03-20-2020, 03:40 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-20-2020, 03:41 AM by The Black Parade.)
Let me tell you the story about Bizwaold, the man who was eccentric to society.
Deep between valleys of sky scraping mountains, and a snowstorm so cold- so huge... nothing can survive, as if Death himself was watching. That is, one thing was surviving, but not for long. Bizwaold, a banished man from his village, where he was seen as a hero, but why? The man of good stature with the townies and the mayor, but why? Who had no bounds of trust worthiness, but why? No one questioned, no one cared frankly, he was a deity, but one day and one terrible night, they disliked him, they saw something they have never seen... a monster? Maybe, an outcast? Outcast for what? A deceiver? To deceive who? They pecked at Bizwaold with pitchforks, screamed at the top of their lungs like a banshee who as well seen a disgrace. Finally, Bizwaold ran from the angry crowd, through the snow and into the forest. Lightning strikes... storm brewing. Sweat drips from Bizwaold forehead, emotions swirling inside his brain, confusion, anger, anguish, agony... no peace, no mind. He loved the village, he loved the folks, but something has changed, something's wrong. *How can he change them back?* he thought to himself, tripping over the white snow. *What did I do so wrong?* the question whorls in his head. *Maybe it wasn't me?* he gasp for air, running for God knows how long. Bizwaold turns back, the lighting of the village is no longer visible. He is alone- alone- alone. He walks for miles, hours pass by, the snowflakes thicken, the visibility shrinks. Bizwaold looks around and realizes there is no natural shelter, no trees, no caves, just huge mountains and the heavy snow. His body stiffens, his shivering panics, he is cold, becoming dead inside. Something is watching Bizwaold, but it was no beast waiting for a strike against the weak. His husk of a body pushes forward, every step felt like shattering brittle bones. He can no longer feel his fingers, his toes, himself. so tired, so cold, he collapses onto the snow as snowflakes fleet onto him. he curls up as hypothermia engulfs him. His limbs cold and his chest sweating, as the heart makes the final stride to keep him from breathing his final breath. just before he freezes away, black figures approached him. They reach their hands out, hoping Bizwaold will grab one. Having the strength to reach for a hand decides not to, he rather die instead. The figures put down their arms, they realized he is too far from helping. They fade away. Bizwaold life is quickly fading away. All of a sudden he gets a rush of memories. He watches himself argue with the townies. He watches himself bash his head against the authorities. He watches himself spits behind everyone's back. He watches himself beg for more time. There was no time to begin with, he had stayed for far too long and now he must go. Before his final breath another figure stood in front of him, but this time it was himself. His own eyes, hollow, he opened his mouth, oil spewed out. His arms full of scars shed skin. He looked back at his arms, his skin shed, he opened his mouth and coughed up darkness, his eyes evaporate, and his final breath is released.
Deep between valleys of sky scraping mountains, and a snowstorm so cold- so huge... nothing can survive, as if Death himself was watching. That is, one thing was surviving, but not for long. Bizwaold, a banished man from his village, where he was seen as a hero, but why? The man of good stature with the townies and the mayor, but why? Who had no bounds of trust worthiness, but why? No one questioned, no one cared frankly, he was a deity, but one day and one terrible night, they disliked him, they saw something they have never seen... a monster? Maybe, an outcast? Outcast for what? A deceiver? To deceive who? They pecked at Bizwaold with pitchforks, screamed at the top of their lungs like a banshee who as well seen a disgrace. Finally, Bizwaold ran from the angry crowd, through the snow and into the forest. Lightning strikes... storm brewing. Sweat drips from Bizwaold forehead, emotions swirling inside his brain, confusion, anger, anguish, agony... no peace, no mind. He loved the village, he loved the folks, but something has changed, something's wrong. *How can he change them back?* he thought to himself, tripping over the white snow. *What did I do so wrong?* the question whorls in his head. *Maybe it wasn't me?* he gasp for air, running for God knows how long. Bizwaold turns back, the lighting of the village is no longer visible. He is alone- alone- alone. He walks for miles, hours pass by, the snowflakes thicken, the visibility shrinks. Bizwaold looks around and realizes there is no natural shelter, no trees, no caves, just huge mountains and the heavy snow. His body stiffens, his shivering panics, he is cold, becoming dead inside. Something is watching Bizwaold, but it was no beast waiting for a strike against the weak. His husk of a body pushes forward, every step felt like shattering brittle bones. He can no longer feel his fingers, his toes, himself. so tired, so cold, he collapses onto the snow as snowflakes fleet onto him. he curls up as hypothermia engulfs him. His limbs cold and his chest sweating, as the heart makes the final stride to keep him from breathing his final breath. just before he freezes away, black figures approached him. They reach their hands out, hoping Bizwaold will grab one. Having the strength to reach for a hand decides not to, he rather die instead. The figures put down their arms, they realized he is too far from helping. They fade away. Bizwaold life is quickly fading away. All of a sudden he gets a rush of memories. He watches himself argue with the townies. He watches himself bash his head against the authorities. He watches himself spits behind everyone's back. He watches himself beg for more time. There was no time to begin with, he had stayed for far too long and now he must go. Before his final breath another figure stood in front of him, but this time it was himself. His own eyes, hollow, he opened his mouth, oil spewed out. His arms full of scars shed skin. He looked back at his arms, his skin shed, he opened his mouth and coughed up darkness, his eyes evaporate, and his final breath is released.
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