Whickered Ones reworked wip

At a glance a world blurred; out of focus the sky overwhelms a point of ones existence, what is the circumstance of ones life. An action of thoughts that occurs overtime with a point of conjecture - a path varying on a broader scope of insignificance as though a blot on a piece of paper. Those that look to their gods and deities and very nature of the world around them. The trees, the flowers the very grass; free freshly streaming wind. We are given tongues and the manner to judge ourselves and our actions and what we speak if true or not, come to life - good or evil our actions of our hearts or minds bring to life our pain or happiness. life's greatest creation is life it self.

In sorts of a world of thought but unforgiving states of events the measurement is still marked as well as stretched but occurs swiftly in a linear manner, which spreads like a blot of ink composed like a plot of inferred actions - nothing in life is planned. An elegant spark or stain that starts from the very beginning of a new instance; in conception. All though in instance an all actions comes to an ending , short but abrupt sense in a series - end to end, continuing on in this never-ending abyss of pain, pleasure, hope, fear , deceit and the most important the wheel of life it self.

A word given action brings a plot to life and ending of something good or even beautiful , something evil in action can be divine but also can be benign and cast it self as something bright but still carrier a stain of ink rupturing through unmarked blank piece of paper but over overtime darken into hatred and war.


The gripes of the world, the anger and destruction - the adoration of constant war between cities, countries all in the name of peace - the inner turmoil of those with a force of greatness in them born to be common folk , shunned from a normal life but all governed by those seen as unnatural. The practical politics and use of manipulation of the weak minds of men and women ... the sheer shedding of innocent blood - over and over. Also the hatred of those of the unnatural sense, marked by family and friends. Broken bonds and a city torn, it was so and when it has been sought it cant be broken , only smolder but it still burns. One alone can not un-covet a stain on ones soul.

The stormy night over the city of Helm scattered fire and lights shower the sky. The terrifying thunder of war on a field of 12,000 or more men shouting and fighting with swords, spears with weapons at hand, (clashing together) falling to their very deaths, while blood and earth mixed - lifeless bodies spread across a field for all to see and all whom severed ties with their loved ones. All but some men at their feet fighting for their lives, sweat and tears covered over by the rain, though some lay dead with either a sword in their back or even worse, all can only imagine the sight of battle and the cost of war.

Although this repeating aspect of something that’s formless and is an aspect to change in this present moment. The understanding of un-explainable power or ability, not knowing the presences of ones-self, though torn in-between that which has not come to pass, in the world that some can never understand or comprehend. The unwritten rules of a world that has no rules - from one place to the other marked from what was written in the mind of a formless creator (a realm of that of magic or supernatural sense of ability) or the sum of ideas of thoughts of something not intangible.

There the rain danced among-st the bodies lying against each other - the dirt, the blood and the stitch of death, among them there laid a man ... that would change the very foundation of this world; in him is a world of pure creation and power, a heavenly spark that could be used for good or worst off. He is un-natural but he even more than that ... or was sought to be called so. Marked unnatural are given no place in normal aspect of society, though they are used as weapons for those with power and wealth at their leisure, against their enemy's and those around them. Though that is only one word to explain the power of those with nothing but the overflow of terrifying magic surging in their veins. There he stands with fury in his eyes - in that the spirit of a revolution of life and death or the very foundation everyone stands on will be broken forever.

Those that claimer to faith and their almighty forgiving Gods, believe the marked ones are the children sparked with the light from the heavens and have been give power and ability - not to control the world but watch over the mere mortals. What has broken this balance of nature? Though there are two houses of magic that could change this all and bring death or new life into the existence.

Thoughts are not congealed but personal, though for this person it is free to feel and experience. Hearing the thoughts of those around them and those who walk the threshold of life or death, as well those whom are about to be. The formless sight of the past and present, as well as the future, as though the vial of time itself has been lifted for those with the gift are called whickered ones.