i swear you'll see the sun again; any

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife A long time ago, Sleaze was taught to pray. The prayers were a jumble of things, an amalgam of what his father recalled from his mythos, but this was all Sleaze knew, and so he never questioned it. He lived in the meadow with his father, repeating the prayers. He knelt until his knees were worn bare. And sometimes his father would lay his head across Sleaze’s back and sigh, and he never questioned this. For a long time, he knew no one other than his father. He knew nothing but what he was told. Sleaze was, truth be told, a very stupid boy. But then his father had left, quite unexpectedly, and with no reason given; and Sleaze, alone, had had to set off. He’d come to Beqanna, a throng of other horses and worlds, met creatures much more powerful than he. He met terrible creatures, and, at times, became a terrible thing himself. Eventually, he stopped praying. The things he saw stripped belief from him. Sleaze is long-grown now, and a much different boy than the one who had knelt in the meadow. He even looks different – no longer black, like his father, but instead a dark purple (though he looks black in the dark, it’s only when light hits that such color is revealed). He bears scars, some physical, some mental. He bears an ability, one he has mostly quieted, to creep into others minds. (He hates this. He has mostly smothered it. He has too many terrible thoughts of his own to want to know anyone else in that awful, intimate way.) He is still a rather stupid boy. Stupid, and lonely too – it’s always loneliness that drives him to these places, among horses who feel so light beside him (he isn’t privy to their own private darkness, he, the fool, assumes them happy); So he walks back into the meadow, a deep purple made black in the shadows, and he watches them, all the strangers he doesn’t know. sleaze cancer x garbage