Post by Gracie Danes on Aug 28, 2009 1:58:23 GMT
out of {bloody} character;;
this is from a short story
i had to write for english.
it's really crap
and it doesn't make a whole
lot of sense, but it was all
i could find and i'm too lazy to
type up something new.
enjoy~! ; D
A soft beam of moonlight broke its way through the trees. The light of the white orb emblazoned the silhouette of a strange figure among the underbrush, atop a sturdy bay stallion. The figure was rather slight and its face was hidden by the hood of the thick cloak it wore, diminishing any hope of registering it man or woman. On the stranger’s back were two items: a supple, wooden bow and a quiver full of arrows tipped with the greenest of feathers. The hue of these feathers matched that of the figure’s cloak. A pair of feet stuck out from under the cloak clad in brown leather boots, the only uncovered portion of this strange creature.
Horse and rider trotted the dirt path weaving its way through the ancient trees of the wood. It was a treacherous path, guarded heavily by wolves, greedy for more than their share of living flesh. Few traveled this path, save runaways, thieves, and forbidden lovers. Those who did were never seen again.
It was with these risks in mind that beast and master ventured on this rarely-trodden avenue in the dead of such an autumn night. Through brisk was the stallion’s trot and light his step, there was an air of caution in its manner, as well as tension in the stranger’s. At every crack of a branch and rustle of a leaf, the figure’s gloved hand jerked to the bow and quiver that hung from its back.
One particularly loud rustle of the undergrowth lining the road caused the figure to urge its mount into a feverish canter, bordering on a panic-stricken gallop. With a quick glance to the territory behind it, the stranger confirmed its worst fear: they were being followed.
Throwing caution to the wind, the stranger goaded its stallion into a mad gallop. The horse, in turn went into a wild frenzy as the beast heard the pounding feet of pursuit. At this acceleration, the hood of the rider’s cloak flew off its head, revealing the most unexpected features.
The face of a young woman peeked out from the cloak, topped in wavy locks of a russet color. Her face was rather pretty, with a petite nose, thin lips, and arched eyebrows. There was a hint of haunting fear in her deep emerald eyes; but her aura of determination overrode all else. This was the girl called simply the Messenger.
With another turn of her head, she spotted the first hint of something in the distance. Their pursuers were gaining. As they drew nearer, the youth was able to see her hunters for the first time.
There were four of them. Each rode a horse of a different hue and carried a strange instrument in their hands. Fear gripped the Messenger as she looked over each horseman in turn.
The first horse was brilliantly and wholly white in color, blinding if one looked at it for too long. Even its eyes were white, blending in with its coat and making it hard to decipher one from the other. The man straddling this beast carried a longbow, and wore a colorless toga. On his fair head was a shining, golden crown. This was Strife.
The second had a horse of a bright scarlet color, which reminded one of warm blood soaking from a fresh wound. This horse’s rider carried a large, iron scimitar, thick at the blade, and sharp enough to cut through a grown man’s leg with no trouble. He wore little more than a burgundy cloth fastened around his waist and a broad belt of solid bronze. Hair of a reddish hue hung, long and tangled from his head, falling on his heavily muscled shoulders. This was War.
The third man was slim and short, his skin hanging, sallow from his face and arms. Gaunt were his eyes and pinched his expression. Thin wisps of greasy, jet black hair hung around his protruding ears. His bony hands were clasped almost lovingly around a small, silver scale. Draped around his slight figure was an assortment of tattered rags. He rode astride a creature of pitch black, with eyes of red: a beast of skin and bone. This was Famine.
The fourth and last horse and rider were the strangest of them all. The brute was lean and covered in a transparent pelt of a sickly pale green, underneath of which, one could see the animal’s bones. Riding atop this odd being was a shrouded skeleton, clutching a reaper. The bones with which this skeleton was formed were rotting and covered in a dripping green substance that smelled of putrid decay and mold. This was Death.
The Four Horsemen stood in a line, their horses snorting, each looking at the Messenger in a different manner. Strife had a sort of sick, loving glint in his eye, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. War glared openly with the brute hatred of a thousand generations of fierce warriors. Famine stared with pale, haunting eyes, so that she wasn’t even sure if he was looking at her as much as looking through her. Death, however, did not have any eyes, but the Messenger knew he was looking at her in his own disturbing way.
Her mount became restless and frightened. It reared, twisting away from the horsemen and beginning its untamed race away from them, towards the other side of the wood, and safety. The Messenger could hear the hurried footsteps of the horsemen behind her. Intensifying her attempts, she pressed her body to her mount’s spine, pushing him to hasten.
“C’mon,” she muttered in its ear, hoping her horse would hear the desperation in her voice and hurry itself along. But her hope was narrow. She could tell the stallion was on his last leg. His ragged breath and heaving sides told her that. With a final shudder, he pushed himself towards the rapidly intensifying moonlight which could be seen just ahead. The Messenger wasn’t sure what exactly would save her at the edge of the woods, only that she would be saved.
An arrow whizzed by her head, just grazing her left ear. Her breath caught in her throat at the stinging sensation, feeling a bit nauseous as a trickle of sticky, warm blood fell onto her shoulder. Another arrow missed her shoulder by hardly a hair’s breadth. Yet another caught her in the forearm.
Clenching her jaw to keep herself from crying out, the Messenger let go of her mount’s reins for a moment, ripping the arrow out of her arm and releasing a fresh bout of warm, scarlet blood. She tossed the arrow aside, pressing her forearm and slapping her horse on. The light was becoming clearer. They were almost there.