02-22-2016, 01:49 AM
Opacity
I am entirely made of flaws
sewn together with good intentions
He is guarded by the shade, and surrounded by nothing more than ebony bark and laurel green brush. The soft sound of distant birds temporarily alarm his ears, pulling him from his eden of silence and reviving him into reality.
The moon has risen with only seconds of the sunset dwindling in the sky. He lingers in the meadow tree line, the overhanging branches and thickly decorated forest hides his darkened shape in the best of efforts.
Our quiet wolf isn’t a sociable soul; his talent is within his own mind. His guarded brain is like a never dying computer, consistently analyzing and discovering in it’s best attempt to understand. It isn’t about the object itself, but the inner workings and the mechanics that fascinates his imaginative thought. The food chain of the forest, the purpose of evolution for every mammal—he thinks of it all. If he isn’t sure, he assumes his best estimate to be correct. If he discovers it, his mind will be satisfied for the rest of the day.
A never ending book that he insists on writing.
The moon has fully risen now, full and bountiful he sees almost more than when the sun had hung over his head. Darkness had always called to him; at least, since the Jungle had become his biggest nightmare. Since the emerald amazonian trees did him over, he found himself enticed by black. Like a moth attracted to light, he found himself consistently searching for the darkest bit of shade, the blackest cave, the dingiest cove. His eyes were like radar for the colour black, it could not hide from him.
Then again, in a world as small as Beqanna, what can truly hide from him?
Emerging from the tree line, his silvery painted onyx frame floats hauntingly towards the open field, seemingly empty and abandoned at this time of night. Opacity is an eerie sight, a mixture of greys, blacks, and whites all decorating his coat making him closer to the paranormal than he would ever notice.
He is almost frighteningly handsome; an illusion of sorts. If it weren’t for the slight chip in his right ear, he might have been sculpted by some God. Though there are far more discerning traits not easily seen by the naked eye. He is decorated in baggage weighing him down since the day he touched ground—he may be a ken doll, but he is so much less than perfect.
It is then he sees that he is not in fact alone—while meandering the middle of the meadow lost in a train of thought—and his attention is instinctively drawn to the creature only yards from his touch. She is equally as odd (he assumes) seeing her this late. Then again, maybe she has a death wish.
All females do.
Seeing a woman so easily within reach makes his blood boil. It had been what seemed like decades though it was hardly years since his last interaction with a horse, let alone a female. Remembering her cool words and overwhelming anger triggers a defensive feeling throughout his body, instantly seizing through and up his spine, his throat running dry.
And despite all this hidden emotion, he still slinks to her side almost grazing shoulder to shoulder and following her stare.
She is very much a female; dainty, with a fragile frame and light aroma. Her coat is decorated with a faded blue tone, the moon accentuating the subtle roan pulling from her coat. He would be lying if he were to say he didn’t see her beauty; but he would also be lying if he said he didn’t imagine blooding pooling to the floor from her throat.
How simple it would be, no one around with only the odd owl to witness the event. To see her lying with a slight twitch in her leg, and rushed exhales from her stomach. The mesmerizing moonlight hauntingly lighting her ghost frame as the soul of her body desperately hangs on.
But here she is, glancing innocently at her own reflection with what Opacity can only assume as self pity and self consciousness. And here he is, with the opportunity to protect the heart of a future man, matching her quizzical expression.
He senses her like a psychic feels their client. He senses her energy wafting around her, a depressing aura. He feels her body radiating a steady heat like a car heater set on low, with the conflicting coolness of the water below them rising to make a war of temperatures.
And while he cannot help but imagine her painful, steady death, he also is intrigued by her doubtfulness and obvious depression.
So he stands, staring at her reflection without paying mind to his own, analyzing every feature on her face. The only thing he does best.
The moon has risen with only seconds of the sunset dwindling in the sky. He lingers in the meadow tree line, the overhanging branches and thickly decorated forest hides his darkened shape in the best of efforts.
Our quiet wolf isn’t a sociable soul; his talent is within his own mind. His guarded brain is like a never dying computer, consistently analyzing and discovering in it’s best attempt to understand. It isn’t about the object itself, but the inner workings and the mechanics that fascinates his imaginative thought. The food chain of the forest, the purpose of evolution for every mammal—he thinks of it all. If he isn’t sure, he assumes his best estimate to be correct. If he discovers it, his mind will be satisfied for the rest of the day.
A never ending book that he insists on writing.
The moon has fully risen now, full and bountiful he sees almost more than when the sun had hung over his head. Darkness had always called to him; at least, since the Jungle had become his biggest nightmare. Since the emerald amazonian trees did him over, he found himself enticed by black. Like a moth attracted to light, he found himself consistently searching for the darkest bit of shade, the blackest cave, the dingiest cove. His eyes were like radar for the colour black, it could not hide from him.
Then again, in a world as small as Beqanna, what can truly hide from him?
Emerging from the tree line, his silvery painted onyx frame floats hauntingly towards the open field, seemingly empty and abandoned at this time of night. Opacity is an eerie sight, a mixture of greys, blacks, and whites all decorating his coat making him closer to the paranormal than he would ever notice.
He is almost frighteningly handsome; an illusion of sorts. If it weren’t for the slight chip in his right ear, he might have been sculpted by some God. Though there are far more discerning traits not easily seen by the naked eye. He is decorated in baggage weighing him down since the day he touched ground—he may be a ken doll, but he is so much less than perfect.
It is then he sees that he is not in fact alone—while meandering the middle of the meadow lost in a train of thought—and his attention is instinctively drawn to the creature only yards from his touch. She is equally as odd (he assumes) seeing her this late. Then again, maybe she has a death wish.
All females do.
Seeing a woman so easily within reach makes his blood boil. It had been what seemed like decades though it was hardly years since his last interaction with a horse, let alone a female. Remembering her cool words and overwhelming anger triggers a defensive feeling throughout his body, instantly seizing through and up his spine, his throat running dry.
And despite all this hidden emotion, he still slinks to her side almost grazing shoulder to shoulder and following her stare.
She is very much a female; dainty, with a fragile frame and light aroma. Her coat is decorated with a faded blue tone, the moon accentuating the subtle roan pulling from her coat. He would be lying if he were to say he didn’t see her beauty; but he would also be lying if he said he didn’t imagine blooding pooling to the floor from her throat.
How simple it would be, no one around with only the odd owl to witness the event. To see her lying with a slight twitch in her leg, and rushed exhales from her stomach. The mesmerizing moonlight hauntingly lighting her ghost frame as the soul of her body desperately hangs on.
But here she is, glancing innocently at her own reflection with what Opacity can only assume as self pity and self consciousness. And here he is, with the opportunity to protect the heart of a future man, matching her quizzical expression.
He senses her like a psychic feels their client. He senses her energy wafting around her, a depressing aura. He feels her body radiating a steady heat like a car heater set on low, with the conflicting coolness of the water below them rising to make a war of temperatures.
And while he cannot help but imagine her painful, steady death, he also is intrigued by her doubtfulness and obvious depression.
So he stands, staring at her reflection without paying mind to his own, analyzing every feature on her face. The only thing he does best.