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The Mountain would have been a good home, had he been allowed to live there.
It would have catered to his habits, those that grew increasingly akin to a hermit the older he got, those that kept others at an arm’s distance because it was just so draining to try to pretend to care. (Except for Oksana where he had, for reasons unknown to him, invested himself.) Other than what he had long since excepted as an anomaly in his life, he had little desire to make friends, acquaintances, lovers. His company was entertaining enough that he did not seek out ways to cushion it or gild it with faux affection.
Of course, the other obvious benefit, was that the Mountain returned to him the gifts that were rightfully his own—the gifts that had been his from birth. Gifts that he had used selfishly but never maliciously—and yet, and yet, gifts that had been stripped from him regardless. Gifts that had been lumped in together with the rest of the dirty lot, those that sought power (fools) or bloodshed (cowards) or both (idiots).
He sighed and shook his head. Wasn’t that just typical.
So perhaps it was not surprising that he had found his way back here, that he overcame his overwhelming desire to sit and do nothing with an even stronger pull back to the Mountain’s embrace. Perhaps it was not surprising that he braved the incline, dipping his rangy head and walking up the twisted, beaten paths, the autumn chill descending the further he went, the air thinning. When he was still comfortable (because he was, above all else, a creature of comfort) but alone (because he was also a recluse), he came to a stop.
Drawing a deep breath, he surveyed the land around them, the way the mountain dove off the side to reveal gentle fog and bare vegetation. Alone. He was alone. Or at least he thought he was. Because it had not been but a minute before he saw her, green-eyed and as pretty as a shiny penny. Annoyance at first bit at the back of his mouth, but it bled away as he caught her eyes, her wings. She was too much like Oksana for him to drive her away—and, knowing his luck, she was some descendant, because wouldn’t that just be something else? Even if he did drive her away, it would only be a minute before Oksana stormed the mountain and had his head on a platter. The thought amused him, enough that his annoyance fled.
Instead of a cutting sarcastic comment, he gave her a lazy smile, rolling his shoulders.
“Come to enjoy the fresh air, have you?”
</p> <p class="dempsey2_name">DEMPSEY</p> <p class="dempsey2_quote2">lord have mercy on my rough and rowdy ways</p> </div> <div class="dempsey2_gradient"></div> <img class="dempsey2_image" src="http://i1060.photobucket.com/albums/t460/Corina2490/RL%20Johnson_zpshbpryfnk.jpg"> </div> </div> </center> <center><font color=black style="font-size: 9pt">© rl johnson</font></center>
temporary trait: immortality
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#b0b0b0', endColorstr='#00ffffff',GradientType=0 ); left: 25px; } </style> <center> <div class="dempsey2_container"> <div class="dempsey2_text"> <p class="dempsey2_message"> The Mountain would have been a good home, had he been allowed to live there.
It would have catered to his habits, those that grew increasingly akin to a hermit the older he got, those that kept others at an arm’s distance because it was just so draining to try to pretend to care. (Except for Oksana where he had, for reasons unknown to him, invested himself.) Other than what he had long since excepted as an anomaly in his life, he had little desire to make friends, acquaintances, lovers. His company was entertaining enough that he did not seek out ways to cushion it or gild it with faux affection.
Of course, the other obvious benefit, was that the Mountain returned to him the gifts that were rightfully his own—the gifts that had been his from birth. Gifts that he had used selfishly but never maliciously—and yet, and yet, gifts that had been stripped from him regardless. Gifts that had been lumped in together with the rest of the dirty lot, those that sought power (fools) or bloodshed (cowards) or both (idiots).
He sighed and shook his head. Wasn’t that just typical.
So perhaps it was not surprising that he had found his way back here, that he overcame his overwhelming desire to sit and do nothing with an even stronger pull back to the Mountain’s embrace. Perhaps it was not surprising that he braved the incline, dipping his rangy head and walking up the twisted, beaten paths, the autumn chill descending the further he went, the air thinning. When he was still comfortable (because he was, above all else, a creature of comfort) but alone (because he was also a recluse), he came to a stop.
Drawing a deep breath, he surveyed the land around them, the way the mountain dove off the side to reveal gentle fog and bare vegetation. Alone. He was alone. Or at least he thought he was. Because it had not been but a minute before he saw her, green-eyed and as pretty as a shiny penny. Annoyance at first bit at the back of his mouth, but it bled away as he caught her eyes, her wings. She was too much like Oksana for him to drive her away—and, knowing his luck, she was some descendant, because wouldn’t that just be something else? Even if he did drive her away, it would only be a minute before Oksana stormed the mountain and had his head on a platter. The thought amused him, enough that his annoyance fled.
Instead of a cutting sarcastic comment, he gave her a lazy smile, rolling his shoulders.
“Come to enjoy the fresh air, have you?”
</p> <p class="dempsey2_name">DEMPSEY</p> <p class="dempsey2_quote2">lord have mercy on my rough and rowdy ways</p> </div> <div class="dempsey2_gradient"></div> <img class="dempsey2_image" src="http://i1060.photobucket.com/albums/t460/Corina2490/RL%20Johnson_zpshbpryfnk.jpg"> </div> </div> </center> <center><font color=black style="font-size: 9pt">© rl johnson</font></center>
temporary trait: immortality