10-08-2017, 10:10 AM
.Corvus.
(yes, I am alone)
but then again, I always was. as far back as I can tell.
but then again, I always was. as far back as I can tell.
He is quiet.
He is always quiet.
He felt no need to make his presence known – he had come with his mother, Circinae, to find refuge, to find solace. He kept to himself, quietly guarding a border he had never been asked to. The lingering memory of fire and brimstone with roiling seawater had not gone from his mind yet, and perhaps it never would. He had seen all that he had ever known in his youth swallowed by the ocean and the hot, molten core of the Earth below – it was a sight that had burned itself into his memory; into every wayward dream and every waking nightmare. He loathed the possibility he could see it happen again.
His feathered appendages lay heavily along the curve of his barrel, inky and gleaming in the pale light of day – iridescent beneath its gentle rays, warming the hollowed bone to the core. He does not take to the sky often; it does not give him any comfort to be closer to the starlight that so openly mocks him, nor to the pale moon and its glaring surface, illuminating every fault and flaw etched into his gilded skin.
And yet starlight –
Starlight is what takes his breath away.
A vision of beryl and amethyst – youthful in the way of her flattened hip and long, spindly legs, but wise beyond her years in the hardened ridge of her brow and the intensity of her stare. He, himself, is on the cusp of his own maturity – there are still pieces of him that show his youth, though the once gangly legs have given way to thick muscle and testosterone had begun to round out his jaw with definition. He is caught between, his heart thundering in his chest as he observes the gilded King and the celestial creature that stand before him with purpose.
He had never felt a tender knot in the pit of his belly before, until her.
His legs carry him closer, away from the distant wisteria tree, and the finely preened feathers of his dark wings tuck closer to his body as his haphazard emerald tresses fall in the way of his eyes. Ever the brooding sort, he is quiet, deliberately so, but he is soon alongside Amet, a nod of acknowledgement and appreciation given to the King he knew of but did not quite know - but he does not say a word.
Her presence, stirring him from his ruminating reverie, has captured his attention.
He is always quiet.
He felt no need to make his presence known – he had come with his mother, Circinae, to find refuge, to find solace. He kept to himself, quietly guarding a border he had never been asked to. The lingering memory of fire and brimstone with roiling seawater had not gone from his mind yet, and perhaps it never would. He had seen all that he had ever known in his youth swallowed by the ocean and the hot, molten core of the Earth below – it was a sight that had burned itself into his memory; into every wayward dream and every waking nightmare. He loathed the possibility he could see it happen again.
His feathered appendages lay heavily along the curve of his barrel, inky and gleaming in the pale light of day – iridescent beneath its gentle rays, warming the hollowed bone to the core. He does not take to the sky often; it does not give him any comfort to be closer to the starlight that so openly mocks him, nor to the pale moon and its glaring surface, illuminating every fault and flaw etched into his gilded skin.
And yet starlight –
Starlight is what takes his breath away.
A vision of beryl and amethyst – youthful in the way of her flattened hip and long, spindly legs, but wise beyond her years in the hardened ridge of her brow and the intensity of her stare. He, himself, is on the cusp of his own maturity – there are still pieces of him that show his youth, though the once gangly legs have given way to thick muscle and testosterone had begun to round out his jaw with definition. He is caught between, his heart thundering in his chest as he observes the gilded King and the celestial creature that stand before him with purpose.
He had never felt a tender knot in the pit of his belly before, until her.
His legs carry him closer, away from the distant wisteria tree, and the finely preened feathers of his dark wings tuck closer to his body as his haphazard emerald tresses fall in the way of his eyes. Ever the brooding sort, he is quiet, deliberately so, but he is soon alongside Amet, a nod of acknowledgement and appreciation given to the King he knew of but did not quite know - but he does not say a word.
Her presence, stirring him from his ruminating reverie, has captured his attention.
I think maybe it's because you were never really real to begin with.
(I just made you up to hurt myself)
(I just made you up to hurt myself)