The sunlight is fire tracing his skin, burning him as he steps from the umbrage where he has most often frequented. His eyelids squint together as the brightness blankets over him for the first time in months. The mere taste of blood in his mouth frightened him enough to find solitude. He no longer trusted himself. For the past couple of seasons, Castile imprisoned himself where there had been darkness mostly, nothing to set aflame the monster that stirs within. It was quiet, morose, but he forced it on himself until the need for punishment subsided.
The blood on his coat has since rubbed away, the taste of it nearly forgotten.
When he steps forward, the sense of normalcy almost settles over him. There is still a small flame flickering in his gut, threatening, foreboding, but the reeling of his thoughts keeps the pit in his stomach subdued – at least for now.
Nothing of the meadow has changed except perhaps the scents and figures. Karaugh is no longer an entity thumbing through his mind and commanding him. He is left unbidden and unbothered. The prospect is unsettling, but it doesn’t stop the forward locomotion of his body. Castile’s steps are slow, calculative, and they draw him away from the bustling and conversational knots to instead find a quieter companion that overlooks the meadow with mild disinterest. The obsidian shadows swirling around her legs do not skip his notice, but his mismatched eyes quickly find the gaze of a woman whom has seen many years and whose life has experienced many tales and experiences. In comparison, he is likely an infant, but it doesn’t stop him. Curiosity drums in Castile’s heart as he edges closer. ”You aren’t new here,” the words helplessly tumble past his lips and there is no recovering them. ”I’m Castile,” no title, no victories, no greatness; he is only a name.
The blood on his coat has since rubbed away, the taste of it nearly forgotten.
When he steps forward, the sense of normalcy almost settles over him. There is still a small flame flickering in his gut, threatening, foreboding, but the reeling of his thoughts keeps the pit in his stomach subdued – at least for now.
Nothing of the meadow has changed except perhaps the scents and figures. Karaugh is no longer an entity thumbing through his mind and commanding him. He is left unbidden and unbothered. The prospect is unsettling, but it doesn’t stop the forward locomotion of his body. Castile’s steps are slow, calculative, and they draw him away from the bustling and conversational knots to instead find a quieter companion that overlooks the meadow with mild disinterest. The obsidian shadows swirling around her legs do not skip his notice, but his mismatched eyes quickly find the gaze of a woman whom has seen many years and whose life has experienced many tales and experiences. In comparison, he is likely an infant, but it doesn’t stop him. Curiosity drums in Castile’s heart as he edges closer. ”You aren’t new here,” the words helplessly tumble past his lips and there is no recovering them. ”I’m Castile,” no title, no victories, no greatness; he is only a name.