03-06-2020, 03:46 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
There is a smile twisting across her lips as she reflects on the grandeur of a past Beqanna. Magic, she says, and it was rampant in her home. Heartbeats beneath the soil, healing springs, great waterfalls. The adoration in her voice would be enough to incite passion and curiosity from anyone. Castile’s eyes dance with fascination as she recreates these monuments, displaying them around where they stand like an art gallery. While scrutinizing them, he cannot help to wonder what greatness survived back then, how such feats were accomplished. Loess, he determines, should have one of its own.
But he says nothing of this, instead savoring this taste of Straia’s memory in the minutes they last. After a few long breaths, everything is gone. There is no longer a deep thud beneath his hooves, or a towering waterfall to his left. There is only Loess again with its distant canyons, rocky hills, and eastern summit.
It’s interesting – borderline laughable – to hear how even then, generations before him, took advantage of their powers and angered the faeries. It’s a pattern, it seems. ”They get fired up quickly,” he remarks with a lopsided grin. From what he has seen of the faeries, their fuses are short and their wrath explosive. Funny, he realizes; he is not so different from them.
It’s for this reason that Castile is unable to suppress the short bout of laughter that pursues Straia’s statement. ”No,” he confirms with a shake of his baroque head, ”Kindness will certainly not be a legacy of mine.” Although there is certainly adoration thrumming in his heart, it doesn’t extend far beyond Loess’ borders. Few outsiders have experienced the amiability he is capable of. What he will be known for, he imagines, is his volatile nature and alter ego that has torched both lands and inhabitants. Castile is a monster, he knows. It’s a simple fact that he has accepted over the years and stopped fighting. As Straia once said, he may as well become what they fear.
But such a fickle thing fear is. The nature of the horse is to run, to panic and flee in the face of monsters and blazing fires. It should be easy to frighten them all, but there are many that defy the norms.
So, how can he become what they fear when fear is subjective?
Straia tries lifting his strings. She inches slowly toward being his puppeteer, being the voice inside his head that pushes him. He considers it briefly. They could work together, but that would clap shackles on her ankles that she would never want. The other entities have chosen their paths, but Straia’s remains undetermined. Castile’s weight shifts, his thoughts reel. ”I need to achieve greater things before I die,” he mulls over the idea of his body falling limp and his lungs deflating. He blinks and sees himself rotting on the beach, a lost soul left to wander an aimless abyss.
A shudder runs down the length of his spine.
”Many have avoided death. Perhaps, I will be one of them.” He does not realize that they’re not unlike Straia. They’ve seen into the other world, only to rise from it time and again. ”I will defy death. I won’t be held back by mortal means,” he glances away from her, toward Loess and the mountain peaks that he has called home. ”I won’t be stopped, even after I’ve resigned as Loess’ King.” Because his life and the unwritten chapters will not end when the crown is removed from his head.
But he says nothing of this, instead savoring this taste of Straia’s memory in the minutes they last. After a few long breaths, everything is gone. There is no longer a deep thud beneath his hooves, or a towering waterfall to his left. There is only Loess again with its distant canyons, rocky hills, and eastern summit.
It’s interesting – borderline laughable – to hear how even then, generations before him, took advantage of their powers and angered the faeries. It’s a pattern, it seems. ”They get fired up quickly,” he remarks with a lopsided grin. From what he has seen of the faeries, their fuses are short and their wrath explosive. Funny, he realizes; he is not so different from them.
It’s for this reason that Castile is unable to suppress the short bout of laughter that pursues Straia’s statement. ”No,” he confirms with a shake of his baroque head, ”Kindness will certainly not be a legacy of mine.” Although there is certainly adoration thrumming in his heart, it doesn’t extend far beyond Loess’ borders. Few outsiders have experienced the amiability he is capable of. What he will be known for, he imagines, is his volatile nature and alter ego that has torched both lands and inhabitants. Castile is a monster, he knows. It’s a simple fact that he has accepted over the years and stopped fighting. As Straia once said, he may as well become what they fear.
But such a fickle thing fear is. The nature of the horse is to run, to panic and flee in the face of monsters and blazing fires. It should be easy to frighten them all, but there are many that defy the norms.
So, how can he become what they fear when fear is subjective?
Straia tries lifting his strings. She inches slowly toward being his puppeteer, being the voice inside his head that pushes him. He considers it briefly. They could work together, but that would clap shackles on her ankles that she would never want. The other entities have chosen their paths, but Straia’s remains undetermined. Castile’s weight shifts, his thoughts reel. ”I need to achieve greater things before I die,” he mulls over the idea of his body falling limp and his lungs deflating. He blinks and sees himself rotting on the beach, a lost soul left to wander an aimless abyss.
A shudder runs down the length of his spine.
”Many have avoided death. Perhaps, I will be one of them.” He does not realize that they’re not unlike Straia. They’ve seen into the other world, only to rise from it time and again. ”I will defy death. I won’t be held back by mortal means,” he glances away from her, toward Loess and the mountain peaks that he has called home. ”I won’t be stopped, even after I’ve resigned as Loess’ King.” Because his life and the unwritten chapters will not end when the crown is removed from his head.
castile
@[Straia]