have some gory writers block self insert vaguely poetic shit that i just wrote
it's gross and graphic so if you don't like that don't click
this is just idk
what i picture a lot of the time
this is how i see myself sometimes when i;'m being all poetic i guess
The silver daggers fit in her hands as naturally as an extension of herself.
And what a self that was.
Flesh hung in ribbons from her face, though both hazel eyes looked out, bright and flanked with thick lashes.The top half of her face was covered by a mask with a long beak. It was dark black, with silver designs on the sides, on the jaw of the bird. The mask was intact, as intact as her body was destroyed.
In the right light, those pale arms, marred with blood and scarred flesh, appeared to be feathered black wings, stretching towards the sky as if longing for escape.
Bare feet and then flisckering talons flex into the ground. A pendant hangs around what remains of her neck, touching the bare bone that is her sternum, completely exposed to the crisp air.
They approach in a wave, all better equipped than she, all with armour and teeth and claws sharper than her little daggers could ever hope to be, all with flesh intact. She gives a half-revealed grin through her lips and the leftovers of her cheeks.
"Come on then," she says, and though her voice is muffled by her desecrated face, she says it with a clarity that borders on insanity, "show me what you've got."
She glances behind her, towards the ones she protects, and then turns, wielding those thin silver blades with the grace of a dancer, albeit one whose tendons are bared, whose flesh is sliced into ribbons.
They overcome her within moments, and she soars above on crow's wings that are sort of there and sort of not. The mask still sits on her skull. Mostly bones now, she flies back in for a second round.
