11-28-2018, 03:25 PM
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
He is tired, exhausted really. Castile’s muscles are screaming underneath the surface, wanting reprieve. Yet his stubbornness prevents the display of his weakness. They would chastise him, render him useless and feeble as the infection spreads through his bloodstream.
(Survival of the fittest)
Hunters don’t show weakness.
In his chest, his heart is feverishly drumming. There is anticipation – even dread – for the child that is to come.
(Kill it)
(Only the strongest lines survive)
A snarl curls his lips as Ilma disregards him, turning her back onto someone that could easily hurt her (kill her). She is so focused on Sabra and the looming delivery, but Castile notices how her eyes lift every time he paces in front of her with his steely, primal stare. They lock on each other each time, but he doesn’t yield. He doesn’t look away until she does. Ilma is in the way of Sabra, of the abomination, but Castile still manages to glimpse the lavender child when it spills from its mother’s womb, slick with blood and fluid. Castile growls in response. The stench of the birth floods him, his mind buzzing with the instinct to kill it, but now both women were standing guard and refusing him passage. Stomp out the competitive bloodline, his mind screams, blocking out a great deal of what Sabra demands of him. Laced with agitation, he continues to pace back and forth, his eyes rarely straying from the foal until a painful reminder is stabbed into him.
You have a chance here that you didn’t with the boys, she says.
The words echo.
They resonate.
They sting.
A hiss, reptilian in nature, slips from him, unbidden and enraged. Castile’s eyes flash as he desperately grips onto reality and his judgment. ”You want a constant reminder of him?! Every time you look at her, you will only remember what he did to you. She is the child of someone that raped and murdered you, Sabra!” He can’t remember being this angry, not at her. Their battle in the Alliance hadn’t even been this heated, or emotional. She stands defensively over her child, an instinct that he cannot fathom or accept. His eyes narrow vehemently. ”Be my damned guest then,” he snarls with an irritated flick of his tail, ”I’m not her father.” His jaws clap together at both women as an abrupt punctuation to his decision before he takes flight and disappears among the clouds to find his children.
(Survival of the fittest)
Hunters don’t show weakness.
In his chest, his heart is feverishly drumming. There is anticipation – even dread – for the child that is to come.
(Kill it)
(Only the strongest lines survive)
A snarl curls his lips as Ilma disregards him, turning her back onto someone that could easily hurt her (kill her). She is so focused on Sabra and the looming delivery, but Castile notices how her eyes lift every time he paces in front of her with his steely, primal stare. They lock on each other each time, but he doesn’t yield. He doesn’t look away until she does. Ilma is in the way of Sabra, of the abomination, but Castile still manages to glimpse the lavender child when it spills from its mother’s womb, slick with blood and fluid. Castile growls in response. The stench of the birth floods him, his mind buzzing with the instinct to kill it, but now both women were standing guard and refusing him passage. Stomp out the competitive bloodline, his mind screams, blocking out a great deal of what Sabra demands of him. Laced with agitation, he continues to pace back and forth, his eyes rarely straying from the foal until a painful reminder is stabbed into him.
You have a chance here that you didn’t with the boys, she says.
The words echo.
They resonate.
They sting.
A hiss, reptilian in nature, slips from him, unbidden and enraged. Castile’s eyes flash as he desperately grips onto reality and his judgment. ”You want a constant reminder of him?! Every time you look at her, you will only remember what he did to you. She is the child of someone that raped and murdered you, Sabra!” He can’t remember being this angry, not at her. Their battle in the Alliance hadn’t even been this heated, or emotional. She stands defensively over her child, an instinct that he cannot fathom or accept. His eyes narrow vehemently. ”Be my damned guest then,” he snarls with an irritated flick of his tail, ”I’m not her father.” His jaws clap together at both women as an abrupt punctuation to his decision before he takes flight and disappears among the clouds to find his children.
castile
@[Ilma] @[Sabra]