Novel & Cerita All Around Me Are Worn Out Faces

My pack, my family, and my allies were gathered around me, our collective exhaustion palpable in the stillness that followed the storm of combat. I could see it in their eyes-each one darkened with the weight of loss and weariness. Paul Biansky's hands were smeared with soot, his gaze distant as he stared at the broken form of what once was a proud pine standing guard over our land. Elara Windrider's silver hair was singed at the ends, her face smeared with ash as she leaned heavily against a fallen log, her usually vibrant aura dimmed by sorrow.

But the scene before me didn’t change. It was the same. It wasn’t my imagination. My best friend, Mia—the very person I’d been thinking about just a while ago was now standing there, looking out of place. Despite the long dress she wore, like she was going to a banquet and accidentally landed here, it didn't hide her as it should. Her face was gaunt, her expression pallid enough to make me doubt if this emaciated individual was really her. Her exposed arms were a testament to it, ashy and rough, and I could see the outlines of her bones. Her face wasn’t spared; her nose was bandaged, and her lips were cracked like someone who hadn't got a sip of water for days.

Tattered clothing clung to their worn frames, evidence of the treacherous journey they had undertaken. The weariness etched upon their faces mirrored the depth of their torment. Lines of exhaustion etched deeply, and their eyes, once bright with hope, now held a glimmer of both fear and determination. Their unkempt hair and dirt-streaked skin spoke of days spent in harsh conditions, as if they had traversed treacherous terrains, seeking refuge amidst the chaos that had engulfed their village.

I had food and water just hours before I ran into the forest. “Hey they’re coming!” I hear a voice call suddenly and realize that I am not alone. There are other cells surrounding mine, filled with people that are covered in dirt and blood. Their faces are gaunt, and their bones are peeking out from beneath their skin. My eyes widen in fear when I see the massive number of bruises and cuts that cover their bodies. Some have just small scrapes, but others have clawed gashes across their back and stomach.

“Look who’s awake.” I turned my head, my heart hammering in my chest as I saw them—five men standing in a semi-circle around me. Their face looked like they had met with severe hunger; their clothes were tattered and dirty, and their hair was matted and unkempt. The stench of sweat and blood clung to them, making my stomach churn.

I was like a flower thrown into a kiln and quickly evaporated, becoming shriveled and even scorched. My Face, my face! My wrinkle-free, white, delicate face had become scarred and hideous! Even my hands and body are chapped like bark. I haven't looked in the mirror since I crawled out of the tunnel. No woman can face herself by being so terrible! And it's all because of that damn Nuri!

Uea opened his eyes, and he realized his environment had changed. He was no longer inside the house on the mountain but in a rather dim and eerie room. Whispers rang around him, making him tense up for a moment as he looked around the room. Uea realized he wasn't alone. With him in the room were several young men with pretty faces but shabby clothing. Each of them shared three things in similar___ Incomparably delicate looking face, poverty-stricken clothes, and collars around their necks.

He unzipped it, and his eyes wander all over the place, from the ceiling down to the floor. He stood up and roamed around. He can see different faces on a bed. There are faces with Brutal, gashed, and swollen faces; wide gaping mouths, which opened for the last time to utter the death-shriek, and are now fixed forever in rigid agony; jagged, discolored teeth, sunken cheeks, knitted brows, dead, sodden eyes, awful contortions, ghastly smiles, hideous leers, faces of men and faces of women, faces of the young and faces of the old, faces which reek with the slime of years of vice and misery and despair.

It’s clear that the laundry house is the place where John squeezes the last bit of life from his omega’s. My presence is ignored. I slowly make my way round in the hope to find her. Every face I see is scarred, everyone has a lifeless look on their face. They are mere husks of living beings. Everyone of them is waiting for death, waiting for freedom and the ending of suffering.

My heart skipped. Three days since I had left the palace. Three days since Rome would have woken up to my letter. I forced myself to focus. The people around me were all middle-aged or older, their faces weathered but kind. Their clothing was simple and practical, made of thick woven fabrics suited for labor and cold seasons. They hovered around the bed with open concern, whispering among themselves. “Where am I?” I asked, my voice still hoarse but clearer now. They exchanged smiles.