With an outraged shriek, the mother flung herself upon the damp floor, near her son’s body, trying, in some primal way, to quell the seizing boy, and somehow staunch the blood flow.
Spell after spell, and prayer after prayer yet, still, the purple sparks of magic, the golden radiance of the prayers dancing throughout the boy’s body did not stop litre after litre of blood from flowing out, and into the dank floor.
Following the failure of each endeavor – and sewn sporadically within – Laurana let loose, in the most basic and barbaric means of coping with forces above us, and relished a howlish moan, shrill and sharp, a dagger piercing the portraited night, reaching every corner of the field.
As her holisms failed, Leir’s corpse developed Rigor Mortis, and realization that these wails were not of some inebriated exclamation, or rather, that indeed they were the inebriated exclamations of grief, the different contestants each stumbled through the field, towards the cottage, and the begrieved mother whence the wails came.
As the different intervals of participants arrived, and were, too, horrified by the grotesque corpse which lay on the cracked floor, some of the empathizers were bold and caring enough to attempt to console the somber mother.
Others, those who either could or would not be of consolation to the grieving mother, stepped out into the eerie night, visiting the crows, whose songs still echoed in each person’s mind. Some tried to continue their hunts, either in arrogance or in an attempt to clear the mind of such horrid images. These people, regardless of their intentions, found that the grotesque and nightmarish images would not give rest, and all eventually meandered back over to the secluded cottage.
26-Apr-2008 02:47:48
