short story about oktos mouse
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short story about oktos mouse
by Guest Mon Jul 03, 2023 10:15 am
oktos mouse knight is pretty cute and i love her, the whole juxtaposition of her picture tells a story.
was given permission to do this. by oktokuiten, credit of the art (and my thanks) goes to her.
=--------=--------=--------=
Death slid down the side of her nostrils again, as it always did on the way up. It was always worse coming from uphill, strong as sickly bugs buzzed off the roof of her sinus and gave her an unbearable amount of whiplash. Cottage didn't flinch - but that was only because the wretched stench relaxed in the pit of her throat. It had to. She'd been through the scene of a post war battle far too many times where her spirit long outlasted her soul, and her frigid veins pumped hot vessels in the waking blizzard of the morning air.
Her job was retrieval - a macabre messenger who would make it her duty during the off hours of the war to ping the fallen and bring them back to base, sanitize their corpses, and then lay them to rest in a coffin she'd barely wrung together with stolen pieces of sabotaged artillery that the eggheads weren't able to salvage. In the air depriving her oxygen, her goal was barely enough to have kept oriented - enough to do, not to die. Even on the days where she'd accidentally bring home an enemy, suffocated through a cacophony of complaints - still buried them.
Would her sisters be proud? She recalled their faces faintly when they weren't drenched in the coating between dead soldiers and hostile enemies on the field. Sick for life. The effervescent hives on their face slowly waned to illness, Cottage caring in her namesake - she was so attached to the home and its people that the orphanage (who never knew what to name her) simply went ahead and pined them one and the same. She cared too much for others than herself. Maybe that's why she was doing this - all people of the war were orphaned in one way or another, if not by their circumstances than by their country, abandoned to flock and kill as tools of war as if the person beneath were made of cold heart to prune and eat up, and send to war...
Pzzst. Click.
A buzzed crossbow shot on her ear piped in another talking point - these people were scary. A cuffing off the side of her ear departed harshly from her skin, leaving a trace of ghostly pain the nerves couldn't hold up. She staggered her legs to a foxhole abandoned eons ago with a bleeding body sinking its regrets into her hands. She held into that foxhole for dear life, sentimentality kicking its rear ass legs into her back. Her momentum was seized by the moment, the weight, the shock, and the dizzying air. Her hands released, and the body slid down to the middle. -...
Explosive jumping beans of the metallic persuasion - artillery. It latched around the side of the foxhole, albeit inaccurately, and cusped it like a hand of God to confuse the young rodent. Her eyes basked in the whipped flames it created and her eyes minced to confusion. Her body jittered like the bugs dispersing from the remnant flesh of her soul to save, but her legs did the heavy lifting. At this point - here and back again during the war - her spirit animal was primed more to an octopus, as her body acted independently from one another, because she still as shit couldn't have done any of this on her own.
Perhaps that was why she was already out of the mouse trap, her clawed feet tasting the chalky ground once more, and remained glued to it like a moving statue, running off. She turned back to see that the foxhole collapsed on itself, and soldiers were there to peer inside the wreck, herself only obscucated by the dust cloud they created. Maybe one day she'd get back and fix that fallen soldier to the graces of the Lord to send back to their family....one day, the eyes in her head would see far beyond her situation, and she'd find herself to treatment of someone as gentle as her. That was all she hoped for. That was all hope made her.
was given permission to do this. by oktokuiten, credit of the art (and my thanks) goes to her.
=--------=--------=--------=
Death slid down the side of her nostrils again, as it always did on the way up. It was always worse coming from uphill, strong as sickly bugs buzzed off the roof of her sinus and gave her an unbearable amount of whiplash. Cottage didn't flinch - but that was only because the wretched stench relaxed in the pit of her throat. It had to. She'd been through the scene of a post war battle far too many times where her spirit long outlasted her soul, and her frigid veins pumped hot vessels in the waking blizzard of the morning air.
Her job was retrieval - a macabre messenger who would make it her duty during the off hours of the war to ping the fallen and bring them back to base, sanitize their corpses, and then lay them to rest in a coffin she'd barely wrung together with stolen pieces of sabotaged artillery that the eggheads weren't able to salvage. In the air depriving her oxygen, her goal was barely enough to have kept oriented - enough to do, not to die. Even on the days where she'd accidentally bring home an enemy, suffocated through a cacophony of complaints - still buried them.
Would her sisters be proud? She recalled their faces faintly when they weren't drenched in the coating between dead soldiers and hostile enemies on the field. Sick for life. The effervescent hives on their face slowly waned to illness, Cottage caring in her namesake - she was so attached to the home and its people that the orphanage (who never knew what to name her) simply went ahead and pined them one and the same. She cared too much for others than herself. Maybe that's why she was doing this - all people of the war were orphaned in one way or another, if not by their circumstances than by their country, abandoned to flock and kill as tools of war as if the person beneath were made of cold heart to prune and eat up, and send to war...
Pzzst. Click.
A buzzed crossbow shot on her ear piped in another talking point - these people were scary. A cuffing off the side of her ear departed harshly from her skin, leaving a trace of ghostly pain the nerves couldn't hold up. She staggered her legs to a foxhole abandoned eons ago with a bleeding body sinking its regrets into her hands. She held into that foxhole for dear life, sentimentality kicking its rear ass legs into her back. Her momentum was seized by the moment, the weight, the shock, and the dizzying air. Her hands released, and the body slid down to the middle. -...
Explosive jumping beans of the metallic persuasion - artillery. It latched around the side of the foxhole, albeit inaccurately, and cusped it like a hand of God to confuse the young rodent. Her eyes basked in the whipped flames it created and her eyes minced to confusion. Her body jittered like the bugs dispersing from the remnant flesh of her soul to save, but her legs did the heavy lifting. At this point - here and back again during the war - her spirit animal was primed more to an octopus, as her body acted independently from one another, because she still as shit couldn't have done any of this on her own.
Perhaps that was why she was already out of the mouse trap, her clawed feet tasting the chalky ground once more, and remained glued to it like a moving statue, running off. She turned back to see that the foxhole collapsed on itself, and soldiers were there to peer inside the wreck, herself only obscucated by the dust cloud they created. Maybe one day she'd get back and fix that fallen soldier to the graces of the Lord to send back to their family....one day, the eyes in her head would see far beyond her situation, and she'd find herself to treatment of someone as gentle as her. That was all she hoped for. That was all hope made her.
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oktokuiten- Posts : 78
Join date : 2023-07-01
Age : 9
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