Post by christian on Mar 27, 2010 15:55:13 GMT -5
Chris sat in his cell there was nothing else he could do, he had grown tiered of pacing, and he was starting to get tiered of cutting himself lightly and taunting the vampire in the cell across from him, well, that and he was worried that he was gonna get a infection on his hands from the cuts. He wasn't using a knife or anything, just the corner of the lock on his door.
He was at least still surviving ok, ever since his little torture session with Sadria, He had been given enough food to at least keep going, he was still hungry most of the time, but he was at least not starving. He had even been given a small cot, not incredibly comfortable and he barley could fit on it, but better than but better than sleeping on the cold stone floor.
He had also been given a drawing utensil to help somewhat preserve his sanity, Sadria didn't want him losing his mind. It was fascinating, it was some sort of angel marker that was like a mix between a stick of chalk, a wax crayon and a pencil. It left a dark line that washed off immodestly with a splash of his drinking water. He had been taking to drawing the various races, since he did not have a lover or a religion to draw.
He mostly did silhouette's, his drawing skills were not that great, but he had the shape of the bodies down. It was the face's that he couldn't do. His one wall was completely covered with figures, angels flying high, humans brandishing weapons, running from the vampires, angels and the werewolves, firing on them, hiding, getting caught, killed, enslaved, and eaten.
And then there was him, he was standing on a ledge overlooking the massacre, taking photos, recording the event, for the angels that had a spear pointed to the back of his head.
He looked over at the wall opposite the battle, where he had out lined his shoulders and sides, and was drawing a large pair of wings.
The he had one done, each feather drawn in complected detail. He had the the outline of the second one and about a quarter of the feathers done.
He didn't know why he was doing this, he dident want to be a angel, but when he stood there, between those wings, in this dim light, just glancing in for half a second, a person could easily mistake him as one.
Chris stood and picked up the drawing stick and went back to work on his wings. As he worked he started to sing like he always did.
“And its go boys go
They'll time your every breath
And every day in this place your two days near to death.............”
He was at least still surviving ok, ever since his little torture session with Sadria, He had been given enough food to at least keep going, he was still hungry most of the time, but he was at least not starving. He had even been given a small cot, not incredibly comfortable and he barley could fit on it, but better than but better than sleeping on the cold stone floor.
He had also been given a drawing utensil to help somewhat preserve his sanity, Sadria didn't want him losing his mind. It was fascinating, it was some sort of angel marker that was like a mix between a stick of chalk, a wax crayon and a pencil. It left a dark line that washed off immodestly with a splash of his drinking water. He had been taking to drawing the various races, since he did not have a lover or a religion to draw.
He mostly did silhouette's, his drawing skills were not that great, but he had the shape of the bodies down. It was the face's that he couldn't do. His one wall was completely covered with figures, angels flying high, humans brandishing weapons, running from the vampires, angels and the werewolves, firing on them, hiding, getting caught, killed, enslaved, and eaten.
And then there was him, he was standing on a ledge overlooking the massacre, taking photos, recording the event, for the angels that had a spear pointed to the back of his head.
He looked over at the wall opposite the battle, where he had out lined his shoulders and sides, and was drawing a large pair of wings.
The he had one done, each feather drawn in complected detail. He had the the outline of the second one and about a quarter of the feathers done.
He didn't know why he was doing this, he dident want to be a angel, but when he stood there, between those wings, in this dim light, just glancing in for half a second, a person could easily mistake him as one.
Chris stood and picked up the drawing stick and went back to work on his wings. As he worked he started to sing like he always did.
“And its go boys go
They'll time your every breath
And every day in this place your two days near to death.............”