01-23-2016, 07:37 PM
is crowded w/ lovers & searchers
& leavers so eager to please & forget.
Grains of sticky, wet sand. And darkness, deep and blue, as night rolled in overhead. Waves. Not hard and crashing, but softly pulling at and worrying the shoreline; the shiver of that second, unsteady moon on the black water.
Stillness, the likes of which he could not have possibly understood at the time.
That is what he remembers of his own mother.
Those few kin stalking Beqanna would agree he had been the lucky one. Lucky to be last, and lucky to have been spared her hand. He had met Pollock a few times, a husk of anger and bitterness. Epharim—somehow his damage was even more extensive. The blue stallion had always imagined that was because he had been the golden woman’s first.
Untried, there was more room for mistake.
They are the vestiges of a cruel rift in time—Epahrim, Birkenau, Warring, Pheper, Pollock.
He is weighted down by nothing; he has none of that clenching anxiety, unhindered by the vice grip of her caustic haunting. He was moved and shaped by other things. By the whisper in his ear that night, ‘be grateful, kid’; the heat of breath on his neck without a body to fit it to. By the mare that found him and dusted him off and kept him in her quiet, sad company. By the sureness in himself that his siblings had never been afforded.
The difference, in the end, between him and some of his siblings—there is subtlety in the quirk of his lips. A heavy chain tethering the discord humming in his chest to something comparable to civility. Whole and safe, he is what they could have been. What they never will be.
He could never manage to muster any sympathy.
They have nursed themselves on their own madness or self-hate or sexuality.
Baby brother can do nothing for them.
Whether or not she feels pitiful, or lost, is irrelevant. To him, anyway. He can hear her uncertainty in his mind as his black eyes find her in the squall of bodies. He moves to her without a cursory glance elsewhere. He has found his mark. And without her consent, a chink in her armour.
He means not to wound her with his ill-begotten knowledge, but it would be a lie to say he had never used his ability to his advantage.
“Hello,” his voice is deep and graveled, but he softens it. Makes it welcoming. “You look like you could use some company,” he grins, cocked and deep blue, “I'm Chessur.”
Trashlip and Phina's
first post with him. excuse me while he maybe fluctuates wildly as i figure him out lol
BASE BY BRONZEHALO