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Yes, I know, I've already entered once, but I care not if it isn't accepted, I just felt creative and managed to churn this out. Opinions please.
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There! There he goes. Watch him as he weaves his way between trees, sub-tropical rocks and pools. No, you lost him again. That is the beauty of this man, this creature, this most veiled of assassins. He lives in the reflected shadows of our very own workings, he uses our environment to his content.
On the rare occasion that you notice a dash of purple, the customary colours of this lurker flutter amongst forestry, one moment is all it takes for the ninja-like gymnastics at his disposal to come into effect, concealing his location once more. Rumours whisper that he has been spotted running along the tops of trees at hurtling speeds, before plunging into the unbeknown wilderness that covers the forest floors 100ft below.
A strike of mystery pierces through the otherwise unvoiced woodland; distant pitter-patters can be traced amongst the bedded leaves. Although these calls sound far-flung, the irony is that they ring much closer, but for the guise of a soft touch of ones sole. Energetic and camouflaged he is, but also deadly. A sublime killer, he is.
Yes, in all probability you’re on his list.
With his ill-fated victims, all a cast of the rich and pompous villagers, he leaves a set of tiny golden stars chained to the wrists and neck of his fallen selection. The plague of gashes that remains on the prey suggests beatings. Paper-thin slices of skin remain flaking away from the body, chopped and diced by justice, by hatred, by anger, and by revenge; a blade of sanction.
They say that after a flirt with acrobatic attack, this most cerebral and differentiated of hitmen resorts to a sharply layered cord of golden spikes. Grating the neck of his sufferer, our resident of darkness throttles the throat with firm hands, suffocating them with a sweet pill of opinion. He then, just seconds before the beckon of death’s bony hand, sheds full spotlight to his identity; only these foolish fatalities can know who has foiled them.
After the abundance of conflict has ground to a halt, an aura of satisfaction sweeps the surroundings. If breaking an entrance to commit such a deed was achievable, escaping equally undetected is no mean feat for this persistent killer. Not a day drowns by without speculation brought about by village and forest folk of when he’ll strike next, but some people’s guilty conscious leads them to living in panic. Change is not enough for this man; he’ll strike down anyone and everyone until the village is rid of hate. Ironic, is his form of action.
Ironic also is the fact that every member of this community spontaneously presumes that this sublime assassin is male, without second thought. The reality is quite different.
HE, HE, HE.
I can’t see any man in this village being spared.
The tightly cloaked offering of the shadows’ temperament will soon be fused again. There's still plenty of pitiful fodder making bad use of flesh and organs.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
There! There he goes. Watch him as he weaves his way between trees, sub-tropical rocks and pools. No, you lost him again. That is the beauty of this man, this creature, this most veiled of assassins. He lives in the reflected shadows of our very own workings, he uses our environment to his content.
On the rare occasion that you notice a dash of purple, the customary colours of this lurker flutter amongst forestry, one moment is all it takes for the ninja-like gymnastics at his disposal to come into effect, concealing his location once more. Rumours whisper that he has been spotted running along the tops of trees at hurtling speeds, before plunging into the unbeknown wilderness that covers the forest floors 100ft below.
A strike of mystery pierces through the otherwise unvoiced woodland; distant pitter-patters can be traced amongst the bedded leaves. Although these calls sound far-flung, the irony is that they ring much closer, but for the guise of a soft touch of ones sole. Energetic and camouflaged he is, but also deadly. A sublime killer, he is.
Yes, in all probability you’re on his list.
With his ill-fated victims, all a cast of the rich and pompous villagers, he leaves a set of tiny golden stars chained to the wrists and neck of his fallen selection. The plague of gashes that remains on the prey suggests beatings. Paper-thin slices of skin remain flaking away from the body, chopped and diced by justice, by hatred, by anger, and by revenge; a blade of sanction.
They say that after a flirt with acrobatic attack, this most cerebral and differentiated of hitmen resorts to a sharply layered cord of golden spikes. Grating the neck of his sufferer, our resident of darkness throttles the throat with firm hands, suffocating them with a sweet pill of opinion. He then, just seconds before the beckon of death’s bony hand, sheds full spotlight to his identity; only these foolish fatalities can know who has foiled them.
After the abundance of conflict has ground to a halt, an aura of satisfaction sweeps the surroundings. If breaking an entrance to commit such a deed was achievable, escaping equally undetected is no mean feat for this persistent killer. Not a day drowns by without speculation brought about by village and forest folk of when he’ll strike next, but some people’s guilty conscious leads them to living in panic. Change is not enough for this man; he’ll strike down anyone and everyone until the village is rid of hate. Ironic, is his form of action.
Ironic also is the fact that every member of this community spontaneously presumes that this sublime assassin is male, without second thought. The reality is quite different.
HE, HE, HE.
I can’t see any man in this village being spared.
The tightly cloaked offering of the shadows’ temperament will soon be fused again. There's still plenty of pitiful fodder making bad use of flesh and organs.
Page:
There have been no replies to this thread yet.
Yes, I know, I've already entered once, but I care not if it isn't accepted, I just felt creative and managed to churn this out. Opinions please.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
There! There he goes. Watch him as he weaves his way between trees, sub-tropical rocks and pools. No, you lost him again. That is the beauty of this man, this creature, this most veiled of assassins. He lives in the reflected shadows of our very own workings, he uses our environment to his content.
On the rare occasion that you notice a dash of purple, the customary colours of this lurker flutter amongst forestry, one moment is all it takes for the ninja-like gymnastics at his disposal to come into effect, concealing his location once more. Rumours whisper that he has been spotted running along the tops of trees at hurtling speeds, before plunging into the unbeknown wilderness that covers the forest floors 100ft below.
A strike of mystery pierces through the otherwise unvoiced woodland; distant pitter-patters can be traced amongst the bedded leaves. Although these calls sound far-flung, the irony is that they ring much closer, but for the guise of a soft touch of ones sole. Energetic and camouflaged he is, but also deadly. A sublime killer, he is.
Yes, in all probability you’re on his list.
With his ill-fated victims, all a cast of the rich and pompous villagers, he leaves a set of tiny golden stars chained to the wrists and neck of his fallen selection. The plague of gashes that remains on the prey suggests beatings. Paper-thin slices of skin remain flaking away from the body, chopped and diced by justice, by hatred, by anger, and by revenge; a blade of sanction.
They say that after a flirt with acrobatic attack, this most cerebral and differentiated of hitmen resorts to a sharply layered cord of golden spikes. Grating the neck of his sufferer, our resident of darkness throttles the throat with firm hands, suffocating them with a sweet pill of opinion. He then, just seconds before the beckon of death’s bony hand, sheds full spotlight to his identity; only these foolish fatalities can know who has foiled them.
After the abundance of conflict has ground to a halt, an aura of satisfaction sweeps the surroundings. If breaking an entrance to commit such a deed was achievable, escaping equally undetected is no mean feat for this persistent killer. Not a day drowns by without speculation brought about by village and forest folk of when he’ll strike next, but some people’s guilty conscious leads them to living in panic. Change is not enough for this man; he’ll strike down anyone and everyone until the village is rid of hate. Ironic, is his form of action.
Ironic also is the fact that every member of this community spontaneously presumes that this sublime assassin is male, without second thought. The reality is quite different.
HE, HE, HE.
I can’t see any man in this village being spared.
The tightly cloaked offering of the shadows’ temperament will soon be fused again. There's still plenty of pitiful fodder making bad use of flesh and organs.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
There! There he goes. Watch him as he weaves his way between trees, sub-tropical rocks and pools. No, you lost him again. That is the beauty of this man, this creature, this most veiled of assassins. He lives in the reflected shadows of our very own workings, he uses our environment to his content.
On the rare occasion that you notice a dash of purple, the customary colours of this lurker flutter amongst forestry, one moment is all it takes for the ninja-like gymnastics at his disposal to come into effect, concealing his location once more. Rumours whisper that he has been spotted running along the tops of trees at hurtling speeds, before plunging into the unbeknown wilderness that covers the forest floors 100ft below.
A strike of mystery pierces through the otherwise unvoiced woodland; distant pitter-patters can be traced amongst the bedded leaves. Although these calls sound far-flung, the irony is that they ring much closer, but for the guise of a soft touch of ones sole. Energetic and camouflaged he is, but also deadly. A sublime killer, he is.
Yes, in all probability you’re on his list.
With his ill-fated victims, all a cast of the rich and pompous villagers, he leaves a set of tiny golden stars chained to the wrists and neck of his fallen selection. The plague of gashes that remains on the prey suggests beatings. Paper-thin slices of skin remain flaking away from the body, chopped and diced by justice, by hatred, by anger, and by revenge; a blade of sanction.
They say that after a flirt with acrobatic attack, this most cerebral and differentiated of hitmen resorts to a sharply layered cord of golden spikes. Grating the neck of his sufferer, our resident of darkness throttles the throat with firm hands, suffocating them with a sweet pill of opinion. He then, just seconds before the beckon of death’s bony hand, sheds full spotlight to his identity; only these foolish fatalities can know who has foiled them.
After the abundance of conflict has ground to a halt, an aura of satisfaction sweeps the surroundings. If breaking an entrance to commit such a deed was achievable, escaping equally undetected is no mean feat for this persistent killer. Not a day drowns by without speculation brought about by village and forest folk of when he’ll strike next, but some people’s guilty conscious leads them to living in panic. Change is not enough for this man; he’ll strike down anyone and everyone until the village is rid of hate. Ironic, is his form of action.
Ironic also is the fact that every member of this community spontaneously presumes that this sublime assassin is male, without second thought. The reality is quite different.
HE, HE, HE.
I can’t see any man in this village being spared.
The tightly cloaked offering of the shadows’ temperament will soon be fused again. There's still plenty of pitiful fodder making bad use of flesh and organs.
Page: