11-19-2017, 01:18 PM
Don't say I'm out of touch with this rampant chaos; your reality.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge.
Her wing had mended, at last.
No longer was she grounded – forced to traverse the island with little else but the long legs that carried her. The small bone within her wing had healed, and though it still causes the subtlest of aches, she can flex once more with ease, and so she is above the drifting haze as a deep and rumbling storm presses close to her, enveloping the island. The remaining sunlight presses deeply into her skin, and she is warmed by it, soothed by the way it weaves through each carefully preened feather. The tide below is low and mellow, lapping lazily along the shoreline, drawing away particles of loose sand and rhyolite with it, while a frigid gust of wind carries through.
She can feel it surge beneath her, and the sensation is enough to make her feel whole, if only for a moment. It had been so long since she had taken to the sky. Since her life had been turned upside-down; since the day she and Dahmer had been swept into a hell of emotional, physical and mental torment. Since the day Ledger had lost his mind – since the day her heart had betrayed him for another; the day her heart revealed itself to her in a terrible, awful and deceitful way.
When her hazel eye does finally cast itself along the distant, jagged edge of the precipice lining the volcanic island, it is settled upon Dahmer – and a frightened, trembling Scyla. She had made herself sparse with her, and knew little of her but the stories Dahmer would tell her of his youth, of a youth he and Scyla had both experienced (endured, seemed a more appropriate word). Smoak had learned much from her – perhaps more than she, herself, preferred him to know, but such is the way of a mother to want to guard her children from her own demons as well as the wayward world. He loved her, as did Dahmer, and that was enough for Ellyse.
Quietly, she glides along the drifting wind, tucking her feathered appendages closer to her as her legs touch the soft and fertile soil. Moving closer, her cheek is tilted, listening closely – if it were a simple spat, she had no desire, nor any place interceding, but there is something within the frightened posture of Scyla that does not allow her to pull away, nor to leave. Wings outstretched, tattered and plucked apart, with remnants of still seeping, barely mending wounds covering the length of her body.
She remembered feeling so torn apart herself, not too long ago, but the quivering dread and panic filling the otherwise broken and dejected rust-laced eyes of her lover’s sister is another thing entirely. She does not come closer to Scyla (worried she might slip; she might fall if urged any closer to the edge), though she does come alongside Dahmer. Her gaze hardened; uncertain but concerned beyond that of a Queen, that of the Head of War.
Stay away from me.
How could you?
She is broken, bent – falling apart into pieces. What had Dahmer done?
The Dahmer she knew – he could never be capable of the way her body is ravaged. Torn apart.
”Scyla? Dahmer? What is going on?”
No longer was she grounded – forced to traverse the island with little else but the long legs that carried her. The small bone within her wing had healed, and though it still causes the subtlest of aches, she can flex once more with ease, and so she is above the drifting haze as a deep and rumbling storm presses close to her, enveloping the island. The remaining sunlight presses deeply into her skin, and she is warmed by it, soothed by the way it weaves through each carefully preened feather. The tide below is low and mellow, lapping lazily along the shoreline, drawing away particles of loose sand and rhyolite with it, while a frigid gust of wind carries through.
She can feel it surge beneath her, and the sensation is enough to make her feel whole, if only for a moment. It had been so long since she had taken to the sky. Since her life had been turned upside-down; since the day she and Dahmer had been swept into a hell of emotional, physical and mental torment. Since the day Ledger had lost his mind – since the day her heart had betrayed him for another; the day her heart revealed itself to her in a terrible, awful and deceitful way.
When her hazel eye does finally cast itself along the distant, jagged edge of the precipice lining the volcanic island, it is settled upon Dahmer – and a frightened, trembling Scyla. She had made herself sparse with her, and knew little of her but the stories Dahmer would tell her of his youth, of a youth he and Scyla had both experienced (endured, seemed a more appropriate word). Smoak had learned much from her – perhaps more than she, herself, preferred him to know, but such is the way of a mother to want to guard her children from her own demons as well as the wayward world. He loved her, as did Dahmer, and that was enough for Ellyse.
Quietly, she glides along the drifting wind, tucking her feathered appendages closer to her as her legs touch the soft and fertile soil. Moving closer, her cheek is tilted, listening closely – if it were a simple spat, she had no desire, nor any place interceding, but there is something within the frightened posture of Scyla that does not allow her to pull away, nor to leave. Wings outstretched, tattered and plucked apart, with remnants of still seeping, barely mending wounds covering the length of her body.
She remembered feeling so torn apart herself, not too long ago, but the quivering dread and panic filling the otherwise broken and dejected rust-laced eyes of her lover’s sister is another thing entirely. She does not come closer to Scyla (worried she might slip; she might fall if urged any closer to the edge), though she does come alongside Dahmer. Her gaze hardened; uncertain but concerned beyond that of a Queen, that of the Head of War.
Stay away from me.
How could you?
She is broken, bent – falling apart into pieces. What had Dahmer done?
The Dahmer she knew – he could never be capable of the way her body is ravaged. Torn apart.
”Scyla? Dahmer? What is going on?”
Ellyse
(The nightmare) I built my own world to escape
@[Scyla] @[Dahmer]