- 538
- #2
It hurt, hurt so much that is bypassed pain all together and fell into numbness. That hollow empty feeling in one's soul that bleeds as if something was itching in a clawing way to get out. Lute's dreams despite being an adult would haunt him so still today despite being an adult. Waking with tears this no stranger to loneliness sat up only to given in and just fall back into bed. A wipe at his eyes tears did no avail to the onslaught of waterworks.
'Get up' him mind called out to him, a small voice of reason, perhaps hope. Maybe this was the voice often portrayed as the angel on the shoulder from books and other sources. If so it was faint and desperate and easy to ignore. 'Did this mean the devil side won?' Lute considered a small smirk and laugh despite himself, he needed that.
A deep breath, eyes closed as he composed himself dragging what energy and strength he could from inside. 'Get up!' This time the voice was stronger at least, it was a start, and Lute knew it was right. He needed to get up. Once more Lute would sit up a few sniffles left, stupid past that refused to stop haunting him. He was an adult . . . he shouldn't let this get to him, why was he so weak? Thoughts of conflict and belittle him would beat him up enough until he finally climbed out of bed, but whatever worked was a good thing, right?
What was there to do today? A question that had the look in Lute's glowing eyes cloud some, as if reflecting the hollowness of how his soul filled most days. 'Survive.' Another smirk, which voice would that have count as? The angel or the demon, another crack at himself as he mocked, if he went by how his father went maybe it was one that was like him. Was he an angel or a demon? He knew what he classified as, but . . . he had been marked as being a demon, or nightmare for more correct terms by his own father. Irony.
A shake of his head, he needed to stop dwelling on it for now, he had stuff to scribe, perhaps learn. He had books to read surely . . . there was always another book out there he had yet to discover or adventure thru. There was also the fact he had to get around to building the courage somehow to teach himself how to defend himself.
Defend . . . was that the right word? No . . . to fight back. His mother had tried to 'defend' and although it saved him, it did little to nothing for her. The man . . . his father . . . still lived too. He had allowed Lute to give away perhaps in the mourning over the woman. Who knows, maybe he was dead now in fact, Lute could only hope. But he didn't want to learn to defend no. He wanted to learn how to attack. He would do something, to make sure those who did such extremes could not continue to do so to others.
W: 537
'Get up' him mind called out to him, a small voice of reason, perhaps hope. Maybe this was the voice often portrayed as the angel on the shoulder from books and other sources. If so it was faint and desperate and easy to ignore. 'Did this mean the devil side won?' Lute considered a small smirk and laugh despite himself, he needed that.
A deep breath, eyes closed as he composed himself dragging what energy and strength he could from inside. 'Get up!' This time the voice was stronger at least, it was a start, and Lute knew it was right. He needed to get up. Once more Lute would sit up a few sniffles left, stupid past that refused to stop haunting him. He was an adult . . . he shouldn't let this get to him, why was he so weak? Thoughts of conflict and belittle him would beat him up enough until he finally climbed out of bed, but whatever worked was a good thing, right?
What was there to do today? A question that had the look in Lute's glowing eyes cloud some, as if reflecting the hollowness of how his soul filled most days. 'Survive.' Another smirk, which voice would that have count as? The angel or the demon, another crack at himself as he mocked, if he went by how his father went maybe it was one that was like him. Was he an angel or a demon? He knew what he classified as, but . . . he had been marked as being a demon, or nightmare for more correct terms by his own father. Irony.
A shake of his head, he needed to stop dwelling on it for now, he had stuff to scribe, perhaps learn. He had books to read surely . . . there was always another book out there he had yet to discover or adventure thru. There was also the fact he had to get around to building the courage somehow to teach himself how to defend himself.
Defend . . . was that the right word? No . . . to fight back. His mother had tried to 'defend' and although it saved him, it did little to nothing for her. The man . . . his father . . . still lived too. He had allowed Lute to give away perhaps in the mourning over the woman. Who knows, maybe he was dead now in fact, Lute could only hope. But he didn't want to learn to defend no. He wanted to learn how to attack. He would do something, to make sure those who did such extremes could not continue to do so to others.
W: 537
- 957
- #3
There, that was a feeling that could allow Lute to get some energy. Anger in which clouded the sadness. Those storm clouds that have you look over the rain of depression due to the thunder and lightning type of madness. Funny, how much anger comes from sadness, but that was a subject Lute would decide to look into later. Right now he needed to make sure the anger didn't slip away. He needed to harness it so that he could perhaps finally manage an attack.
A deep breath and he would stand holding his necklace tightly in his hand, he would have to find a place to practice, a place so no one else would know that he would learn such a deadly thing. Lute had researched thru many spells before this point, trying to pinpoint the most effective one and had decided that Weak Magic Missile would be the most appropriate. It had the least chance of hitting anyone it wasn't meant for, much like his father's attacked hit his mother instead of him when he was the target. It had a tracker of sorts, and it was almost impossible not to get hit with it. Holding that determine nature Lute so wanted for a spell well learnt.
The travel took a while, he lived in a city with a large library, and where angels flight could make trips much quicker, he had lost that ability with his wing the day his mother died. So a long walk to get far enough from the city and into the deep woods was needed even if it made him spend the night in the open before making it back to his home as he returned.
He was very picky and when he thought he found the best most solo spot he would start practicing. Trying by yelling the spell's name, pointless of course, he knew this but others had claimed voice helped them cast at times. At least the others who wrote about spell learning did. Focus was the key, and this would take much more time and practice, but he had all the time in the world. The one thing that was holding him back and he didn't realize was . . . the focus he had was on the past and reason to learn the spell more than that spell itself.
A day of frustration and failure passed for the angelic, long into night until he had exhausted himself in the morning passing out into a deep sleep. He dreamth of his mother, her beauty and love, the only love he felt he ever experienced in this world, ever would. For in truth most could be like his father, seem perfect but be a mask.
Despite death his mother or what he remembered of her guided him, lifted his spirits those times he dreamth of her without it ending with a repeat of the past. This was like the many others. They spoke, he shared his goals, his smile bright only in these dreams, and perhaps only showing in real life rarely when he dreamth them. She would give hints and pointers, and he would laugh and tease and be happy.
Like most his dreams thou, the state would grow dark after awhile with red and black smoke. HE would appear, his father, and Lute knew what would come next, the attack, his mother's death. He would be helpless to watch it again tonight like he did most nights. He would plead with this shadow of his past, try to explain, plead with his mother even to allow the man to finish him.
This time thou, something new happened, and thru his tears this time he fought back. His desperate ways and want to save his mother would summon the spell he had failed to cast earlier. And in his dreams it would strike true his father knocking him back and sending him to fade at least in this dream with a crackle. A crackle? Something was off and Lute found himself sitting up only to roll to the side just in time for a tree to fall where he laid.
A pause in realization . . . he had . . . he had truly managed to cast the spell? Fear and then joy filled him and he would find himself laughing and crying at the same time. The sadness and joy a mixture of sweet bitterness. He couldn't cast out of anger, he knew that now. He had to focus, he had to will above else and anger was not where his strength ever would lie. It was not who he was and far from his true self.
More sniffles, he had woke to tears as he often did, but at least the last dream had been fruitful. He would need to practice to be able to cast it with ease. This he would do for the day, happily spending the night again. The dream not of haunting for once, but he knew that didn't mean his nightmare was concurred. He knew that would need a more extreme step, one he wasn't sure he would ever be brave enough to take.
Despite this after spending two nights in the wild Lute finally head home feeling accomplished. He would need to find a book worthy of reading to reward himself. Maybe he would even buy one, something he rarely did when he could borrow them. Money was tight for someone like him, but he deserved it. He had learnt and managed a goal that might keep him safe in the future and that was what mattered. He had managed a slight bit of courage gain with gaining knowledge of a cast.
WC: 954
TWC: 1491
A deep breath and he would stand holding his necklace tightly in his hand, he would have to find a place to practice, a place so no one else would know that he would learn such a deadly thing. Lute had researched thru many spells before this point, trying to pinpoint the most effective one and had decided that Weak Magic Missile would be the most appropriate. It had the least chance of hitting anyone it wasn't meant for, much like his father's attacked hit his mother instead of him when he was the target. It had a tracker of sorts, and it was almost impossible not to get hit with it. Holding that determine nature Lute so wanted for a spell well learnt.
The travel took a while, he lived in a city with a large library, and where angels flight could make trips much quicker, he had lost that ability with his wing the day his mother died. So a long walk to get far enough from the city and into the deep woods was needed even if it made him spend the night in the open before making it back to his home as he returned.
He was very picky and when he thought he found the best most solo spot he would start practicing. Trying by yelling the spell's name, pointless of course, he knew this but others had claimed voice helped them cast at times. At least the others who wrote about spell learning did. Focus was the key, and this would take much more time and practice, but he had all the time in the world. The one thing that was holding him back and he didn't realize was . . . the focus he had was on the past and reason to learn the spell more than that spell itself.
A day of frustration and failure passed for the angelic, long into night until he had exhausted himself in the morning passing out into a deep sleep. He dreamth of his mother, her beauty and love, the only love he felt he ever experienced in this world, ever would. For in truth most could be like his father, seem perfect but be a mask.
Despite death his mother or what he remembered of her guided him, lifted his spirits those times he dreamth of her without it ending with a repeat of the past. This was like the many others. They spoke, he shared his goals, his smile bright only in these dreams, and perhaps only showing in real life rarely when he dreamth them. She would give hints and pointers, and he would laugh and tease and be happy.
Like most his dreams thou, the state would grow dark after awhile with red and black smoke. HE would appear, his father, and Lute knew what would come next, the attack, his mother's death. He would be helpless to watch it again tonight like he did most nights. He would plead with this shadow of his past, try to explain, plead with his mother even to allow the man to finish him.
This time thou, something new happened, and thru his tears this time he fought back. His desperate ways and want to save his mother would summon the spell he had failed to cast earlier. And in his dreams it would strike true his father knocking him back and sending him to fade at least in this dream with a crackle. A crackle? Something was off and Lute found himself sitting up only to roll to the side just in time for a tree to fall where he laid.
A pause in realization . . . he had . . . he had truly managed to cast the spell? Fear and then joy filled him and he would find himself laughing and crying at the same time. The sadness and joy a mixture of sweet bitterness. He couldn't cast out of anger, he knew that now. He had to focus, he had to will above else and anger was not where his strength ever would lie. It was not who he was and far from his true self.
More sniffles, he had woke to tears as he often did, but at least the last dream had been fruitful. He would need to practice to be able to cast it with ease. This he would do for the day, happily spending the night again. The dream not of haunting for once, but he knew that didn't mean his nightmare was concurred. He knew that would need a more extreme step, one he wasn't sure he would ever be brave enough to take.
Despite this after spending two nights in the wild Lute finally head home feeling accomplished. He would need to find a book worthy of reading to reward himself. Maybe he would even buy one, something he rarely did when he could borrow them. Money was tight for someone like him, but he deserved it. He had learnt and managed a goal that might keep him safe in the future and that was what mattered. He had managed a slight bit of courage gain with gaining knowledge of a cast.
WC: 954
TWC: 1491