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THE RETELLING OF JESUS' CRUXIFIXION
The barks of the crowd pulsed through the atmosphere. Every cloaked figure stood there, at either side of the path that meanedeared through the now desolate valley, with blazing torches and a fire within their eyes. The fire within their eyes burned with a severe hatred, bristling with every deep breath he took.
Alarat walked forward, the seething crowd barely keeping out of his path. The morning rays of the sun breathed down on him, lengthening the extent of the sores and the pain. His hands ached from the iron bounds that circled them, specially gotten from the Iron Forge grove. His head rattled with the pain, jittering with the bundle of nerves that twisted his insides. His bare feet scraped against another stone, hollowing out his skin into a slight abrasion. Something wet hit against his back, he flinched. The juices sank into his sore, throwing his sight to a jumbled mess.
The bitter scent careered through his nostrils as the chain around his neck stiffened at his stance. The soldier, huge and burly, on the horse, drew on his chains. Alarat slipped, his hands falling onto the floor. The harsh traces of stones drew blood at several parts of his body. The shouts of hatred, fingered into his ears, meddling away at his soul fire.
"Get up you scum!" The general shouted, Alarat groped at the grity floor. His limbs wavered, unable to carry him for too far. Sweat pooled down his sides as he fought for dominance against his sense. More bitter fruits were flying from different sides, the people droning on and on of their hatred of him. His people. His eyes prickled with sadness, wrenching from the aghast pain of now and what was to come.
The stallions behind him trumped and huffed, eying him with discontent. His soul fire pulsed within him, crackling with every second that passed. The flames of his power toiled within his body, glittering with every draw of breath. He looked into the souls of the people that passed, his eyes going past the distance of the physical. Their tiny flames wilted away, slowly snuffing away, just how The Shaitan wanted. His eyes traveled back to the reality, the physical tendrils weaving back to color the darkness of every soul fire. The threads rerun themselves, admitting back the sight of the real world.
By the time reality had once again enveloped him, he knew the death hour was upon him. The towering heights of the once great Castles of Old, stood no more. Their sharp pines stuck out against the glittering mass of blue with patches of white. The grazes of old stone that had withered covered the expanse of soil. The air spelt of a huge spiritual energy that gritted on his soul fire. As they turned and clawed through the batches of unbent walls, carving outwards into the withers of cracked domes. The crystals of purity's jagged dots stood out at the stony lines of broken walls and ancient inscriptions. Soon, they reached a clearing that had a draw of a crystal each, standing at...
Alarat walked forward, the seething crowd barely keeping out of his path. The morning rays of the sun breathed down on him, lengthening the extent of the sores and the pain. His hands ached from the iron bounds that circled them, specially gotten from the Iron Forge grove. His head rattled with the pain, jittering with the bundle of nerves that twisted his insides. His bare feet scraped against another stone, hollowing out his skin into a slight abrasion. Something wet hit against his back, he flinched. The juices sank into his sore, throwing his sight to a jumbled mess.
The bitter scent careered through his nostrils as the chain around his neck stiffened at his stance. The soldier, huge and burly, on the horse, drew on his chains. Alarat slipped, his hands falling onto the floor. The harsh traces of stones drew blood at several parts of his body. The shouts of hatred, fingered into his ears, meddling away at his soul fire.
"Get up you scum!" The general shouted, Alarat groped at the grity floor. His limbs wavered, unable to carry him for too far. Sweat pooled down his sides as he fought for dominance against his sense. More bitter fruits were flying from different sides, the people droning on and on of their hatred of him. His people. His eyes prickled with sadness, wrenching from the aghast pain of now and what was to come.
The stallions behind him trumped and huffed, eying him with discontent. His soul fire pulsed within him, crackling with every second that passed. The flames of his power toiled within his body, glittering with every draw of breath. He looked into the souls of the people that passed, his eyes going past the distance of the physical. Their tiny flames wilted away, slowly snuffing away, just how The Shaitan wanted. His eyes traveled back to the reality, the physical tendrils weaving back to color the darkness of every soul fire. The threads rerun themselves, admitting back the sight of the real world.
By the time reality had once again enveloped him, he knew the death hour was upon him. The towering heights of the once great Castles of Old, stood no more. Their sharp pines stuck out against the glittering mass of blue with patches of white. The grazes of old stone that had withered covered the expanse of soil. The air spelt of a huge spiritual energy that gritted on his soul fire. As they turned and clawed through the batches of unbent walls, carving outwards into the withers of cracked domes. The crystals of purity's jagged dots stood out at the stony lines of broken walls and ancient inscriptions. Soon, they reached a clearing that had a draw of a crystal each, standing at...
