F I N { aw

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[bg=1F0100][atrb=border,0,table][atrb=width,378,table] [th] I am the patron saint of lost causes Left or right? Right or wrong? Dead or breathing? Breathing or dead? All interesting questions, and questions that seem to drill his brain. But are the questions or are they just words? Words with a neat little scribble next to them? A big ball of squiggles. Their tails arching in confused directions, and his eyes turned to follow them in waves of intuition. Or perhaps confusion. Its rather to tell the two apart it would seem. Just as hard to tell him apart from himself. Paradox, one who makes sense of nothing and makes games of difference. He who holds nothing but air in his body, an nothing but air escapes him. Air and loss. Strong face turned to the dirt the man blinked weakly. Wonder whats wrong with me? Simple words, an easy question. But so many answers! So many answers! So many things wrong~ He the sufferer found little to suffer over. Not now, his other selves trapped with in him in his air locked blockades. They twisted and sagged within his soul as he fought them back. Nothing to turn him here. Nothing to make him snap. Not yet any way. Things, he learned, changed quickly. Tings that changed quickly made him twitch. Made someone he hated leak into his body and take over. Hatred of ones self is not good for the soul. its not good for the mind either- apparently. Personally he drove himself mad. But that did not matter now, and as he set another tawny paw down on the half dead grass he man hurried forward. Tombstones rose amongst the rippling grass, and as spring took over the bodies under them fed the wild flowers whispering into existence. Funny how man's only use now was fertilizer. Lifting a paw to prod one of the worn old stones before him, Paradox found little to think about in this the lighter place. That was true. This was one of the lighter places in Tempest lands. Here the sun shone down on his golden pelt and set it a glow. Lifting his hansom muzzle to stare up at the sky, the soldier narrowed chocolate eyes. It seemed odd to him that this place of death and rot was so bright. As if some unknown god played with a light switch, smirk stretched across There face. What a rude God. Cuuldn't they pick a better mutt to fuck with? Its not like he ever did anything to deserve it. But then he was contemplating how to turn off the sun- because it suited his wants better. But really, burial grounds aren't meant to be 'pretty'. Death is so horridly cloaked, as if it's some sort of better place, when all it is is death. Spilt blood, rotten scent, and carcasses galore under a short six feet. He knew because Parar so loved digging them up. Playing with their bones, and taunting their broken bony smiles. It was the only expression they would ever make again. But then so many humans had died so swiftly that he didn't have to dig to find someone. But only Parar enjoyed that game, the game where he got to piss on 'the man's' head. The others, the rest of him, shied away from the deranged red souled wonder that Parar was. But somewhere in Paradox's mind he knew that he enjoyed it to. Secretly he enjoyed most of the things the others did, he just refused to admit it. Why give them more ground to concur? Clambering over his tombstone the Dingo padded toward another, sniffing it delicately before turning to another. Pawing at the stone he wondered at where they were, his other selves. He knew them to be there, their breath hot on the back of his eyes- their voices begging for him to relinquish the sense to them. But they did not beat at him as they did some days. They seemed happy to lay behind his shield, and watch form a far. They all knew him, they new each other. They argued with each other. But not in his head- oh thankfully not in his head. Only when they took over, their teeth snapping at his body and their souls shoving his out of the way. Growling softly at the rock his paw so hesitantly clawed the man turned to walk a few paces before dropping his snout to the earth. They argued through him, and tended to argue with others as well. Woe the animal that did not know of him, oh infamous Paradox. For what would he be, the four sided rat that he was, but infamous?

[¿ Taçhi ?]

{ Gypsy }

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Dig, dig, dig!

Sheltered from the looks of bypassers by a cracked tombstone, stood a little tom cat with his behind stuck up in the air, tail waving triumphantly like a flag while dust rose around him in a cloud, and fell to settle in his already shabby coat. Small paws dug into the air with a ferocity that would've surprised most people, coming from such a small and "cute" little creature. Suddenly his claws scraped over rock, with a screeching sound that, despite it being muffled by the dirt, cut right through Gypsy's eardrums. The Maine Coon literally jumped back a good foot or so, fur standing on end as he landed on stiff legs, teeth bared and ready to defend himself against whatever enemy had decided to rise from the depths of the earth to swallow him whole. Slowly he stalked back to peek into the hole, and with careful movements he pushed the stone up the sides inch by inch. His paw was stretched forward as far away from his body as he could, as if it was a bomb that could go off at any minute. He moved his head forward slowly, until he was finally staring down cross-eyed at the stone. All the muscles in his little body were tense and ready to leap away at any moment, just in case the stone might still decide to morph into some angry spirit, come to punish him for disturbing its eternal rest. "Why would someone get mad over that anyway? They've got forever to sleep. There's a reason it's called eternal rest after all. Being woken up for five minutes shouldn't really make that great of a difference. Though of course, having slept for so long you gotta have one hell of a bad case of morning breath. I guess that could put anyone in a pissy mood." From the mumbling voice it was clear that not even he was really listening to himself. His nose wrinkled slightly as he sniffed the stone. It smelled of... well, dirt and stone. Finally satisfied that this thing was indeed a stone (after all, if it quacks like a duck, and walks like a duck, chances are great that it might actually be a duck), he threw himself back to his mission.

Dig, dig, dig!

A few moments, a new cloud of dust, and several grumpy insects later, he turned away from his gigantic , semi-large , normal sized ... alright, he turned away from his small hole (hey, he was a small cat! Small cats dig small holes), and darted over to a little basket made of willow branches weaved together. A treasure he had found in one of the human houses - though a treasure only to him, as most other animals couldn't see the use of a basket. After all, what did creatures without possessions need a basket for? Looking into the basket his eyes lit up as he saw the real treasure. A bunch of small bones gleaming white, all neatly picked of all traces of meat - licked of all traces of blood. Pearl white, and oddly beautiful in all their morbid glory.

"A-tisket, a-tasket, my life in a basket. The silent moans of broken bones, all gathered in a basket." He knew the rhyme from somewhere, though where from escaped the clutches of his memory for the moment. Not that there was anything new in that. Gypsy had long ago learned to walk through life without memories of half the things he did, or knowledge of how he knew half the things he knew. But what was life if not a long road of surprises just waiting to be uncovered! With his teeth Gypsy grabbed the red piece of clothes that was tied around the handle of the basket, and started dragging the container over the ground. It was a slow process, as he had to be careful not pulling too hard, lest the basket might topple over and spill out the content. And that would be a disaster unimaginable indeed!

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