May 27, 2019 2:29:23 GMT
Post by Poltergeist on May 27, 2019 2:29:23 GMT
i'm biting
i'm teething
i ' m b l e e d i n g
i'm teething
i ' m b l e e d i n g
She had gotten so much stronger since the last time they saw one another. The story of those facts was stretched across Mordred’s body. Numerous holes and slashes that bled more with each step, but Mordred had to keep walking. It was a stalemate that left two people clinging to life. The Black Market was filled with enemies licking their chops over the chance to kill him. He gritted his teeth as he held the open wound on his ribs. If he dug his finger into the cut, he would have felt his rib—he almost did it just to see the severity and validity of his thought. The coldness of the rainfall did its part in making his trek worse, clouding his vision under the veil of natural darkness. He didn’t detect anyone around him, meaning that there may have been people overturning their presence.
Mordred’s body began to give way, no longer standing the coldness and the rising pain. Falling against the brick wall of a building, he made sure to press his hand there, the one that wasn’t stained in blood. He didn’t need a trail, not even in the degradation around him. Before beginning to observe what the building exactly was, Mordred tore off a piece of fabric and used as a tourniquet around his arm. Every other wound wasn’t allowed to seep blood beyond the thick clothing he had over himself. More so, he reached for a dagger, one that had been lodged in his abdomen. Luckily, it was a shallow pain, one that didn’t force him to the damp ground. He gritted his teeth again and made his way towards the door.
If the person could help him, fate was kind to him.
If he had to kill the person afterward, fate was testing his fortitude.
He wanted to throw up.
Weakly, the Grimm Troupe leader banged on the door. He tried the doorknob before he fell face first into the hard-oak door. His brain told him a useless fact; the door was recently replaced. The coughing resumed, trying to stop excess blood from going down into unnecessary places. He hacked it up into his hand, and the effort forced him to the ground. He felt warm for a moment before the reaching hand of cold death began to curl around his form. Mordred stabbed the door with the last embers of his strength. He hoped that the dull sounds would rise someone awake.
Someone that could help.
Anyone.
Mordred felt the corners of his mouth move. Though unable to stay focused, his eyes noted the environment. It was a shop, Mordred thought. He couldn’t exactly measure what kind it was, but he smirked at the notion of dying at the doorstep of some shopkeeper. Were the proper thoughts one should have while their body began to shut down? Perhaps it was just the hysterics of a dying mind giving its owner something to feel joyful about.
Mordred’s body began to give way, no longer standing the coldness and the rising pain. Falling against the brick wall of a building, he made sure to press his hand there, the one that wasn’t stained in blood. He didn’t need a trail, not even in the degradation around him. Before beginning to observe what the building exactly was, Mordred tore off a piece of fabric and used as a tourniquet around his arm. Every other wound wasn’t allowed to seep blood beyond the thick clothing he had over himself. More so, he reached for a dagger, one that had been lodged in his abdomen. Luckily, it was a shallow pain, one that didn’t force him to the damp ground. He gritted his teeth again and made his way towards the door.
If the person could help him, fate was kind to him.
If he had to kill the person afterward, fate was testing his fortitude.
He wanted to throw up.
Weakly, the Grimm Troupe leader banged on the door. He tried the doorknob before he fell face first into the hard-oak door. His brain told him a useless fact; the door was recently replaced. The coughing resumed, trying to stop excess blood from going down into unnecessary places. He hacked it up into his hand, and the effort forced him to the ground. He felt warm for a moment before the reaching hand of cold death began to curl around his form. Mordred stabbed the door with the last embers of his strength. He hoped that the dull sounds would rise someone awake.
Someone that could help.
Anyone.
Mordred felt the corners of his mouth move. Though unable to stay focused, his eyes noted the environment. It was a shop, Mordred thought. He couldn’t exactly measure what kind it was, but he smirked at the notion of dying at the doorstep of some shopkeeper. Were the proper thoughts one should have while their body began to shut down? Perhaps it was just the hysterics of a dying mind giving its owner something to feel joyful about.
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