02-11-2020, 04:04 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
Rage burns within him, poisoning his every thought, his every move. Rocks tumble in his wake as he ascends the mountain peak, his talons merciless in their grip. Clutched to his sides are his immense wings, fluttering when a cool gale whistles past. Secluding himself provides the outlet and empty space as he revels in this powerful fury, a torrent of flames bursting from the depths of his throat to melt the summit’s snow. The roar that follows reverberates through him, penetrating into the rocks and unseating some from their roost. Another slam of his paw against the mountainside, an irritated flick of his tail, a furious snarl.
Sochi is gone. Oceane knows. Alciner kidnapped.
It isn’t such extreme circumstances, but his mind is clouded by primal instincts and by the anger to have been stolen from and disrespected. His possessions slip through his fingers, and there’s no controlling the fire that races through his veins.
Oceane.
Amid the hurricane in his thoughts, her name arises from the depths, calling for him. His broad skull snakes out, his serpent-like neck arching away from the quartz and granite. Inhaling deeply, he notes the subtle tendril of her scent. It lovingly caresses him even with the air so thin. With it, however, is the unnerving sense of anxiety that spills Castile from the ledge.
A thunderous clap echoes as his wings unfurl and buffet the open space beneath him. Altering his route, he finds her in the open hills, his scoping eyes locating her quickly. There’s little to no hesitation in his descent, no meticulous or gentle landing. Alive with frustration and fueled by his primal instincts, Castile’s immense body forcefully alights. His talons gouge the rocky earth and pebbles skitter away frantically. It was a smooth landing, but not at all delicate as he has always practiced.
Slowly, Castile loses grip of himself.
Another trumpeting roar batters the air, vibrating nearby eardrums and unsettling nearby coyotes and fennec foxes. They flee from him. Never glancing back as they find shelter elsewhere. But Castile does not offer them his attention, his focus instead sharply trained on Oceane to observe her reaction.
His scales gleam, pitch obsidian, and his spines that race down his back mirror deep crimson (so much like the blood he has spilt).
His eyes, though. They are what give him away, still mismatched, and the singular defining feature until his body ripples into his typical piebald. The spines, now bronze, rock with his musculature as he lowers his head to her level, the gold banding over his face handsomely catching the sunlight. ”They’ll pay for taking him,” his voice is hardly more than a growl, a sound of rolling thunder in the distance, ”Our son…” Black smoke coils from his nostrils as his skull lifts to search the far horizon. ”That freak that Clarissa is with…” he bristles, remembering the eyeless boy, but Castile says nothing more, his muscles quivering by the force of his emotions.
Sochi is gone. Oceane knows. Alciner kidnapped.
It isn’t such extreme circumstances, but his mind is clouded by primal instincts and by the anger to have been stolen from and disrespected. His possessions slip through his fingers, and there’s no controlling the fire that races through his veins.
Oceane.
Amid the hurricane in his thoughts, her name arises from the depths, calling for him. His broad skull snakes out, his serpent-like neck arching away from the quartz and granite. Inhaling deeply, he notes the subtle tendril of her scent. It lovingly caresses him even with the air so thin. With it, however, is the unnerving sense of anxiety that spills Castile from the ledge.
A thunderous clap echoes as his wings unfurl and buffet the open space beneath him. Altering his route, he finds her in the open hills, his scoping eyes locating her quickly. There’s little to no hesitation in his descent, no meticulous or gentle landing. Alive with frustration and fueled by his primal instincts, Castile’s immense body forcefully alights. His talons gouge the rocky earth and pebbles skitter away frantically. It was a smooth landing, but not at all delicate as he has always practiced.
Slowly, Castile loses grip of himself.
Another trumpeting roar batters the air, vibrating nearby eardrums and unsettling nearby coyotes and fennec foxes. They flee from him. Never glancing back as they find shelter elsewhere. But Castile does not offer them his attention, his focus instead sharply trained on Oceane to observe her reaction.
His scales gleam, pitch obsidian, and his spines that race down his back mirror deep crimson (so much like the blood he has spilt).
His eyes, though. They are what give him away, still mismatched, and the singular defining feature until his body ripples into his typical piebald. The spines, now bronze, rock with his musculature as he lowers his head to her level, the gold banding over his face handsomely catching the sunlight. ”They’ll pay for taking him,” his voice is hardly more than a growl, a sound of rolling thunder in the distance, ”Our son…” Black smoke coils from his nostrils as his skull lifts to search the far horizon. ”That freak that Clarissa is with…” he bristles, remembering the eyeless boy, but Castile says nothing more, his muscles quivering by the force of his emotions.
castile
@[Oceane]