02-15-2018, 05:56 AM
Oh cursed art of deception!
He could lie to her. He could be child - innocent and pure of heart, far from shadows and monsters. Khaedrik ponders this possibility for a moment – as her gaze locks with his, but there is a quiet insistence in her eye that springs from concern. For him, for her people, her land and he abandons the fallacy that would have so easily slipped from his tongue. He tears his gaze from her then, turns his black black eyes towards the shadows. He could always delve answers from the darkness; and maybe that is a curse rather than a gift.
”I could show you” he offers flatly; defeated, deflated. That thin line upon which he is constantly balancing squeaks and chirrs in protest; monster or no monster, black or white – for the greyscales in his short life has been few and far between. Darkness is a sly accomplice, and Khaedrik knows this better than most, and yet, he strains not to yield to it. Oh, it would have been all too simple just to let go, to let himself be consumed by shadow and monsters, perish into a life that is no life, an existence that isn´t. Maybe someday, he will. But today he bends to her will – simply because he still holds enough influence over his own mind to do so.
The moon casts shadows on the ground – beckoning the ghosts to rise from their lonesome sepulchers. Imagination played a major role to the fulfillment of their whims; without it the ruse was nothing but mere parlor tricks in the candlelight. Tonight, it is a wolf that emerges from the shadows, eyes like glowworms in the dark, ribs like piano-keys and a flash of fangs in its mouth. It is a grisly, ghastly thing – shadow-spun and unnerving and it seems to grow before their eyes – festering on the feeble tendrils of Khaedriks mind. His own eyes turn fever-bright and glassy with toil and sweat breaks from his brow. The low snarl that falls from his lips matches that of the wolf as it stalks to his side; like an obedient dog to his master. Only monsters could produce such a sound, he thinks, as he commands the predator back into its shadows.
”My sister helps me keep them at bay” he admits, and there is no emotion left in his voice. He wonders if Solace knows the blood-bond he shares with the brown and white dreamwalker. It matters little though – and he hangs his small head, childlike and frail once again, ready for whatever rebuke the queen-mare has in tow for him. Surely, she will chase him from her lands. Surely, she will not harbor monsters in her sanctuary.
It is a risk, he decides, better taken sooner rather than later.