11-20-2018, 02:06 PM
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
It’s the scent, the familiarity, which causes the dragon to shift in his arduous flight. The wind caresses him like a lover, but it also plays the strings of his memory as Ivar comes to mind after so many years of having it slipped far from his grasp. They had been so close once, near inseparable, but life peeled them apart as it does to so many others. The kelpie lured Isobell into his embrace, an odd sensation of anger but content clouding Castile’s judgment. She returned one day smelling of him with slick scales where hair had once been.
His sister coupled with his friend.
His friend pulled his sisters into the depths and altered her natural beauty.
What is one to make of that?
And yet, when he reminisces of Ivar, he sees them playing in the tide and mocking along the shore. Above all else, they had been friends, so Castile struggles to suppress the curiosity that is piqued upon drawing in the familiar odor.
Castile’s body has since shifted into its norm. The claws are replaced by hooves, his hardened scales by hair. Only his draconic wings remain as he descends heavily onto the sand. It hisses beneath his weight as he steadies himself. A fever is climbing through him, slowly, but for now the most prominent symptom is his fatigue. It eats away at him, exhausting him even on the most trivial excursions. Drawing in a deep breath, Castile straightens himself and adopts a rather stoic expression, not quite sure what to even expect.
”Hello, Ivar.”
His sister coupled with his friend.
His friend pulled his sisters into the depths and altered her natural beauty.
What is one to make of that?
And yet, when he reminisces of Ivar, he sees them playing in the tide and mocking along the shore. Above all else, they had been friends, so Castile struggles to suppress the curiosity that is piqued upon drawing in the familiar odor.
Castile’s body has since shifted into its norm. The claws are replaced by hooves, his hardened scales by hair. Only his draconic wings remain as he descends heavily onto the sand. It hisses beneath his weight as he steadies himself. A fever is climbing through him, slowly, but for now the most prominent symptom is his fatigue. It eats away at him, exhausting him even on the most trivial excursions. Drawing in a deep breath, Castile straightens himself and adopts a rather stoic expression, not quite sure what to even expect.
”Hello, Ivar.”
castile