his demand?
Probably something terrible. Right?
The “Red Rider” or he’s been addressed, near snarls at the soldier whilst rising to an impossible height. Your eyes shamelessly bulge from their sockets as your jaw fails to keep itself hinged while you wordlessly gawk.
You knew he was tall from how he nearly reached your shoulder on his knees, but not like this. He towers over the soldier who himself boasts an impressive height, and his glaive stands taller than his helmet which adds a few extra inches. You doubt your head even reaches the bottom of his sternum if you stood on your toes.
“What would your king,” he spits the word out like rot on his tongue, “want with me? I am no stranger to this realm nor am I a foe.”
The soldier doesn’t stop the scoff, making the taller shoot a nasty glare. “Do you think us so shut in from the world of the livin’ we do not know o’ your affairs?” The hooded man immediately stiffens, your head tilts as you questioningly stare at the accused wondering if-
“I've done nothing of the sort. I am not guilty of the crimes the Council accuses me of!” He bellows, voice so powerful you can feel it punch you in the chest. Though the other male seems completely unaffected, not even a flinch.
“Whatever those slags o’ molten rocks decide is none o’ my concern. I am ‘ere merely to escort you to the Court.” He cooly says.
Council? Crimes? Molten rocks?! What in fuck’s name are they talking about?!
Too caught up in the haze, you shake your head in efforts to clear the very muddled thoughts you’re trying to piece together. You don’t even register their conversation.
Yeah, the man straight up attacked you, but he hadn’t seemed to do so blindly. Though the whole parameters of why he’d think of you as a threat doesn’t click.
But beforehand, prior to his… lashing out, he seemed completely caught up in himself. The scream you’d heard, how the raw bellow was so pained, opposite to his aloof attitude. How he sounded so… betrayed?
Scared.
Like when you first opened your eyes on the cobblestone road.
A pang of sympathy worms its way through your chest, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste of the past. A frown stretches across your lips, remembering that wretched feeling.
Why should you not extend that mercy to him? Because of some self preservation to your corpse? A guard claiming he’s to be punished for a possible crime? Your survival instincts screamed not to, and logic dictated that this was none of your own business.
But the man’s protests of innocence were too heartfelt. Too… fervent.
Unlike the aged corpse of a soldier, you listen to those cries. You know them well. Distant wails that cut through the ears of the endlessly noisy city like a gunshot. Too many times you lie awake on your bed, listening helplessly to the sound.
You once burst out of your room with an urgent desperation to quell those cries. Tirelessly searching for the endless laments, overwhelmed to find the city overrun with souls that scream for a life stolen away, of being lost with this insufferably ceaseless city.
Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help anyone. It seemed as if the screams were not from souls, but part of the very ambience of the city.
You barely slept a week after that, regardless of your exhaustion.
This man, this soul- you can’t bear the thought of leaving him to his fate. It’s selfish but you don't want to bear another moment in the city after the day is done. Returning to that unshakable tune. Maybe this once, you could quell this one’s cries so he wouldn’t join that accursed choir.
Leaving him to go to the Court did not sit right in your gut. You couldn’t stop it, but maybe you could sway them.
Engri’s talk of the King did not soothe your nerves however. But in spite of that, you do not stop yourself from the words that spill out your mouth just as the soldier was about to escort the soul out.
“Uhm,” you scramble to your feet, something more dignified if it weren’t for the dust and beanie falling out of place, “wait right there! I’m coming along!”
The soldier snorts, actually snorts before he can cover his mouth with a hand. That near permanent grin of a half rotted skull seems to widen as he attempts to collect himself. You scarcely notice curious blue eyes drift your way as you pull your beanie back over your scalp, suddenly bashful.
“You ‘ave no business with the King,” he declares, tone trembling with barely held back chuckles, “it’s ‘im that the King wants, ‘uman. You’ve no idea of what magnitude the offense this one has committed.” The Red Rider shoots him a poisonous glare from behind.
“Well, I don’t happen to believe that!” You lamely retort, chest clenching at your weak protest that makes both men take pause. The soldier eyes you with suspicion while Red remains otherwise impassable, other than the slightest widening of his eyes behind his hood. You absently wonder if he is even affected by your protest. Something within your dead chest screams that it does, that he is in fact, thinking about what you’re doing, but your head seems to think otherwise, filled with doubt.
Your brain weighs the outcomes of both possibilities at blink-fast speed, considering both extremes that could come to haunt you. Either one, this man is indeed what the guard claims, to have committed the worst of crimes, hiding behind a red hood and devastatingly convincing face to trick the bleeding hearts into his scheming and letting him roam free. Though the worst possible crimes he can commit in this godforsaken realm such as murder was null and void, that didn’t make him less of a threat. You could let him walk free, unpunished and unforgiving into this world, here forever if you can even convince the Court.
Or…
This man is indeed innocent. A victim of circumstance, or even a setup if his protests have any hint of what had happened. You could save him from taking the fall and being wrongly punished for someone else’s crimes. You couldn’t imagine living, or rather, continuing on this dead life with that on your conscience for eternity. Not even after a million years could you imagine that the guilt would even erode in the slightest.
Then, you think about when you first laid eyes on him, how frightened he was, that scream, and those wild eyes that you almost drowned in. There was a deep powerlessness that you recognized that you couldn’t forget.
You’ve seen that look in the eyes of your fellow humans as they were slaughtered on the streets, hopelessly overpowered in the eyes of Angels and Demons. Pure, unadulterated terror soaking into the very bone, leaving no atom unmarred. Then, a ringing in your ear turns into his scream and it blends in with hundreds more you hear a familiar voice come through.
“‘M off tae take ‘em to tae city,” It’s Engri’s voice from hours ago, “I doubt there won’ be any other souls while ‘m gone,” you had decided to stay behind, using the excuse of wanting to help farry souls as a reason not to go back to that wailing city. You did want to help, but you never expected, well, this.
“Well, what should I do if someone comes and they won’t go with me?” You asked, unsure of what to expect, to which she had answered simply.
“Then follow ‘em wherever they go. With time, they’ll go with ye.”
Sucking in a breath, you hope this won’t be the biggest mistake of your undead life. Squaring your shoulders and straightening your spine, you boldly stare the guard in the back as you unsteadily declare,
“Take me with him to the King’s Court, I am acting as his voucher of character.”
01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents?
02: Who did you last say “I love you” to?
03: Do you regret anything?
04: Are you insecure?
05: What is your relationship status?
06: How do you want to die?
07: What did you last eat?
08: Played any sports?
09: Do you bite your nails?
10: When was your last physical fight?
11: Do you like someone?
12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours?
13: Do you hate anyone at the moment?
14: Do you miss someone?
15: Have any pets?
16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment?
17: Ever made out in the bathroom?
18: Are you scared of spiders?
19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance?
20: Where was the last place you snogged someone?
21: What are your plans for this weekend?
22: Do you want to have kids? How many?
23: Do you have piercings? How many?
24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)?
25: Do you miss anyone from your past?
26: What are you craving right now?
27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart?
28: Have you ever been cheated on?
29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry?
30: What’s irritating you right now?
31: Does somebody love you?
32: What is your favourite color?
33: Do you have trust issues?
34: Who/what was your last dream about?
35: Who was the last person you cried in front of?
36: Do you give out second chances too easily?
37: Is it easier to forgive or forget?
38: Is this year the best year of your life?
39: How old were you when you had your first kiss?
40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked?
51: Favourite food?
52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason?
53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night?
54: Is cheating ever okay?
55: Are you mean?
56: How many people have you fist fought?
57: Do you believe in true love?
58: Favourite weather?
59: Do you like the snow?
60: Do you wanna get married?
61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby?
62: What makes you happy?
63: Would you change your name?
64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed?
65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?
66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around?
67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to?
68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?
69: Do you believe in soulmates?
70: Is there anyone you would die for?
Even after millennium of losing his arm, War occasionally suffers some terrible phantom pain. Especially when overusing his arm. But he pushes past it and keeps that pain as a reminder of his hard learned lesson to keep his rage in check.
But sometimes in the privacy of solitude, War removes the prosthetic limb to ease the discomfort. He takes these brief moments to run his fingers over the scarred flesh and feel the muscles and bone that have scarred over with time. He takes the stump of an arm into his remaining hand and gently massages the pain away, the only thing he can provide himself as respite from the inescapable burden.
But he knows that by tomorrow, that incessant ache will return to haunt him.
War sometimes forgetting that he lacks a lot of his arm when he takes the prosthetic off.
He’s itchy on the left side of his head? He instinctively reaches with his left arm, only to remember that it isn’t there when he tries to scratch, only to realize he’s waving his arm in the air.
Something falls to the ground? He’s racing to catch it only for it to clatter to the ground since he doesn’t have the hands to scoop up the falling object.
Cuddling with you in sleep is harder as his arm cant completely envelop you, instead settling for an awkward half hug. But if you sleep using his left arm as a pillow, at least he won’t get pins and needles when he awakes.
Even after millennium of losing his arm, War occasionally suffers some terrible phantom pain. Especially when overusing his arm. But he pushes past it and keeps that pain as a reminder of his hard learned lesson to keep his rage in check.
But sometimes in the privacy of solitude, War removes the prosthetic limb to ease the discomfort. He takes these brief moments to run his fingers over the scarred flesh and feel the muscles and bone that have scarred over with time. He takes the stump of an arm into his remaining hand and gently massages the pain away, the only thing he can provide himself as respite from the inescapable burden.
But he knows that by tomorrow, that incessant ache will return to haunt him.
Guys, I need to talk about the SIZE DIFFERENCE. Obviously we all know that the Horsemen are big boys and girls. But That is an adult male, probably 5 foot 9 or 10 inches and War could definingly lift him with just one hand. I just love the idea of humans being so easily manhandled by the Horsemen, kinda like a cat to the Four.
I know the photo isn't a perfect comparison but the cop just kept running away from me or shooting at me.
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