Post by Kella on Jul 23, 2009 18:10:47 GMT -5
((A friend once challenged me to write a story with as much metaphor as possible. This was the result. Perhaps it's a bit excessive, but ah well. :P ))
She stood tall and humble, like the ancient oaks which line dewy forests. Her hair cascaded, ribbons of silk tossed and spun by the wild breezes. A robe twirled about her and trailed into the sky, a velvet cloud. Two golden stars shone with scintillating beauty, set upon her face, eyes unto the world.
Dove.
She stood tall and proud, like the cliffs which border raging oceans. Upon her head was a crown of twisted thorns, interwoven with ebony tresses that licked the air as wild whips. As the feral wind scathed past her, it cast in black a flowing cloak upon her sharp form. Violet were her eyes, framed by streaks of black coal.
Raven.
The Dove did not move; she stood upon the turtle-back hilltop, a glow all around her like a candle in the darkness. She placed hands together as a prayerful devout, face as an ancient sun-kissed mountain, eyes upon the Raven.
The Raven raised clawed fingers to the sky, clouds of night swirling about her fingertips. Feral beauty danced a pagan chant in her eyes, lip curled in a victorious snarl, like a mountaincat just before the final pounce. A hiss slithered between clenched shark-teeth, pressing into the dark air which welcomed it as a friend. Inky streams of fog began to swirl about the Dove's earth-boil hill, sneaking up its sides and approaching the crown...
Smile fled not from the Dove's tulip-pink lips. It, as the Dove, was unafraid. She slowly curved an arm behind her head, long fingers like saplings' branch closing about an arrow. Its shaft was glittering opalescent, tailed by feathers of the purest snow-white. Head of gold adorned the end, sharp as the double-edged sword. The Dove raised a bow, hewn of a caribou's albino antlers and strung by a spring lullaby. Her feet moved with slow, gentle grace like the lilting soar of a songbird as she took her stance. The Dove raised her bow and strung the arrow, comet of light flicking across its length. Back the bow drew, anticipation tinkling in its taught string like a hound leaping at the leash. It took only the smallest of movements for the Dove to release the arrow. Free, it flew, just as a homing pigeon, striking a course for the Raven's stone heart.
The Raven's sneer remained, mauve eyes flashing blood-crimson as she laughed, a laugh like talons on slate; a raven's death-caw. The raven snapped her claws together, thrusting forth a mushroom-bellow of darkness. The arrow landed in the center of the 'shroom, bursting into a shower of light refracted to every color as it curled around the black umbrella bell.
Unphased and unshakable as a mountain, the Dove reached for another arrow, hand steady like a yew bough as she strung it upon the moonbeam bow.
Before she could let fly the arrow, the Raven screetched another death-caw. Darkness began to flow forth from her feet, a poisoned well-spring. She spread her arms wide, cloak flying out like broad black wings. No color escaped the inky depths; they absorbed every shade, every rainbow of emotion, every sunbeam of compassion. The Raven let loose another death-caw; it burst from the very depths of her vile busom. With a sudden arching like the falling of a guillotine, the Raven shot up into the sky, poisioned spring still gushing darkness behind.
The Dove watched sharp as an owl, tracing the Raven with her gold-star eyes. She moved the bow with a smooth arc upward, just as the rising sun. Then, again, at a moment as precisely correct as the unveiling of the hidden moon, she let her arrow fly. This one flew just as straight as the last, coursing toward the Raven.
In a flash of speed surpassing the strike of a viper, the Raven flicked her head to the side and caught the arrow between black teeth, crushing the shimmering shaft with a single tensing of her cold-iron jaws. An arrogant sneer curled upon her visage. The Raven began to circle, as a vulture would over carrion. She swirled around and around, casting black melancholy over the sky.
Soon, the only light which remained was that surrounding the Dove; an orb of hope. The dove spread her arms wide; welcoming fate. Her cloak swung upward, feathering into wide white wings; the wings of freedom. Her motion sent bulges rippling in the darkness's gapless cage, but the roiling clouds of hate did not subside.
The Raven dropped from the clouds, like an apple falls from a tree once its flesh is ripe. A swirl of inky fog pressed out from her taloned feet as she landed, but it shrunk and whithered like a snail under salt, shy of the light. The Raven, however, was unperterbed. She took a step toward the dove, and then another, black robe swirling and crashing about like the stormy ocean as her eyes blazed with lightning flashes of hate.
The Dove was as calm as a summer morn. She made no move as the Raven
She stood tall and humble, like the ancient oaks which line dewy forests. Her hair cascaded, ribbons of silk tossed and spun by the wild breezes. A robe twirled about her and trailed into the sky, a velvet cloud. Two golden stars shone with scintillating beauty, set upon her face, eyes unto the world.
Dove.
She stood tall and proud, like the cliffs which border raging oceans. Upon her head was a crown of twisted thorns, interwoven with ebony tresses that licked the air as wild whips. As the feral wind scathed past her, it cast in black a flowing cloak upon her sharp form. Violet were her eyes, framed by streaks of black coal.
Raven.
The Dove did not move; she stood upon the turtle-back hilltop, a glow all around her like a candle in the darkness. She placed hands together as a prayerful devout, face as an ancient sun-kissed mountain, eyes upon the Raven.
The Raven raised clawed fingers to the sky, clouds of night swirling about her fingertips. Feral beauty danced a pagan chant in her eyes, lip curled in a victorious snarl, like a mountaincat just before the final pounce. A hiss slithered between clenched shark-teeth, pressing into the dark air which welcomed it as a friend. Inky streams of fog began to swirl about the Dove's earth-boil hill, sneaking up its sides and approaching the crown...
Smile fled not from the Dove's tulip-pink lips. It, as the Dove, was unafraid. She slowly curved an arm behind her head, long fingers like saplings' branch closing about an arrow. Its shaft was glittering opalescent, tailed by feathers of the purest snow-white. Head of gold adorned the end, sharp as the double-edged sword. The Dove raised a bow, hewn of a caribou's albino antlers and strung by a spring lullaby. Her feet moved with slow, gentle grace like the lilting soar of a songbird as she took her stance. The Dove raised her bow and strung the arrow, comet of light flicking across its length. Back the bow drew, anticipation tinkling in its taught string like a hound leaping at the leash. It took only the smallest of movements for the Dove to release the arrow. Free, it flew, just as a homing pigeon, striking a course for the Raven's stone heart.
The Raven's sneer remained, mauve eyes flashing blood-crimson as she laughed, a laugh like talons on slate; a raven's death-caw. The raven snapped her claws together, thrusting forth a mushroom-bellow of darkness. The arrow landed in the center of the 'shroom, bursting into a shower of light refracted to every color as it curled around the black umbrella bell.
Unphased and unshakable as a mountain, the Dove reached for another arrow, hand steady like a yew bough as she strung it upon the moonbeam bow.
Before she could let fly the arrow, the Raven screetched another death-caw. Darkness began to flow forth from her feet, a poisoned well-spring. She spread her arms wide, cloak flying out like broad black wings. No color escaped the inky depths; they absorbed every shade, every rainbow of emotion, every sunbeam of compassion. The Raven let loose another death-caw; it burst from the very depths of her vile busom. With a sudden arching like the falling of a guillotine, the Raven shot up into the sky, poisioned spring still gushing darkness behind.
The Dove watched sharp as an owl, tracing the Raven with her gold-star eyes. She moved the bow with a smooth arc upward, just as the rising sun. Then, again, at a moment as precisely correct as the unveiling of the hidden moon, she let her arrow fly. This one flew just as straight as the last, coursing toward the Raven.
In a flash of speed surpassing the strike of a viper, the Raven flicked her head to the side and caught the arrow between black teeth, crushing the shimmering shaft with a single tensing of her cold-iron jaws. An arrogant sneer curled upon her visage. The Raven began to circle, as a vulture would over carrion. She swirled around and around, casting black melancholy over the sky.
Soon, the only light which remained was that surrounding the Dove; an orb of hope. The dove spread her arms wide; welcoming fate. Her cloak swung upward, feathering into wide white wings; the wings of freedom. Her motion sent bulges rippling in the darkness's gapless cage, but the roiling clouds of hate did not subside.
The Raven dropped from the clouds, like an apple falls from a tree once its flesh is ripe. A swirl of inky fog pressed out from her taloned feet as she landed, but it shrunk and whithered like a snail under salt, shy of the light. The Raven, however, was unperterbed. She took a step toward the dove, and then another, black robe swirling and crashing about like the stormy ocean as her eyes blazed with lightning flashes of hate.
The Dove was as calm as a summer morn. She made no move as the Raven approached, save re-shouldering her bow. Her rose-petal lips gently curved into a smile, and her gold-star eyes were tempered with peace.
The Raven loathed that peace, and hate hissed from her mouth. Her taloned feet touched the ground once, twice, thrice more. And then she was mere inches from the Dove.
The Dove smiled.
The Raven sneered. She reached out her hand, talons extended like pikes before an army-front. Her talons curled by the Dove's face, avoiding actual contact like a lion skirts the water, surveying its prey.
The viper struck. The Raven's claws came down, gouging at the gently curved busom of the Dove.
Whether the attack struck its intended target was impossible to say. For the very moment the Raven touched the Dove, the darkness caved in upon them both, and naught could be seen; the darkness clung like tar to everthing. A scream of pure and utter agony rent from the darkness, piercing all with it's blood-boiling cry of utter despair.
But it was not over.
Just as suddenly as the light had collapsed, it burst outward again, a great pulse of white, celestial fireworks that bleached the darkness and blinded all.
Slowly, the light receeded in its brilliance, once again allowing sight unto the mortals.
She stood tall and humble, like the ancient oaks which line dewy forests. There was nary a shadow in sight.
And this is what I see, every morning upon the Maple in the field. The Raven and the Dove. approached, save re-shouldering her bow. Her rose-petal lips gently curved into a smile, and her gold-star eyes were tempered with peace.
The Raven loathed that peace, and hate hissed from her mouth. Her taloned feet touched the ground once, twice, thrice more. And then she was mere inches from the Dove.
The Dove smiled.
The Raven sneered. She reached out her hand, talons extended like pikes before an army-front. Her talons curled by the Dove's face, avoiding actual contact like a lion skirts the water, surveying its prey.
The viper struck. The Raven's claws came down, gouging at the gently curved busom of the Dove.
Whether the attack struck its intended target was impossible to say. For the very moment the Raven touched the Dove, the darkness caved in upon them both, and naught could be seen; the darkness clung like tar to everthing. A scream of pure and utter agony rent from the darkness, piercing all with it's blood-boiling cry of utter despair.
But it was not over.
Just as suddenly as the light had collapsed, it burst outward again, a great pulse of white, celestial fireworks that bleached the darkness and blinded all.
Slowly, the light receeded in its brilliance, once again allowing sight unto the mortals.
She stood tall and humble, like the ancient oaks which line dewy forests. There was nary a shadow in sight.
And this is what I see, every morning upon the Maple in the field. The Raven and the Dove.
She stood tall and humble, like the ancient oaks which line dewy forests. Her hair cascaded, ribbons of silk tossed and spun by the wild breezes. A robe twirled about her and trailed into the sky, a velvet cloud. Two golden stars shone with scintillating beauty, set upon her face, eyes unto the world.
Dove.
She stood tall and proud, like the cliffs which border raging oceans. Upon her head was a crown of twisted thorns, interwoven with ebony tresses that licked the air as wild whips. As the feral wind scathed past her, it cast in black a flowing cloak upon her sharp form. Violet were her eyes, framed by streaks of black coal.
Raven.
The Dove did not move; she stood upon the turtle-back hilltop, a glow all around her like a candle in the darkness. She placed hands together as a prayerful devout, face as an ancient sun-kissed mountain, eyes upon the Raven.
The Raven raised clawed fingers to the sky, clouds of night swirling about her fingertips. Feral beauty danced a pagan chant in her eyes, lip curled in a victorious snarl, like a mountaincat just before the final pounce. A hiss slithered between clenched shark-teeth, pressing into the dark air which welcomed it as a friend. Inky streams of fog began to swirl about the Dove's earth-boil hill, sneaking up its sides and approaching the crown...
Smile fled not from the Dove's tulip-pink lips. It, as the Dove, was unafraid. She slowly curved an arm behind her head, long fingers like saplings' branch closing about an arrow. Its shaft was glittering opalescent, tailed by feathers of the purest snow-white. Head of gold adorned the end, sharp as the double-edged sword. The Dove raised a bow, hewn of a caribou's albino antlers and strung by a spring lullaby. Her feet moved with slow, gentle grace like the lilting soar of a songbird as she took her stance. The Dove raised her bow and strung the arrow, comet of light flicking across its length. Back the bow drew, anticipation tinkling in its taught string like a hound leaping at the leash. It took only the smallest of movements for the Dove to release the arrow. Free, it flew, just as a homing pigeon, striking a course for the Raven's stone heart.
The Raven's sneer remained, mauve eyes flashing blood-crimson as she laughed, a laugh like talons on slate; a raven's death-caw. The raven snapped her claws together, thrusting forth a mushroom-bellow of darkness. The arrow landed in the center of the 'shroom, bursting into a shower of light refracted to every color as it curled around the black umbrella bell.
Unphased and unshakable as a mountain, the Dove reached for another arrow, hand steady like a yew bough as she strung it upon the moonbeam bow.
Before she could let fly the arrow, the Raven screetched another death-caw. Darkness began to flow forth from her feet, a poisoned well-spring. She spread her arms wide, cloak flying out like broad black wings. No color escaped the inky depths; they absorbed every shade, every rainbow of emotion, every sunbeam of compassion. The Raven let loose another death-caw; it burst from the very depths of her vile busom. With a sudden arching like the falling of a guillotine, the Raven shot up into the sky, poisioned spring still gushing darkness behind.
The Dove watched sharp as an owl, tracing the Raven with her gold-star eyes. She moved the bow with a smooth arc upward, just as the rising sun. Then, again, at a moment as precisely correct as the unveiling of the hidden moon, she let her arrow fly. This one flew just as straight as the last, coursing toward the Raven.
In a flash of speed surpassing the strike of a viper, the Raven flicked her head to the side and caught the arrow between black teeth, crushing the shimmering shaft with a single tensing of her cold-iron jaws. An arrogant sneer curled upon her visage. The Raven began to circle, as a vulture would over carrion. She swirled around and around, casting black melancholy over the sky.
Soon, the only light which remained was that surrounding the Dove; an orb of hope. The dove spread her arms wide; welcoming fate. Her cloak swung upward, feathering into wide white wings; the wings of freedom. Her motion sent bulges rippling in the darkness's gapless cage, but the roiling clouds of hate did not subside.
The Raven dropped from the clouds, like an apple falls from a tree once its flesh is ripe. A swirl of inky fog pressed out from her taloned feet as she landed, but it shrunk and whithered like a snail under salt, shy of the light. The Raven, however, was unperterbed. She took a step toward the dove, and then another, black robe swirling and crashing about like the stormy ocean as her eyes blazed with lightning flashes of hate.
The Dove was as calm as a summer morn. She made no move as the Raven
She stood tall and humble, like the ancient oaks which line dewy forests. Her hair cascaded, ribbons of silk tossed and spun by the wild breezes. A robe twirled about her and trailed into the sky, a velvet cloud. Two golden stars shone with scintillating beauty, set upon her face, eyes unto the world.
Dove.
She stood tall and proud, like the cliffs which border raging oceans. Upon her head was a crown of twisted thorns, interwoven with ebony tresses that licked the air as wild whips. As the feral wind scathed past her, it cast in black a flowing cloak upon her sharp form. Violet were her eyes, framed by streaks of black coal.
Raven.
The Dove did not move; she stood upon the turtle-back hilltop, a glow all around her like a candle in the darkness. She placed hands together as a prayerful devout, face as an ancient sun-kissed mountain, eyes upon the Raven.
The Raven raised clawed fingers to the sky, clouds of night swirling about her fingertips. Feral beauty danced a pagan chant in her eyes, lip curled in a victorious snarl, like a mountaincat just before the final pounce. A hiss slithered between clenched shark-teeth, pressing into the dark air which welcomed it as a friend. Inky streams of fog began to swirl about the Dove's earth-boil hill, sneaking up its sides and approaching the crown...
Smile fled not from the Dove's tulip-pink lips. It, as the Dove, was unafraid. She slowly curved an arm behind her head, long fingers like saplings' branch closing about an arrow. Its shaft was glittering opalescent, tailed by feathers of the purest snow-white. Head of gold adorned the end, sharp as the double-edged sword. The Dove raised a bow, hewn of a caribou's albino antlers and strung by a spring lullaby. Her feet moved with slow, gentle grace like the lilting soar of a songbird as she took her stance. The Dove raised her bow and strung the arrow, comet of light flicking across its length. Back the bow drew, anticipation tinkling in its taught string like a hound leaping at the leash. It took only the smallest of movements for the Dove to release the arrow. Free, it flew, just as a homing pigeon, striking a course for the Raven's stone heart.
The Raven's sneer remained, mauve eyes flashing blood-crimson as she laughed, a laugh like talons on slate; a raven's death-caw. The raven snapped her claws together, thrusting forth a mushroom-bellow of darkness. The arrow landed in the center of the 'shroom, bursting into a shower of light refracted to every color as it curled around the black umbrella bell.
Unphased and unshakable as a mountain, the Dove reached for another arrow, hand steady like a yew bough as she strung it upon the moonbeam bow.
Before she could let fly the arrow, the Raven screetched another death-caw. Darkness began to flow forth from her feet, a poisoned well-spring. She spread her arms wide, cloak flying out like broad black wings. No color escaped the inky depths; they absorbed every shade, every rainbow of emotion, every sunbeam of compassion. The Raven let loose another death-caw; it burst from the very depths of her vile busom. With a sudden arching like the falling of a guillotine, the Raven shot up into the sky, poisioned spring still gushing darkness behind.
The Dove watched sharp as an owl, tracing the Raven with her gold-star eyes. She moved the bow with a smooth arc upward, just as the rising sun. Then, again, at a moment as precisely correct as the unveiling of the hidden moon, she let her arrow fly. This one flew just as straight as the last, coursing toward the Raven.
In a flash of speed surpassing the strike of a viper, the Raven flicked her head to the side and caught the arrow between black teeth, crushing the shimmering shaft with a single tensing of her cold-iron jaws. An arrogant sneer curled upon her visage. The Raven began to circle, as a vulture would over carrion. She swirled around and around, casting black melancholy over the sky.
Soon, the only light which remained was that surrounding the Dove; an orb of hope. The dove spread her arms wide; welcoming fate. Her cloak swung upward, feathering into wide white wings; the wings of freedom. Her motion sent bulges rippling in the darkness's gapless cage, but the roiling clouds of hate did not subside.
The Raven dropped from the clouds, like an apple falls from a tree once its flesh is ripe. A swirl of inky fog pressed out from her taloned feet as she landed, but it shrunk and whithered like a snail under salt, shy of the light. The Raven, however, was unperterbed. She took a step toward the dove, and then another, black robe swirling and crashing about like the stormy ocean as her eyes blazed with lightning flashes of hate.
The Dove was as calm as a summer morn. She made no move as the Raven approached, save re-shouldering her bow. Her rose-petal lips gently curved into a smile, and her gold-star eyes were tempered with peace.
The Raven loathed that peace, and hate hissed from her mouth. Her taloned feet touched the ground once, twice, thrice more. And then she was mere inches from the Dove.
The Dove smiled.
The Raven sneered. She reached out her hand, talons extended like pikes before an army-front. Her talons curled by the Dove's face, avoiding actual contact like a lion skirts the water, surveying its prey.
The viper struck. The Raven's claws came down, gouging at the gently curved busom of the Dove.
Whether the attack struck its intended target was impossible to say. For the very moment the Raven touched the Dove, the darkness caved in upon them both, and naught could be seen; the darkness clung like tar to everthing. A scream of pure and utter agony rent from the darkness, piercing all with it's blood-boiling cry of utter despair.
But it was not over.
Just as suddenly as the light had collapsed, it burst outward again, a great pulse of white, celestial fireworks that bleached the darkness and blinded all.
Slowly, the light receeded in its brilliance, once again allowing sight unto the mortals.
She stood tall and humble, like the ancient oaks which line dewy forests. There was nary a shadow in sight.
And this is what I see, every morning upon the Maple in the field. The Raven and the Dove. approached, save re-shouldering her bow. Her rose-petal lips gently curved into a smile, and her gold-star eyes were tempered with peace.
The Raven loathed that peace, and hate hissed from her mouth. Her taloned feet touched the ground once, twice, thrice more. And then she was mere inches from the Dove.
The Dove smiled.
The Raven sneered. She reached out her hand, talons extended like pikes before an army-front. Her talons curled by the Dove's face, avoiding actual contact like a lion skirts the water, surveying its prey.
The viper struck. The Raven's claws came down, gouging at the gently curved busom of the Dove.
Whether the attack struck its intended target was impossible to say. For the very moment the Raven touched the Dove, the darkness caved in upon them both, and naught could be seen; the darkness clung like tar to everthing. A scream of pure and utter agony rent from the darkness, piercing all with it's blood-boiling cry of utter despair.
But it was not over.
Just as suddenly as the light had collapsed, it burst outward again, a great pulse of white, celestial fireworks that bleached the darkness and blinded all.
Slowly, the light receeded in its brilliance, once again allowing sight unto the mortals.
She stood tall and humble, like the ancient oaks which line dewy forests. There was nary a shadow in sight.
And this is what I see, every morning upon the Maple in the field. The Raven and the Dove.