Impurities and Imperfections [Banksy/Private]

banksy is a wolf on oiled, resilient, striding legs; taloned toes clawing damp earth, leaving fatal footprints. flaunts the secretive smirk of all predators and the watchmaker’s delicate set of white daggers. a machine. not entirely composed and perfected, gaping and shackled to the ground, waiting for the opportunity to be completed and concluded (and oh, what kind of monster would he be then?). frighteningly beautiful was this thing; each tooth bared was long and dangerous in its own right – together spelling death in a neat row of glistening snow-white, curling its leathery lips; with his eyes…black pupils like fierce forks of lighting…empty of all expression save hunger.

he moves like clockwork mechanics, tail ticking back and forth with the ends flapping out like wings. the feeling of flying is almost forgotten; the freedom, the flutter in his stomach, the way the wind tossed his fur around until it attacked the very air around him. his limbs were a fury and his maneuvering beyond chaotic, foiling and toiling in rapid, rebellious, bold extremes like an impatient archer, quick to loose an arrow on the guild’s roots. they’ve aged for quite some time now, deciding to grow old together on the training grounds alongside a baby tree trunk.

banksy launched over the purple elfin (over patches of forlorn, isolated snow, past open caverns and intriguing enemies longing to put a hole in his achilles’ heel) but didn’t seem to notice. some wolves grew fat on war, chased after girls but banksy? his feet would just move.

would he be remembered at all – for actions, for guidance, or for destruction? would he be kindled in a fair light, held aloft, a figure to resemble glory or disaster? or would he simply be turned into dust, a blue curl of the ocean waves, foreshadowed to fall, ignorant and unaware of how far he could’ve gone? no, he whispered back to himself, deep into the throngs of his impious heart.

everything was timed right, from his head-start across the yard to his effortless landing. banksy is hot to trot, paws begging for another jump.

[attr="class","vnname"]Riley G.

[attr="class","vncredticks"]»

[attr="class","vnnotes"]...the nerve of this guy!

his eyes were scattered shields and swords.

he wouldn’t be heard, even if he called for them at the top of his lungs, even if he reached for them beyond the stars. the awakening, the brutality, was a harsh, unwinding reality; so he didn’t bother chasing after the wind, after the clouds, after the constellations bearing his friends’ images, memories, and distinctions. he could repeat their names, word for word, in loud, roaring depths, in quiet, unsung croons, and the same decibels would echo, would resonate back to him – nothingness. they were gone, and no matter how much he ran on the bloodied path where their final steps lay, they weren’t coming back.

maybe that is why banksy stares at the sableye, realizes he’s staring, tells himself to stop staring, and then would keep staring as he neared him again.

the ghosted cavalry with a bad habit of hopping over the living and luring them to their respective reapers. continuing to cast silhouettes of a draconic tailpiece, a white ribbon tossed into the air that won’t be satisfied until choked around its pound of flesh...young enough then that the idea of going to war was romantic.

[attr="class","vnname"]Riley G.

[attr="class","vncredticks"]»

[attr="class","vnnotes"]...