04-05-2019, 08:34 AM
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 could so easily end right now, with the aches plaguing her body and hunger stabbing his own. His slit pupils bore into her and read her thermal geography. Blood is pulsing through her fearfully, and Castile so badly wants to laugh between her labored breaths. He is dangerous, he advised the others, but so few listen. They want to see him, to prod the beast that lurks beneath his bones and in his soul. Caelestra challenged him, and he was more than willing to comply. All it takes is her submission, for her to bend to him and acquiesce to his demands. The temporary effects of healing have become an addiction that he craves. Even as the slightest taste of fever rises in his throat, Castile beckons for the aid of Tiphon. Now though, he forces his request on Caelestra.
He would be lying if he said he was unsurprised by her reaction. Even as her body quakes with pain, she defies him. A grin wrinkles the edges of her mouth, and he knows then that she still won’t submit to him. Standing above her, his serpent-like neck arched and his jagged teeth bared, she comments sideways and he responds with a chilling hiss. How appropriate of her to say something that frequents his mind on days he lazily spends basking in the sunlight. Oftentimes, he doesn’t tell others that he is King – they simply know – but she is different. She is seemingly dense, challenging him as she protests for peace. Even under the pressure of pain and loss, Caelestra continues to refuse him. ”Tell me,” his voice trembles through them both, a deep baritone resembling a foreboding growl, ”Do you want to die for a lost cause?” Ideally, he doesn’t want to have more blood on his hands, but he won’t back down; he won’t shy away from his own threats.
They would see him weak then. They would undermine him, doubt him. He, by his own standards, would be unfit.
Castile’s wings fold against his sides, idle while grounded. His talons knead the sand and dry dirt underneath his titanic body, almost in preparation. ”Or perhaps a little reminder that Loess will not be what you want while I am here,” he could maim her, cut into her soft flesh, leave her scarred but at least alive to fulfill her pacifist role elsewhere should she not stay here.
He would be lying if he said he was unsurprised by her reaction. Even as her body quakes with pain, she defies him. A grin wrinkles the edges of her mouth, and he knows then that she still won’t submit to him. Standing above her, his serpent-like neck arched and his jagged teeth bared, she comments sideways and he responds with a chilling hiss. How appropriate of her to say something that frequents his mind on days he lazily spends basking in the sunlight. Oftentimes, he doesn’t tell others that he is King – they simply know – but she is different. She is seemingly dense, challenging him as she protests for peace. Even under the pressure of pain and loss, Caelestra continues to refuse him. ”Tell me,” his voice trembles through them both, a deep baritone resembling a foreboding growl, ”Do you want to die for a lost cause?” Ideally, he doesn’t want to have more blood on his hands, but he won’t back down; he won’t shy away from his own threats.
They would see him weak then. They would undermine him, doubt him. He, by his own standards, would be unfit.
Castile’s wings fold against his sides, idle while grounded. His talons knead the sand and dry dirt underneath his titanic body, almost in preparation. ”Or perhaps a little reminder that Loess will not be what you want while I am here,” he could maim her, cut into her soft flesh, leave her scarred but at least alive to fulfill her pacifist role elsewhere should she not stay here.
castile
@[Caelestra]