Whiskey & Blood
[[ Hamin’s Open starter - Click here ]]
@haminalerion The ruins themselves appeared to care little for the elven figure slumped along the wall. Broken stone that once, perhaps, reached like starving, beautiful fingers to pierce the sky lay crumbled along the stone floor. Gnarled roots snaked hungering through the spaces where sky had broken through, illuminating patches of darkness as a lantern to the hopeless. Somewhere, water dripped, dainty and tinkling light: against rock that had not seen footsteps--or blood--for a very long time. Dust motes giggled carelessly in the air, creating whorls and patterns the exhausted audience hunkering over his wound possibly did not care a wit about. On the ground are tear drops. Splatters of life in vivid black (where the light of strange torches, green or actual fire burned) or red; glistening, was a trail any fool or dwarven fool may follow. A hissed curse in the language of the dalish ricocheted across unending dead ends as well as tunnels cloaked in velveteen black that held it’s ancient secrets tight. There’s a voice in that darkness. It registers a lower alto that husks, it is both soothing in addition to perhaps, unsettling, as if someone poured honey into a perfectly good, aged whiskey. “Tha’ looks like it hurts,” softly. Because of the strangeness of these ancient builds, where half were collapsed and half upright--her voice bounced insidious across flat surfaces, making it as yet difficult to pinpoint.