03-13-2020, 09:10 AM
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
Sabra’s laughter is a balm across his gaping wounds. It convinces a boyish smile from Castile, not unlike their younger days. A half-chuckle rumbles from his chest, trembling the ground underneath. ”At least I did something right, I suppose,” because he didn’t bore her. A vessel of chaos and unrest, he has never allowed himself to succumb to a monotonous or dull life. Occasional bouts of self-reflection have reminded him of his ever-growing nature, the dynamic development of his life and experiences. ”I tend to keep everyone on their toes,” a huff of feeble laughter, only because he isn’t sure now whether that is good anymore. Once again, he has thrown his life into disarray.
But Sabra reels him from the edge, yanking him away from a precarious fall into the shadows. He blinks, casting his eyes down. Steady breaths, a lazy flick of his tail. ”You’re right,” and a glimmer of arrogance reaches the corners of his mouth, ”It was an ugly day when I hit such a low. Poor Ilma witnessed that.” There were thoughts of self-destruction, of self-loathing. It was a hatred for his failures as a lover and father. Similarly, today’s triggers parallel those from years ago. Always with women, always with the children he disappointed.
Slowly, Castile’s tongue slips across the edges of his scaled lips. The iron tang of blood fades with the minutes, and in response, his hunger increases. As a mild distraction, he kneads the soil with his talons, ripping into the grass, gouging the earth until it looks exactly as his heart feels.
It’s probably how Sabra’s looks with the javelin piercing it.
A catch of air holds as he lowers his head, unable to suppress his curiosity when she grants him the permission. With soft precision, Castile brushes his muzzle across it, inhaling the nectar-sweet smell of blood. It churns something within him, but before a greater part of him can react, he withdraws. ”What if I broke off some of it so it didn’t get so much in the way of… walking,” living, he would say, but reconsiders after her gruff statement. He is almost too afraid to ask what she has experienced since they parted ways, or what could possibly be worse than a spear physically shot through the body. Probably what he did to her – abandoning her once, twice, three times? – makes the list. If this was her… prize… from a mountainous quest, then what would he have received if he made the venture? A disapproving curl of his lips comes and quickly goes at the thought.
”Yes,” he states flatly at first, but then backpedals slightly as he considers recent events. ”Technically, yes. Gave the throne to Oceane, but Lepis decided to take over. I’m still there, although I imagine they’re not keen on it given the…” he pauses to glance over himself, ”circumstances. I also destroyed Icicle Isle, so there’s that.” Admitting it places a pit in his stomach, one that isn’t easily dislodged. ”I had no sense of remorse, no sense of myself, until it was over. I enjoy this power, what I am, but there are consequences. Thanks to the faeries, I lose more of myself every day to my draconic self until I report back with lessons I’ve learned,” he doesn’t confess this to her out of pity, but for her own awareness. If there’s one thing Sabra has always excelled at, it was spurring his fiery side. Perhaps, it’s also a mild warning to her, but she has never listened to those.
With a deep sigh, he admits something else to Sabra, his nonchalance indicating which path he has obviously taken. ”I met Straia, one of the women that escaped from the afterlife. She told me that if greatness is what I want, then I must be willing to sacrifice everything. I guess my actions are one way to do that.” A scaled brow lifts, finding humor in the shadows of his consequences.
But Sabra reels him from the edge, yanking him away from a precarious fall into the shadows. He blinks, casting his eyes down. Steady breaths, a lazy flick of his tail. ”You’re right,” and a glimmer of arrogance reaches the corners of his mouth, ”It was an ugly day when I hit such a low. Poor Ilma witnessed that.” There were thoughts of self-destruction, of self-loathing. It was a hatred for his failures as a lover and father. Similarly, today’s triggers parallel those from years ago. Always with women, always with the children he disappointed.
Slowly, Castile’s tongue slips across the edges of his scaled lips. The iron tang of blood fades with the minutes, and in response, his hunger increases. As a mild distraction, he kneads the soil with his talons, ripping into the grass, gouging the earth until it looks exactly as his heart feels.
It’s probably how Sabra’s looks with the javelin piercing it.
A catch of air holds as he lowers his head, unable to suppress his curiosity when she grants him the permission. With soft precision, Castile brushes his muzzle across it, inhaling the nectar-sweet smell of blood. It churns something within him, but before a greater part of him can react, he withdraws. ”What if I broke off some of it so it didn’t get so much in the way of… walking,” living, he would say, but reconsiders after her gruff statement. He is almost too afraid to ask what she has experienced since they parted ways, or what could possibly be worse than a spear physically shot through the body. Probably what he did to her – abandoning her once, twice, three times? – makes the list. If this was her… prize… from a mountainous quest, then what would he have received if he made the venture? A disapproving curl of his lips comes and quickly goes at the thought.
”Yes,” he states flatly at first, but then backpedals slightly as he considers recent events. ”Technically, yes. Gave the throne to Oceane, but Lepis decided to take over. I’m still there, although I imagine they’re not keen on it given the…” he pauses to glance over himself, ”circumstances. I also destroyed Icicle Isle, so there’s that.” Admitting it places a pit in his stomach, one that isn’t easily dislodged. ”I had no sense of remorse, no sense of myself, until it was over. I enjoy this power, what I am, but there are consequences. Thanks to the faeries, I lose more of myself every day to my draconic self until I report back with lessons I’ve learned,” he doesn’t confess this to her out of pity, but for her own awareness. If there’s one thing Sabra has always excelled at, it was spurring his fiery side. Perhaps, it’s also a mild warning to her, but she has never listened to those.
With a deep sigh, he admits something else to Sabra, his nonchalance indicating which path he has obviously taken. ”I met Straia, one of the women that escaped from the afterlife. She told me that if greatness is what I want, then I must be willing to sacrifice everything. I guess my actions are one way to do that.” A scaled brow lifts, finding humor in the shadows of his consequences.
castile
@[Sabra]