i’ve been both a saint & a viper
He watches with unblinking eyes as the shadow beast tilts its head curiously. Balto’s jaw clenches at the gesture - so innocent, but it didn’t seem right on this being - and he feels his muscles tensing beneath his skin. Not that there was anywhere for him to go where he would not be followed.
The voice that answers him is nothing like he is expecting.
It is thin and strained as if the air itself is too thick for it to pass through. It’s a terrible voice, one that causes a visible shudder to spiral down Balto’s spine. It is so unlike the demons that plague his mind; their voices are full and strong, even in their diabolical whispers, that the blue stallion can do nothing but believe the pair of yellow eyes that hover eerily on a shape of what seems like another horse.
The horse-made-of-shadow does not rush to him like the demons do; it does not swathe his brittle and malnourished body with its presence. In fact, the only movement Balto can see is the gentle swaying of the fog and shadow, moving to occupy space and keep the shape of whatever it is before him. It may not be of his own mind, but he knows that it is not of this world - not the world he was born in, anyways.
Do you know much about ideas?
Balto remains silent and still, outwardly unphased by the writhing shadows and darkness, but could feel his pulse in every inch of his body. He wonders if the thing could hear it too, throbbing loudly in his ears and in his head, calling to it like a beacon in the night. He knows the shadow beast expects an answer, but the pause between them becomes heavy and dark with anticipation. Answer him, his demons threaten, their voices suddenly loud and commanding in his ears. He swallows hard, his gaze never falling away from those yellow irises as the hot, putrid breath of his insanity drips down his back.
Finally - it may have been ages that the being has waited - he finds his voice.
“No,” he confesses plainly, his voice almost a whisper, “I am only a puppet; my ideas are not my own.” As if to commend him on his answer, Balto feels a tongue lick at his jaw before the chittering of their fang-filled jaws click beside him, fading away until they are trapezing through the forest around them once again, always watching. He shudders visibly, but will not allow his gaze to fall from the being before him.
“Do ideas have names?”
Balto
@[jamie]