CLOSED!

[the pony of death]

The woods were dark as the men dragged a girl through the woods, they'd thrown a burlap sack over her head, her wrists were bound together. Looking on at this scene one might think her a criminal but that was not at all the case these men were just expressing a vendetta they had. They took the burlap sack off her head once they were deep in the woods, her long red hair flowed down her back in messy shambles. Her blue and hazel eyes seemed to dart around in fear, they were wide as she quivered. Her dress was torn and dirty from the long trek into the woods, she continued to quiver as she slowly took a few steps back from the men. They reached down and tore the bottom of her dress off causing the fabric to now only reach her knees.

Ariella stood there watching the men, she didn't understand why they were doing this to her, she had done nothing wrong. She was shaking with fear as tears ran down her pretty face making the fair skin glisten in the moonlight "Why are you doing this? I didn't do anything to you? Please let me go....Just let me go home I won't tell anyone about this. I swear it" she whimpered, she screamed as one ripped her dress. She backed away and started to run, she ran as fast as her legs would carry her. She tripped tumbling down a hill, but got back up continuing to run.

The men just laughed at her as she cried and begged them to spare her, then they smirked as they saw her trying to run. They readied their rifles "that's right run ya little bitch" they shouted laughing amongst them selves as if this were a joke of some kind to them. They started to chase her, they were gaining on her after she fell with great ease, it was sick how they enjoyed this.

Ariella continued to run occasionally falling, she eventually saw the outline of a plantation, she ran towards it originally hoping to at least be able to hide out and keep them from catching her, but then she saw a light inside. She released a sigh of relief "thank god" she panted. She ran up the steps and across the porch to the door, she slammed her body into the since she couldn't stop before she hit it. She pounded her fists on the door as hard as she could "PLEASE LET ME IN! I'M BEING CHASED." she looked over her shoulder and saw the light from their lanterns gaining on her quickly. She started to pound more frantically on the door "PLEASE HELP!" she cried out. Though the instant the owner opened the door she would likely fall inside, her heart was beating so fast she thought it might burst, she was gasping for air as more tears ran down her face.

 

[Langschwert]

RE: The Recluse (langschwert and I)

The war had been hard on the entire South, but nowhere had been hit harder than Georgia. Yankee armies had marched through the heart of the state, destroying that which they could not make use of, and despoiling anything that was beautiful out of spite. Most of the residents had been left penniless, those still alive, and were reduced to eating field peas that were formerly grown only for the livestock to survive. Even they, though, had it better than the men of the army of Northern Virginia, campaigning against the Yankees in Pennsylvania. There, raw hunger replaced shortages, and critical shortages of everything from food, leather, iron, and other essentials of war had constantly challenged their ability to make war.

Indeed, had it not been for the sheer, raw tenacity of the Southern fighting man, it would have been the end for them.

Georgie Ballantine had joined the army as a drummer, at the tender age of fifteen, and had promptly been attached to the 3rd Georgia against the wishes of his father, under the eventual command of Robert E. Lee his own self. He had marched with the regiment to the first battle of Bull Run, where he had made a name for himself as a stolid young man, unaffected by the rigors of war, and unafraid of the bullets from Yankee guns. His luck, however, had to end. During the battle of Leesburg he had taken a Yankee bullet in the thigh, and everyone muttered that the leg would have to be removed to prevent sepsis of the wound.

He refused the surgeons and their morphia drips, fashioning himself a splint to hold the fractured thigh bone together, and a crutch to walk with. Somehow, he had avoided death by suppuration, and by the time 1862 rolled around, he was walking again. He would, ever after, have a limp to his stride as a silent reminder of his wound. That, however, was far from the only blessing he had gained. He had always been lucky, but only during that battle had he begun to understand why.

 

[the pony of death]

RE: The Recluse (langschwert and I)

(I'm done waiting for this guy to post, Langschwert iis very unreliable will not reply and will not respond to attempts to contact him via pm.)