This wasn't over
An alabaster monolith loomed, like a headstone to the spiritually slaughtered. Uncarved, unconquered, imposing. A sundered rustblood stared at her gypsum canvas; severed of her calling, left void of her artistry, she painted--not a portrait, but a cheek--as rancorous red tears cascaded from her unbroken eye like brushstrokes to a pale rose. The discontented clash of her head against the untamed stone left a scatter of rust. She was maimed. Dismembered. Robbed of her arms--of her purpose. They took everything from her.
The phantom pain of severed, clenched fists shot a fierce pain that transcended flesh and bone. The cavern remained silent, save for the gentle patter of a defeated artist's tears against rock.
A sodden eye shot a glare to a fallen blade. It was hours ago, now, that it had clattered against the cold stone ground, but the metallic ringing of its ruinous impact hung heavy in the young girl's mind, like an audible scar to a savant scorned. She peeled away from her alabaster canvas and stepped unsteadily towards the bloodless blade. A brief fumble of unfamiliar digits preceded a contentious bite upon the sword's handle, before the ex-sculptor stood. Fury boiled in her burgundy blood, the faint tap of tears accenting the pat of bare feet against dusty stone. Sword in mouth, the rustblood growled, burning a piercing glare into her monolithic headstone.
This wasn't over. She wasn't over.
With a frenzied cry, she slashed into the block of stone, carving deep cut after deep cut into the emblematic block of alabaster. Her ears rang with the sonorous rattling of shattered stone against stone, but she did not relent. Blurred minutes of irate cleaving echoed sharply through the previously still caverns, before the artist's blade once again clattered to the ground.
Buddie fell to her knees and screamed, her diminished form dwarfed by her twisted sculpture of grief and rage. She gasped unsteadily as her vision blurred.
This wasn't over. She wasn't over. But soon, they would be.
Buddie collapsed on her side, exhausted, with only one thought left ringing in her mind.
She would get her revenge.
The phantom pain of severed, clenched fists shot a fierce pain that transcended flesh and bone. The cavern remained silent, save for the gentle patter of a defeated artist's tears against rock.
A sodden eye shot a glare to a fallen blade. It was hours ago, now, that it had clattered against the cold stone ground, but the metallic ringing of its ruinous impact hung heavy in the young girl's mind, like an audible scar to a savant scorned. She peeled away from her alabaster canvas and stepped unsteadily towards the bloodless blade. A brief fumble of unfamiliar digits preceded a contentious bite upon the sword's handle, before the ex-sculptor stood. Fury boiled in her burgundy blood, the faint tap of tears accenting the pat of bare feet against dusty stone. Sword in mouth, the rustblood growled, burning a piercing glare into her monolithic headstone.
This wasn't over. She wasn't over.
With a frenzied cry, she slashed into the block of stone, carving deep cut after deep cut into the emblematic block of alabaster. Her ears rang with the sonorous rattling of shattered stone against stone, but she did not relent. Blurred minutes of irate cleaving echoed sharply through the previously still caverns, before the artist's blade once again clattered to the ground.
Buddie fell to her knees and screamed, her diminished form dwarfed by her twisted sculpture of grief and rage. She gasped unsteadily as her vision blurred.
This wasn't over. She wasn't over. But soon, they would be.
Buddie collapsed on her side, exhausted, with only one thought left ringing in her mind.
She would get her revenge.
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