give my all just to watch you fall; any

[rapt]

rapt

rapt.

there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail
the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream

He is, as always, drawn back.
He is unsure what to do with himself, now, his children long-grown and gone from him. He is a thing who was made to worship, made to fall upon his knees in wretched devotion; yet he lacks an idol, now.
He moves into the meadow with some hesitancy, an unheralded return. Rapt did not make the acquaintance of many, and his name certainly was not one that would echo in Beqanna’s history. He lacked the power, and more so the desire for power, and thus he moved through this world with little in his wake. He does not mind this – never has – but there is still a strange tightness in his throat as he looks around at the unfamiliar faces.

The sun is warm on his face, though, highlighting his own gold coat. Rapt is, if nothing else, beautiful.
Movement catches his eye, colors shifting and blurring. Orange that’s there then gone, a shape changed. He had not looked directly at her, did not know the nature of the transformation, only that something had occurred.
He is looking now, though, and sees fully the patterned mare. For a moment, he considers drawing back, letting her pass on unheralded.
But Rapt has so long been idle, and he has not returned to do nothing but skulk in shadows.
“Hello,” he says, then, “did you change color? I saw…something a moment ago.”
Not that she owes him any explanation. He is a stranger, and a rather useless one, at that.
“I’m Rapt,” he adds, as if giving her his name mattered.

but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever

@[Titanya]