euphoneus

A storm raged inside Ciroc's heart. Winds of confusion and grief. It had only taken him seconds to lose his temper, and then it was gone. Everything, was gone. He held his father's neck in his hands, his black hands. Deathly black veins that rose to the surface of his father's skin, the smell of flesh rotting in his hands. What had he done? The storm mimicked outside, thunder and lightning, rain and the wind. Running outside from his house he panicked, not sure what he had done. This was not something a 10 year old boy was supposed to feel. Not this pain, not this confusion, none of this. But the fact was, he was feeling this. It was a feeli

Ciroc looked down to the ground, his eyes blazing green with a fiery reiatsu. His hands were enveloped in black. They appeared to have been dipped in ashes, the ashes of the souls mercilessly sent to their creator from his hands. Inside green eyes, the mirror image of  yet another broken soul in the clutches of his callous grip. She lay there, her body broken and bruised. Black veins rose to the surface of her skin where he had tortured her with the contact of his hand for but a moment. Her clothes were ripped and wet with blood. Her hair slick with mud and small tears of grass. But her eyes still shone with life. But as the moments grew lon

THE FIRST DRAW It started out as a rather boring day at the office. Files were beginning to stack up in the corner of Oliver's desk. Detective Oliver Lewis was seated in his leather chair, his feet propped up on the desk. In his hand he held a mug, once full of steaming hot tea, and a case file in the other. Nothing out of the ordinary, just catching up on some paperwork. He had a pen wedged between his ear and his scalp; the ink on the tip was beginning to rub off on his skin and hair. Oliver brought his thumb and index finger to his lips, and licked the tip of each. He then turned the page, revealing a bunch more statistics and police jar

The road was dark. Even the small latern had been put into snuff in the chill of the London night. But there was one thing that entered into Oliver's cognative perception; the hard clanking of shoes against the cold concrete and the click of a pistol. Oliver turned his head to see the source of the sound. The moonlight shining in the background created a soft outline of a man. The shadow of his coachman hat hid the details on his face. His leather gloved hand rose up from his side, the silver pistol gleaming in the moonlight. "Stop, put down your gun!" Oliver insisted, at the same time a shot rang out. The shooter had turned and ran. The bu