03-05-2020, 04:49 PM
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
There are voices haunting her just as one has always haunted him. They sound of vague murmurs, soft whispers lost on the wind between them. Incomprehensible, faint. Castile does not try to understand them because his attention is more focused on her, on the physicality of her body rather than the turmoil haunting her mind. Life’s experiences have deepened the lines of her face, but she is still youthful, just like him. Untouched by time, they forever retain the appearance of their prime and youth. One day, they will watch their children and grandchildren die. They will have numerous loves only to lose them to death (or to betrayal, whichever comes first).
But he can see beyond the immortality preserving her face. He sees how the world has beaten her down and how she always fights back.
Idly, Castile licks his lips and tastes the remnants of his kills. A flick of his tail like a relaxing lion exposes the claw marks that have ripped beyond the scales. The gesture, however, wasn’t to parade his latest feats or battle wounds, but a sign of amusement as she stands, unmoved, on the opposite bank. Of course, she doesn’t bend to his will or invitation. It wouldn’t be Sabra if she obeyed.
A flashback of an argument. A battle of wills and anger.
His proud head slowly shakes to dismiss the fragmented image, casting it aside before his draconic self can implant falsifications to offset his placidity. It’s what happened to Icicle Isle, after all. The hissing voice poisoned what he remembered of the island and manipulated his thoughts to believe that destruction was the only way. It wasn’t, but by the time he realized, the sky was thick with black smoke. Ash from the southern tip fell like snow.
As a means of negotiation, Castile lifts himself and lumbers forward – toward her – a few steps, stopping at near mid-point before lying back down. His bronze scales catch the sunlight magnificently; he looks regal without ever trying. An observant hum vibrates through his core as he moves his head to scrutinize Sabra’s every angle before leveling almost to her height. ”You’ve survived this long,” he nearly mirrors her thoughts, but he cannot see them, cannot hear how she tells herself that she is simply alive.
(We can change that)
It’s easier for Castile to rise from the abysmal pool of his predatory thoughts, at least in these moments when his hunger has ebbed and there is no rage to act on. It shows in the subtle gleam of his mismatched eyes when they tunnel on Sabra, nearly forgetting about those surrounding them. The world, for just a moment, disappears. ”You don’t want to know,” a rolling chuckle escapes him, but it never reaches his eyes. The sound is shallow and weighted by his mistakes. ”And I resigned as Loess’ King. It was time.” Although the crown sat comfortably on his brow, he knew his reign needed to close. Change was necessary, and how can a dragon king truly lead them? For now, Castile doesn’t elaborate, keeping a vagueness to match her own as their lives weave together for the first time in years, the fates laughing at their broken souls.
But he can see beyond the immortality preserving her face. He sees how the world has beaten her down and how she always fights back.
Idly, Castile licks his lips and tastes the remnants of his kills. A flick of his tail like a relaxing lion exposes the claw marks that have ripped beyond the scales. The gesture, however, wasn’t to parade his latest feats or battle wounds, but a sign of amusement as she stands, unmoved, on the opposite bank. Of course, she doesn’t bend to his will or invitation. It wouldn’t be Sabra if she obeyed.
A flashback of an argument. A battle of wills and anger.
His proud head slowly shakes to dismiss the fragmented image, casting it aside before his draconic self can implant falsifications to offset his placidity. It’s what happened to Icicle Isle, after all. The hissing voice poisoned what he remembered of the island and manipulated his thoughts to believe that destruction was the only way. It wasn’t, but by the time he realized, the sky was thick with black smoke. Ash from the southern tip fell like snow.
As a means of negotiation, Castile lifts himself and lumbers forward – toward her – a few steps, stopping at near mid-point before lying back down. His bronze scales catch the sunlight magnificently; he looks regal without ever trying. An observant hum vibrates through his core as he moves his head to scrutinize Sabra’s every angle before leveling almost to her height. ”You’ve survived this long,” he nearly mirrors her thoughts, but he cannot see them, cannot hear how she tells herself that she is simply alive.
(We can change that)
It’s easier for Castile to rise from the abysmal pool of his predatory thoughts, at least in these moments when his hunger has ebbed and there is no rage to act on. It shows in the subtle gleam of his mismatched eyes when they tunnel on Sabra, nearly forgetting about those surrounding them. The world, for just a moment, disappears. ”You don’t want to know,” a rolling chuckle escapes him, but it never reaches his eyes. The sound is shallow and weighted by his mistakes. ”And I resigned as Loess’ King. It was time.” Although the crown sat comfortably on his brow, he knew his reign needed to close. Change was necessary, and how can a dragon king truly lead them? For now, Castile doesn’t elaborate, keeping a vagueness to match her own as their lives weave together for the first time in years, the fates laughing at their broken souls.
castile
@[Sabra]