Ashen.
Not the most stellar piece of work from me, but something written nonetheless. ^^
It would take either a brilliant artist, or a deranged fool to find any sort of value or beauty in the ashen landscape, yet, he found a certain sense of tranquility in it. Amber eyes stared from the ruins of the once imperial building, the decadent landscape covered in the ash of turmoil and war, of a once proud and haughty society. He didn't miss the city itself any more than the distasteful group that lived within it; the steely playground left a greatly preferable. In front of him stretched a vast wasteland, remnants of the pompous buildings now gleefully twisted into simple forms of metal and concrete, a mocking reminder of what once was. To be honest, he preferred what was left over, a twisted sense of artistic appreciation for the traumatized canvas that lay before him. Moving forwards he sat over the edge of the blown out section of building, the cold, harsh breeze a constant reminder of reality in this most impossible of pictures, and he breathed lightly, the air foul with smoke and dust. Carefully he removed his worn messenger bag, grayed with age and wear, exactly as the world had done. Removing a few choice items he began his task, his eyes only moving to the city before him a few times as he sketched furiously, his ink-stained hands flitting along the page with a sense of passion and purpose that was surprising in such a world. Creating an almost life-like pen and paper version of what he saw before him, the dark, drastic color ironically fitting to the new world. It was this fixation that kept him breathing, a vain attempt to record the world as it was at its lowest, before it managed to work its way back up. Humanity, it seemed, was a determined plague, always returning even when it almost destroyed itself. This thought made him smirk as he stood, vainly brushing the dirt from his tattered jeans, shaking out his long, white, straight hair, as bleak as the landscape, except for the solitary strike of red over his left eye. Perhaps it was just the wind as it rattled over loose metal and broken glass, but it nonetheless caught his attention, and he whirled, staring down what remained of the stairs for a few moments before turning back, holding the large piece of paper up, examining it. Content with his work, he rolled it, placing it with the two others in his bag carefully, before wrapping up the ornate fountain pen alongside it. Even in this most bitter of places, he maintained his devotion to his art, and, subsequently, his tools, an artist everlasting.
Sighing, he sat back down, his back against what once functioned as a filing cabinet, in a building, surrounded by the cruel, steel city. Now, it was a block of metal, within a desecrated structure of steel and concrete. Now, perhaps, the cruelty of the place remained, if a bit more visible. The world around them finally revealed its true colors. It was with these warm, comforting thoughts that he drifted off into a hard slumber, no dreams to draw him away from this reality.
It was some time later, the morning sun having crept much higher into the sky, he awoke to the comforting sounds of someone rummaging through his back and he froze, his eyes opening quickly into the harsh light, observing the individual with disdain. Slowly, attempting to keep his talons from making too much noise along what was left of the tiled surface, he rose, still hunched over, prepared to confront this man, hardly taller than he was, and equally thin. Perhaps he felt the piercing eyes on his neck, or it could have been chance, but he took that moment to swivel, eyes meeting, no fear, only anger and hatred at the site. It was quite possibly a valid reaction, he thought to himself, seeing me as I am, the diminutive, shirtless figure an odd spectacle in this world. His hands were sharp and talon-like, as well as his feet and lower legs. His nose was built strangely as well, resembling something of a beak, made out of the same, hard material, and, protruding from the small of his back were tail feathers, about two feet in length, a solid white with jet black tips, yet grayed from the ash, faded as everything did.
Not even sparing words the man drew a knife, circling to the side as he prepared his attack, the hollow, scavenger all that was left of him. Perhaps, once, he had been a decent man, before he had degraded to this decadent form. It did not matter, however, as he lunged. In one deft movement he sidestepped, dodging the initial stab, grabbing the man's wrist as he ultimately sliced sideways in frustration, his other hand kissing his neck. Immediately he could feel the warmth of the man's life spilling out along his sharp fingers, and he twisted the still dangerous blade away, pressing the quivering form back from himself with a surprising force. Letting him fall to the ground, still shocked at this sudden change in his life's direction, the boy wiped the blood from his fingers on a spare piece of cloth, it original purpose unknown, perhaps drapes over a window. Still, it retained some usefulness, it seemed.