jamie
03-07-2021, 07:29 PM
jamie
I CAN’T EXACTLY DESCRIBE HOW I FEEL
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
He’d heard them.
Their feeble cry.
Their foolish plea.
He had not needed to travel to the Mountain to know what it was the faeries were after. Perhaps he should have gone. Gone to try and stop them, at least. Because the things that lurk in the darkness are not monsters. Because he belongs to them and they belong to him. Because he is comfortable in these long, impenetrable shadows.
Because it fills him with such terrible anger to think that this darkness might not stretch on forever.
His mood is foul as he sulks through the forest now, gnashing his ink-black teeth. There is nothing to discern him from all that darkness save for those freakish yellow eyes. Let them try to take the shadows from him, he thinks. His edges (soft, rumors more than anything real or solid) shiver with the thrill that comes with the thought of ruin, glorious destruction, revenge.
He pauses just long enough to summon things from shadow. He has to stop, channel all of his concentration into their construction. He is not practiced enough yet to conjure them with a mere thought. It is only a pair of them, two great, horned elk that flank him as he moves through the forest, made from darkness with freakish yellow eyes just like his. Shadow creatures, like him.
And when they hear something nearby, all three figures stop and turn their great, featureless heads in unison, seeking out the source of the sound, nostrils flaring. But it is only the equine figure that steps forward, toward the sound.
Their feeble cry.
Their foolish plea.
He had not needed to travel to the Mountain to know what it was the faeries were after. Perhaps he should have gone. Gone to try and stop them, at least. Because the things that lurk in the darkness are not monsters. Because he belongs to them and they belong to him. Because he is comfortable in these long, impenetrable shadows.
Because it fills him with such terrible anger to think that this darkness might not stretch on forever.
His mood is foul as he sulks through the forest now, gnashing his ink-black teeth. There is nothing to discern him from all that darkness save for those freakish yellow eyes. Let them try to take the shadows from him, he thinks. His edges (soft, rumors more than anything real or solid) shiver with the thrill that comes with the thought of ruin, glorious destruction, revenge.
He pauses just long enough to summon things from shadow. He has to stop, channel all of his concentration into their construction. He is not practiced enough yet to conjure them with a mere thought. It is only a pair of them, two great, horned elk that flank him as he moves through the forest, made from darkness with freakish yellow eyes just like his. Shadow creatures, like him.
And when they hear something nearby, all three figures stop and turn their great, featureless heads in unison, seeking out the source of the sound, nostrils flaring. But it is only the equine figure that steps forward, toward the sound.
AND IT LEAVES ME COLD