08-23-2019, 09:50 PM
draco
His father being the proud creature he is, it is only right that Draco follows suit. The crimson horns on his head are still small, but they are handsome, and they cast shadows upon his face that sharpen the glow of his stars. The glimmering red of his eyes tell truth upon truth: he has seen too much for a colt six months old, and his mind constantly spins with the knowledge. Father failed me, he might think, when the cremello king turns tail to tend to Pangea. I am but a bastard child.
Still, the boy holds his head high with the grace and prowess of royalty. His eyes are disdainful when they settle upon the citizens of Loess, and they grow even darker when he observes the one member of Sylva.
His mother the unwillingly leader of Sylva and his father an unwilling warmonger, it only makes sense that cruelty is the sword that he wields. Or, that is what he tells himself as he casts his fear upon small creatures and nips his sister too harshly. It’s not my fault. If mom and dad were not so distracted . . . But even those sentences betray him, whispering that he is self-aware and not coming to terms with his reality. Perhaps it is the acting out of a boy lost, one so desperate for attention that already volatile magic becomes wild and untameable in his grasp.
I wish I could not read their minds.
He thinks this over and over again. Every time that he leaves Sylva or Pangea, he thinks this. He is sure his mother sees the darkness that writhes in his mind, but he is hardly bothered to mask it. Let her feel her guilt - or whatever it is she feels. He thinks he might hate his parents, so he blocks their thoughts from his mind as much as possible.
Against the truck of a tree, he focuses, red eyes glowing with that hellish light he knows so well. If one were to walk by he could turn on his fear in an instant, send them flying away with tears in their eyes; instead, only the small creatures of the woods flee, and he is left to listen to the rustle and sway of the canopy.
Still, the boy holds his head high with the grace and prowess of royalty. His eyes are disdainful when they settle upon the citizens of Loess, and they grow even darker when he observes the one member of Sylva.
His mother the unwillingly leader of Sylva and his father an unwilling warmonger, it only makes sense that cruelty is the sword that he wields. Or, that is what he tells himself as he casts his fear upon small creatures and nips his sister too harshly. It’s not my fault. If mom and dad were not so distracted . . . But even those sentences betray him, whispering that he is self-aware and not coming to terms with his reality. Perhaps it is the acting out of a boy lost, one so desperate for attention that already volatile magic becomes wild and untameable in his grasp.
I wish I could not read their minds.
He thinks this over and over again. Every time that he leaves Sylva or Pangea, he thinks this. He is sure his mother sees the darkness that writhes in his mind, but he is hardly bothered to mask it. Let her feel her guilt - or whatever it is she feels. He thinks he might hate his parents, so he blocks their thoughts from his mind as much as possible.
Against the truck of a tree, he focuses, red eyes glowing with that hellish light he knows so well. If one were to walk by he could turn on his fear in an instant, send them flying away with tears in their eyes; instead, only the small creatures of the woods flee, and he is left to listen to the rustle and sway of the canopy.
play it cool then smart, don't take it to heart
@[despoina]