The White Wolf
Dog of the Sith
Time. The line of everlasting existence through events and history? Or what it something more? Fact was time was not something that could truthfully be explained by anyone. It was infinite. Just like the mysteries it holds deep within its roots. Many thought of time as a way to recognize the present…but no. Others believed it to be so much more. A force beyond comprehension doing its work unintentionally and perfectly all at once. The stubborn existence of organization that held the past within a seal. The bringer of the future and the giver of the present. Some believed time to be a god all itself, invisible to the naked eye and unheard through religion. It very well could have been. When phrases are shouted out like ‘we are out of time!’ or ‘Times up.’ To some they are just phrases, to others they are tribute to the all mighty god of time. Whoever it may be weather it was real or not. Or perhaps…for something to be real one must simply believe it to be real? Faith was a powerful substance in many worlds throughout time.
Consisting side by side with time was the gift of memories. A function of history stored within the subconscious of ones mine throughout the period of their lives. Of course…there were always memories better left forgotten. Despite the fact memories would always eventually be forgotten in the downward spiral called time. The memories of the past, of those before us. Never told from the beholder but often from the witness. Stories and legends passed down generation to generation but with each generation only losing more and more of the truth as the line between reality and fantasy grows ever so thinner. It was the same with the beings that traveled the world. Over time ones blood does not strengthen. It weakens. If one were to make a copy, of a copy, of a copy it would not come out stronger. But weaker. This has always been true. The memories that held the truth where lost…forgotten In the web time.
His days always started slow. They didn't start late-- he awoke with the earliest riser in the lower recesses, which was to say at the crack of dawn. The early risers tended to prepare themselves quickly and leave early to do their duties. He would follow them in their rituals to a point, being of aid when he could, otherwise just providing company, a gentle reminder of steps they may have forgotten. He'd awake from his chained position...The air in the mornings was cold, it always bit at his nose and clung to his skin. He was always cold...
It was part of his own private ritual. So many steps he'd learned in his all too short life, things designed to keep him healthy in body, soul, and mind. Ever since he was young, still on his mother's teat, he'd practiced certain techniques. It was an act of balance, an equalizer. He stuck to routine as often as he could, an upstart threatened much worse than a bad start to a day. Since before birth he'd suffered from a debilitating condition, something that made him different from his rambunctious prison members. If they could even be called that.
The boys heart beat differently than others if at all. He'd known this almost as soon as he began to have conscious thought. His mother was a rock, her heart beat was steady and slow. As early as he could remember, he could remember sinking into the sound of it, wrapping himself in the comfort of her life-giving breath. Even now, he took every opportunity that presented itself to fall asleep with his head cradled against her bosom. The thought of seeming childish never entered his mind.
Each morning he sank into himself the way he had sunk into his mother. His breathing grew slow, controlled. Each breath was deep, filling his chest cavity to capacity. He held his breath for several seconds before slowly exhaling, looking inward. His heart beat was hollow... but still powered his body. The beats were slow...blank...and cold, the sound not as deep and robust as he yearned it to be. There was a slosh, always a worry, blood leaking from where it was meant to be. Every morning he felt unsettled. his heart was cold and the blood that ran through his veins was made of ice...but he would not let that change him. Not in the slightest.
He filled his mind with pure, intelligent thoughts. The sound of his past tormentors, his enemies. The sound of the firepower he was forced to face as a soldier, each unique, their beats as fast as their paws or their inquisitive minds. He focused, another deep breath, looked inward again. Slowly the beat of his heart leaned towards a more steady pace, calm energy pooled just above his gut. Around him, the sounds of his brothers in arms joining the world of the waking went ignored, his entire being preoccupied by maintaining the positive.
'This is me.' was the thought, 'And I can be as strong as I want.' His heart agreed, compromising on a steady if weak beat. Satisfied, he pulled himself back to the present, his breathing slowly returning to normal. His very bright Turquoise eyes opened, greeting the frosty climate he found himself in. He was...caged again like the animal he was. His bright eyes scanned the very large room...there was not real light there. Artificial light...of course. He was trapped in a room chained in the center with a chain on both arms...connected to the walls opposite from each other. His arms where stretched beyond its limit and his body was cold...his shirt was gone from the whippings to keep him in check and he was not allowed to leave. Deemed to be to dangerous to be around other inmates the boy known as Subject 13 remained in a maximum security prison located underground on some distant planet...perfect. The child was young. He had snowy white hair that was now stained in blood and two tails swaying behind him that where also filthy. Canine like ears swiveled atop his head as he waited...all he could do now...was wait.
@Paega Anginous
