01-13-2020, 03:01 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
He should have known, but he is impulsive and sharp-tongued. It could have all been a dream, or a reality lost in the portal between life and death. To berate her immediately was in poor taste, but his stubbornness prevails and refuses the invitation to apologize.
Castile recoils, but only slightly, when the space between them abruptly closes by the grip of his motivation. Craft hisses, instinctive and feral. A returned snarl plays as his immediate reaction, his body bristling until he finds composure in the depths of his mind. It spreads across him slowly, his muscles unwilling to ease away their tension underneath her scrutiny.
She doesn’t know him, does not remember how he curled his talons around her to pluck her from harm’s way. Everything that elapsed dissipated in the transition. Castile nearly second guesses himself and questions whether he truly saw the oasis and the sand dunes that extended beyond his vision. But he remembers awakening the following morning with bruises and abrasions that signified it all happened. His body screamed with deep aches, but over the hours, everything mended. How strange, he muses, that the memories serve him correctly but elude the golden queen.
Unable to name the cloaked figure, Castile’s body ripples to mirror him. His skin burns like ash into a sooty black and his eyes blaze like the fire roiling in his gut. ”Him,” he breathes, smoke piling from his lungs. The memory is eerie, watching the replay of her death while she stands here in front of him, alive and breathing the same air. A step inches closer, and still he doesn’t revert back. In front of her, he embodies her murderer and embraces the abysmal black of his coat, diving into grotesque need for her reaction. ”Who am I?” He asks in his cruel attempt to understand her memory and her death, to pull answers from her.
And then, he changes back.
Marbled in coat, his gaze mismatched – the right eye remains its usual blazing orange – and steadied on her, he is suddenly quiet. The rhythm of his heart regulates, no longer supplemented by adrenaline to shift and change. ”Craft,” he says her name again after having noticed her surprise that he knew it at all, ”what happened the day you died?”
Castile recoils, but only slightly, when the space between them abruptly closes by the grip of his motivation. Craft hisses, instinctive and feral. A returned snarl plays as his immediate reaction, his body bristling until he finds composure in the depths of his mind. It spreads across him slowly, his muscles unwilling to ease away their tension underneath her scrutiny.
She doesn’t know him, does not remember how he curled his talons around her to pluck her from harm’s way. Everything that elapsed dissipated in the transition. Castile nearly second guesses himself and questions whether he truly saw the oasis and the sand dunes that extended beyond his vision. But he remembers awakening the following morning with bruises and abrasions that signified it all happened. His body screamed with deep aches, but over the hours, everything mended. How strange, he muses, that the memories serve him correctly but elude the golden queen.
Unable to name the cloaked figure, Castile’s body ripples to mirror him. His skin burns like ash into a sooty black and his eyes blaze like the fire roiling in his gut. ”Him,” he breathes, smoke piling from his lungs. The memory is eerie, watching the replay of her death while she stands here in front of him, alive and breathing the same air. A step inches closer, and still he doesn’t revert back. In front of her, he embodies her murderer and embraces the abysmal black of his coat, diving into grotesque need for her reaction. ”Who am I?” He asks in his cruel attempt to understand her memory and her death, to pull answers from her.
And then, he changes back.
Marbled in coat, his gaze mismatched – the right eye remains its usual blazing orange – and steadied on her, he is suddenly quiet. The rhythm of his heart regulates, no longer supplemented by adrenaline to shift and change. ”Craft,” he says her name again after having noticed her surprise that he knew it at all, ”what happened the day you died?”
castile
@[craft]