01-25-2018, 11:39 AM
Little did he know that Krigare, too, fled to solitude.
Funny how both parties of the battle retracted into the dark confines of their thoughts and curled their bodies in humiliation, in fear. Their emotional battles are different, but both struggled to grasp their reality. Healing their wounds took time and patience while their loved ones stood in the rain waiting for them to come home. Isobell and Solace were the quiet saviors that pulled him from the recesses of Beqanna. The serene memory of them pulled back the curtains he hid behind.
It has been just recently that Castile clambered from his inner darkness. Beqanna hadn’t changed much since his disappearance; it was almost as though he never left, like he was never missed. One by one, he visited those that he left behind.
He tells them it’s for their own reassurance, but subconsciously he wonders if it’s actually for himself.
A breath catches in Castile’s throat as he nomadically weaves through the soldier-like trees of the forest. He didn’t expect to find Krigare – he wasn’t close to his heart like Isobell – but he doesn’t flee from the opportunity. The rhythmic beat of his hooves comes to an abrupt halt, mismatched eyes peering through the unruliness of his forelock to better view the scars laid across Krigare’s body. They’re ugly. No scar is ever truly appealing.
A chill races down Castile’s spine as he briefly, precariously, reflects back to the battle. He remembers the pain that branched across his side from kicks and rears, the popping of his ear tip splitting apart, the growling behemoth that lurked beneath his surface. It’s still there, hissing now, but he suppresses it with all his strength and distracts himself by observing a swallow in the tree branches overhead.
One breath… Two breaths…
”I’m so sorry,” he mutters as he approaches faster than he anticipated. The unnerving reunion quickens his heartbeat, but he desperately breathes as levelly as possible. ”I didn’t… I don’t… I…” Castile stumbles over himself before finally swallowing the lump in his throat to compose himself. ”I haven’t quite learned to control the shifting,” a pause as he recalls his years trying to work the ability, only berthing scales or claws for a few seconds, ”and sometimes it just… happens.” Much like the night he fled from Hyaline to Sylva; the adrenaline spurred a full shift – it wasn’t a voluntary act.
@[Krigare]