Post by Skoll Koryu on Apr 10, 2016 20:11:51 GMT -5
Hate. Anger. Rage. Fury. Words without meaning echoed in Skoll's mind as he charged forward blindly, recklessly; all he knew was that he had to shut this damned woman up, to break her skull in, and to end her life. Why? Hell if he knew anymore. Anger controlled all, and that anger painted his world in red, a red so deep that it ran crimson. Blood. That anger, that rage, it thirsted for blood. The half-demon didn't know why. He didn't care why. The monster within him craved it, demanded it. No, not the monster inside him; the monster that he was. Something within the very depths of his soul, something running through his mind, his spirit, his body; whatever it was, it demanded pain, demanded blood spilled, demanded lives lost. And, lost in his rage, Skoll gave into that demand.
That was his mistake, one he couldn't have stopped himself from making. Too ingrained was the self-hate, the anger, the desire to lash out at the world. Too ingrained was the expectation of mistreatment and judgment from others. Too ingrained was the hurt, the pain, the sadness. All of these factors ensured that, had this played out a hundred times, there wouldn't have been an ounce of variation. Skoll was the type to get angry easily, and his anger was self-fueling, his mind automatically seeking out faults and unstated context to let his fury burn brighter. He wasn't always this way, hadn't always been so hateful; back in the days of youth, there had been sadness, fear, and confusion. In those days, the half-demon hadn't been filled with hatred; indeed, he had longed to be with others.
Time had tainted that, however; the distancing of his pack, the reminders of his nature as the bastard demon-child who had killed Freya, those were the first thorns that had dug deep into his heart and soul. Leaving the pack had eased it somewhat, had given him time to reflect and think. Skoll had hurt, but even then he had been able to understand and accept why it was that they hated him. Thoughts of reconciliation had still existed back then, a desire to try and make things right. Maybe he could do something to try and make up for Freya's loss. Maybe he could try to help the pack in his own way, using his strong spirit to help them out. Back in those days, hope had actually existed.
But it had changed, slowly and gradually; traveling near Seireitei had, more than once, caused him to encounter humans who could sense the Hellish portions of his spiritual power. Every single time, without fail, each assumed him to be a demon, a monster, a threat. Each time had been another wound added to his aching heart. Worse came when Skoll had tried to go back to his pack, his tail between his legs as he tried to escape the cruel judgment that came from the humans. The cold stares, the hatred, the condescension; they had all grown in his absence, contempt for the lone wolf who had abandoned his pack tempering their already low opinion of him. Only their respect for Odin's demands of safe passage kept them from descending on the half-demon and tearing him apart.
Everywhere he had gone, Skoll had been met with rejection and threats. And so, as time passed, as seventeen years saw the young adolescent grow into an adult, so too did it see the seeds of hurt, sadness, and doubt grow into the bitter fruit of anger, frustration, and hatred. And that was why, no matter how many times this scenario was repeated, he would always act the same. Skoll would never find an easy escape from that anger, not when he had spent years reinforcing it. The Nakabakki had lived so long steeped in hatred and anger that it had formed a monster of darkness, a creature whose heart was nearly completely black. This anger and rage, this monstrosity created over years of self-hatred, was the sin of Skoll's demonic nature. The Sin of Monstrosity.
And it was that monster that was attacking now. Skoll brought his club up in a powerful swing, one fueled by anger; if he had been logical, he would have known that the Shinigami wouldn't take much damage from it, perhaps getting some bruising along her side. But he wasn't logical; he just wanted to hurt something, and so he attacked with everything he had simply to do so. But in the end, all he did was over-extend himself; as his club swung up, it met with empty air, the woman disappearing even as Skoll completed his swing. The half-demon stumbled, unable to adjust and adapt to the momentum of his swing, and in that time, an opening was made. It was more than enough for the Shinigami to attack.
Red-hot pain cut through the veil of anger, bringing sanity back to the blood-crazed wolf. It seared through his back as the Shinigami's blade came down; for a moment, Skoll thought that he was dead, that his anger had gotten him killed, just as Odin had always said it would. But then pain flared up again, and Skoll let out a pained gasp, feeling blood flowing down his back. The wound wasn't fatal, he realized a moment later; whether he had gotten lucky due to the wild nature of his swing or the Shinigami had held back, the half-demon was still alive. But he hurt! Fuck it hurt! He had been injured before in the past, deep cuts and even broken bones, but still this cut across his back, despite its shallow nature, seemed to burn that much worse as he fell to the ground, still fighting back the desire to cry out in pain.
Instinct kicked in: flight or fight. Pain overrode sense, logic once more going out the window. Instead he scrambled in the dirt, his eyes wide, fear and panic filling him as he tried to push himself away, backing along the ground almost frantically. Likely it did no good for his wound, dirt getting into it, but instinct demanded action, demanded movement. He scrambled backwards, his feet digging into the dirt as he pushed himself away from the Shinigami. Even though her sword was lowered, her stance more neutral than it had been before, Skoll's eyes were drawn to the blade, which was still coated in a thin layer of his blood.
It was strange how quickly anger faded to fear when instinctive self-preservation kicked in over more subjective anger, and yet that was what had happened to Skoll. Even as the woman spoke to him, he spat words back at her, trying to make as much distance between them as he could. “S-shut the fuck up, bitch! Get the fuck away from me! I don't fucking want your help, I just want you to leave me the hell alone!” At that point the wolf-demon backed into a tree, nearly jumping out of his skin as he did so, before pulling himself up to his feet. His eyes remained glued on the woman or, more importantly, the blood-tipped blade in her hands, and slowly he backed away. Once he got far enough away, or if the Shinigami made even the slightest movement towards Skoll, the half-demon would turn and immediately flee into the woods, disappearing among the branches and bushes.
Skoll ran and ran, not even knowing what direction he ran in at first. He wasn't sure if the Shinigami was following him, wasn't sure if his bleeding wound was serious; all he knew was that he had to run. He did so for a good ten minutes until his stamina finally left him, leaving him to lean against a tree, panting, his shirt stained with blood and stuck to the wound in his back. Only then, as he sat there catching his breath, did sanity fully return to him. He realized that his wound wasn't as serious as he thought it was; already, the bleeding had slowed, his shirt acting like a makeshift, albeit dirty, bandage as it clung to the injury.
It was only then, as he let himself relax, let his adrenaline fade, that Skoll slumped to the ground, exhaustion getting the better of him.
That was his mistake, one he couldn't have stopped himself from making. Too ingrained was the self-hate, the anger, the desire to lash out at the world. Too ingrained was the expectation of mistreatment and judgment from others. Too ingrained was the hurt, the pain, the sadness. All of these factors ensured that, had this played out a hundred times, there wouldn't have been an ounce of variation. Skoll was the type to get angry easily, and his anger was self-fueling, his mind automatically seeking out faults and unstated context to let his fury burn brighter. He wasn't always this way, hadn't always been so hateful; back in the days of youth, there had been sadness, fear, and confusion. In those days, the half-demon hadn't been filled with hatred; indeed, he had longed to be with others.
Time had tainted that, however; the distancing of his pack, the reminders of his nature as the bastard demon-child who had killed Freya, those were the first thorns that had dug deep into his heart and soul. Leaving the pack had eased it somewhat, had given him time to reflect and think. Skoll had hurt, but even then he had been able to understand and accept why it was that they hated him. Thoughts of reconciliation had still existed back then, a desire to try and make things right. Maybe he could do something to try and make up for Freya's loss. Maybe he could try to help the pack in his own way, using his strong spirit to help them out. Back in those days, hope had actually existed.
But it had changed, slowly and gradually; traveling near Seireitei had, more than once, caused him to encounter humans who could sense the Hellish portions of his spiritual power. Every single time, without fail, each assumed him to be a demon, a monster, a threat. Each time had been another wound added to his aching heart. Worse came when Skoll had tried to go back to his pack, his tail between his legs as he tried to escape the cruel judgment that came from the humans. The cold stares, the hatred, the condescension; they had all grown in his absence, contempt for the lone wolf who had abandoned his pack tempering their already low opinion of him. Only their respect for Odin's demands of safe passage kept them from descending on the half-demon and tearing him apart.
Everywhere he had gone, Skoll had been met with rejection and threats. And so, as time passed, as seventeen years saw the young adolescent grow into an adult, so too did it see the seeds of hurt, sadness, and doubt grow into the bitter fruit of anger, frustration, and hatred. And that was why, no matter how many times this scenario was repeated, he would always act the same. Skoll would never find an easy escape from that anger, not when he had spent years reinforcing it. The Nakabakki had lived so long steeped in hatred and anger that it had formed a monster of darkness, a creature whose heart was nearly completely black. This anger and rage, this monstrosity created over years of self-hatred, was the sin of Skoll's demonic nature. The Sin of Monstrosity.
And it was that monster that was attacking now. Skoll brought his club up in a powerful swing, one fueled by anger; if he had been logical, he would have known that the Shinigami wouldn't take much damage from it, perhaps getting some bruising along her side. But he wasn't logical; he just wanted to hurt something, and so he attacked with everything he had simply to do so. But in the end, all he did was over-extend himself; as his club swung up, it met with empty air, the woman disappearing even as Skoll completed his swing. The half-demon stumbled, unable to adjust and adapt to the momentum of his swing, and in that time, an opening was made. It was more than enough for the Shinigami to attack.
Red-hot pain cut through the veil of anger, bringing sanity back to the blood-crazed wolf. It seared through his back as the Shinigami's blade came down; for a moment, Skoll thought that he was dead, that his anger had gotten him killed, just as Odin had always said it would. But then pain flared up again, and Skoll let out a pained gasp, feeling blood flowing down his back. The wound wasn't fatal, he realized a moment later; whether he had gotten lucky due to the wild nature of his swing or the Shinigami had held back, the half-demon was still alive. But he hurt! Fuck it hurt! He had been injured before in the past, deep cuts and even broken bones, but still this cut across his back, despite its shallow nature, seemed to burn that much worse as he fell to the ground, still fighting back the desire to cry out in pain.
Instinct kicked in: flight or fight. Pain overrode sense, logic once more going out the window. Instead he scrambled in the dirt, his eyes wide, fear and panic filling him as he tried to push himself away, backing along the ground almost frantically. Likely it did no good for his wound, dirt getting into it, but instinct demanded action, demanded movement. He scrambled backwards, his feet digging into the dirt as he pushed himself away from the Shinigami. Even though her sword was lowered, her stance more neutral than it had been before, Skoll's eyes were drawn to the blade, which was still coated in a thin layer of his blood.
It was strange how quickly anger faded to fear when instinctive self-preservation kicked in over more subjective anger, and yet that was what had happened to Skoll. Even as the woman spoke to him, he spat words back at her, trying to make as much distance between them as he could. “S-shut the fuck up, bitch! Get the fuck away from me! I don't fucking want your help, I just want you to leave me the hell alone!” At that point the wolf-demon backed into a tree, nearly jumping out of his skin as he did so, before pulling himself up to his feet. His eyes remained glued on the woman or, more importantly, the blood-tipped blade in her hands, and slowly he backed away. Once he got far enough away, or if the Shinigami made even the slightest movement towards Skoll, the half-demon would turn and immediately flee into the woods, disappearing among the branches and bushes.
Skoll ran and ran, not even knowing what direction he ran in at first. He wasn't sure if the Shinigami was following him, wasn't sure if his bleeding wound was serious; all he knew was that he had to run. He did so for a good ten minutes until his stamina finally left him, leaving him to lean against a tree, panting, his shirt stained with blood and stuck to the wound in his back. Only then, as he sat there catching his breath, did sanity fully return to him. He realized that his wound wasn't as serious as he thought it was; already, the bleeding had slowed, his shirt acting like a makeshift, albeit dirty, bandage as it clung to the injury.
It was only then, as he let himself relax, let his adrenaline fade, that Skoll slumped to the ground, exhaustion getting the better of him.
