03-18-2024, 12:29 AM
YOU'RE WALKING IN THE SHADOWS OF YOUR FEAR AND YOU'RE HEADED
FOR THE GALLOWS, SIN AROUND YOUR THROAT AND NO ONE'S NEAR
FOR THE GALLOWS, SIN AROUND YOUR THROAT AND NO ONE'S NEAR
The fear that had briefly raced along her spine still hung in the air, lingering and enticing. He knows how easy it would be to feed that fear — how quickly they can go from being on edge to falling off of it, with just a little guidance from him. Fear to him is like blood to a shark; he wants to follow it, wants to devour the source of it, and it is infuriating to him how insatiable that hunger seemed to be.
But there are other things that he is hungry for, things that the monster does not crave but the long-lost boy always will. Her shadows distract him from the most base feeling of hunger and divert his attention elsewhere, tugging at his curiosity and prodding that aching pit of loneliness that he can never escape.
“Then I suppose a welcome is in order,” he says, his dark lips curling into a smile. The subtly shifting shadows of his face detract from what might have been a kind gesture, and shield much of the emotion that a normal face might have been able to portray. There are days where Torryn forgets that he is a monster; most often in conversation, when words flow and he thinks himself only as the blue roan boy born beneath the shade of the Taiga trees, sheltered by his father’s shadows. He forgets the way someone else might see him — billowing darkness and glowing-bright eyes — and that his very presence evokes anxiety and insanity.
He could almost forget entirely, if not for the faint wariness still radiating from her.
“Torryn,” he responds with his own introduction after hers, the intensity of his gaze never lessening, until he finally gives in to what had drawn him to her in the first place and comments, “I saw you dissolve into something like shadows. Have you always been able to do that?”
But there are other things that he is hungry for, things that the monster does not crave but the long-lost boy always will. Her shadows distract him from the most base feeling of hunger and divert his attention elsewhere, tugging at his curiosity and prodding that aching pit of loneliness that he can never escape.
“Then I suppose a welcome is in order,” he says, his dark lips curling into a smile. The subtly shifting shadows of his face detract from what might have been a kind gesture, and shield much of the emotion that a normal face might have been able to portray. There are days where Torryn forgets that he is a monster; most often in conversation, when words flow and he thinks himself only as the blue roan boy born beneath the shade of the Taiga trees, sheltered by his father’s shadows. He forgets the way someone else might see him — billowing darkness and glowing-bright eyes — and that his very presence evokes anxiety and insanity.
He could almost forget entirely, if not for the faint wariness still radiating from her.
“Torryn,” he responds with his own introduction after hers, the intensity of his gaze never lessening, until he finally gives in to what had drawn him to her in the first place and comments, “I saw you dissolve into something like shadows. Have you always been able to do that?”
T O R R Y N
@Naluca