Dark grey clouds strteched out over the sky and rumbled threateningly over the tall ominous edifice of Prince Humperdink's castle. There had never been a severe storm in those parts in decades. And it was during this moment that the shriek of great pain and agony echoed hauntingly through the deserted air. Westley, on the brink of death, screamed and shrieked in utter turmoil until all breath had been drained from him.
Inigo stood still and silent as the piercing shrill scream vibrated through him and stabbed at his very heart's core. "It is him." In a state of despair and hope he sprinted toward the thick grove. He thought not of what he would find at the source of that shrill cry, and he didn't care. The constant thought of revenge and blood filled his mind and blocked any other reasoning. His sword would not be drawn in vain this time; it would spill the blood of his greatest enemy that very night.
The ebony robe contrasted greatly with the albino's complexion. The whiteness of his skin shone brighter than the moon in that dark starless evening. His hood was drawn over his eyes and he pushed the splintered wagon toward the secret niche in the old oak. A small disgusting smile spread across his face; he relished the feel of the frigid, lifeless flesh of a helpless victim. Torture was his passion. The sky rumbled threateningly and more ominously; thick, fat rain poure dout from the sky and pelted the albino unmercilessly. Then he felt something cool and sharp cross his left cheek, and sucked in his breath as crimson red liquid spilled from his pasty white cheek. Inigo.
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Buttercup stared out the window with a deep feeling of melancholy. There was no hope now. She knew that Westley wouldn't come, it was impossible. Her only way out, her only way to escape was...
She gazed longingly at the small dagger tempting her with its promise of eternal rest. Slowly she unsheathed the blade and drew her finger along the edge. 'Westley will never come for me.' The shrill scream she had earlier, she knew it had been Westley. She knew that he had drawn his last breath in that one cry. She knew it all too well. She gripped the dagger firmly in her fist and closed her eyes in preparation.
Inigo stood still and silent as the piercing shrill scream vibrated through him and stabbed at his very heart's core. "It is him." In a state of despair and hope he sprinted toward the thick grove. He thought not of what he would find at the source of that shrill cry, and he didn't care. The constant thought of revenge and blood filled his mind and blocked any other reasoning. His sword would not be drawn in vain this time; it would spill the blood of his greatest enemy that very night.
The ebony robe contrasted greatly with the albino's complexion. The whiteness of his skin shone brighter than the moon in that dark starless evening. His hood was drawn over his eyes and he pushed the splintered wagon toward the secret niche in the old oak. A small disgusting smile spread across his face; he relished the feel of the frigid, lifeless flesh of a helpless victim. Torture was his passion. The sky rumbled threateningly and more ominously; thick, fat rain poure dout from the sky and pelted the albino unmercilessly. Then he felt something cool and sharp cross his left cheek, and sucked in his breath as crimson red liquid spilled from his pasty white cheek. Inigo.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Buttercup stared out the window with a deep feeling of melancholy. There was no hope now. She knew that Westley wouldn't come, it was impossible. Her only way out, her only way to escape was...
She gazed longingly at the small dagger tempting her with its promise of eternal rest. Slowly she unsheathed the blade and drew her finger along the edge. 'Westley will never come for me.' The shrill scream she had earlier, she knew it had been Westley. She knew that he had drawn his last breath in that one cry. She knew it all too well. She gripped the dagger firmly in her fist and closed her eyes in preparation.