09-28-2020, 01:23 PM
I spent a lot of nights on the run
And I think oh, I'm lost and can't be found
And I think oh, I'm lost and can't be found
The ghosts had told her. (She confuses them for ghosts, when they are only souls.)
The ghosts, her only constant companion, curled sweetly against each shoulder.
They had told her of a land of shifters, someplace she would belong.
(Her father is there, too. But she does not know this because the souls do not know this.)
She is a solitary thing, Advent. But it is not by choice.
She is a strange thing, too, and this is why she is solitary.
Because she has always preferred the company of her ghosts. They are kind to her in ways that no one else has ever been. They are fond of her in ways that no one else has ever been. And she fond of them. So dreadfully fond of them.
She shifts effortlessly. After so long alone, she has had plenty of time to master the skill. And she travels to Hyaline as a panther, sleek and black and long. Such a stark contrast to the equine form, which is white and mottled with pale red panther markings. Still, the ghosts stay close. Glued to her sides as they are, have always been. The only things she has ever love and that have ever loved her.
She arrives in Hyaline still that same sleek black panther. The eyes not a vibrant, feline green but still the same pale red. Her ghosts whisper and and clamor and curl themselves even tighter against her sides.
She sits. And she tilts her feline head and casts a glance around, panting softly. She pushes to her feet the first time someone passes, calls out to them. “Is this the place of shifters?” she asks, pale eyes hopeful. This, the first thing she has ever felt hopeful about.
The ghosts, her only constant companion, curled sweetly against each shoulder.
They had told her of a land of shifters, someplace she would belong.
(Her father is there, too. But she does not know this because the souls do not know this.)
She is a solitary thing, Advent. But it is not by choice.
She is a strange thing, too, and this is why she is solitary.
Because she has always preferred the company of her ghosts. They are kind to her in ways that no one else has ever been. They are fond of her in ways that no one else has ever been. And she fond of them. So dreadfully fond of them.
She shifts effortlessly. After so long alone, she has had plenty of time to master the skill. And she travels to Hyaline as a panther, sleek and black and long. Such a stark contrast to the equine form, which is white and mottled with pale red panther markings. Still, the ghosts stay close. Glued to her sides as they are, have always been. The only things she has ever love and that have ever loved her.
She arrives in Hyaline still that same sleek black panther. The eyes not a vibrant, feline green but still the same pale red. Her ghosts whisper and and clamor and curl themselves even tighter against her sides.
She sits. And she tilts her feline head and casts a glance around, panting softly. She pushes to her feet the first time someone passes, calls out to them. “Is this the place of shifters?” she asks, pale eyes hopeful. This, the first thing she has ever felt hopeful about.
advent
