03-05-2020, 10:17 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
Bones snap in his jaws as Castile clamps down on the remaining half of deer. Rivulets of blood meander down the length of his muzzle, plunging to the ground underneath. A deep breath, a sigh, and then a swallow until the carcass glides down the length of his gullet.
It’s enough to satisfy him for now, for perhaps a few hours until he craves more. It’s already the second hunt of the morning, the first having been equine. The only reason he decided on a deer this time is that somehow, amid the internal fray, Castile’s true self was able to surface for a fleeting moment to press the sense of remorse. It was enough to deter a second horse as the next meal, but the clear sense of judgment is once again slipping.
Day after day, his life spirals deeper into that of a predator. This is what he considered himself, he told the faerie. Being a dragon defines him, and so she granted him a taste of his claims. Little did he realize that the predatory nature – when in full control – has little regret or empathy. Hunt, breed, survive. Those are the simplistic measures and necessities of life. It was his true self, that as a prey animal, that granted him understanding of the world and his heart. Now, that great part of him fades.
The balance is gone as the hissing draconic voice becomes primary; heading his actions like a general in battle. It – his predatory self – thrives on mayhem and barbaric urges that have, naturally, ripped apart pieces of lands. Icicle Isle seethes and crumbles underneath the ashes. Loess gropes desperately for command until Oceane returns (although Lepis is being true to herself by unseating the proclaimed successor of the Dragon King). Realizing his inability to command as he struggles with himself, Castile finds a moment of solace here, far from political reach.
There’s no shade for his immense size, no hiding. The winter sun settles across his body, colored bronze with a porcelain underbelly as he placidly digests his meals and observes the ongoings surrounding him. No roar, no growl, no aggression. Basking in the mild winter day, Castile, for once, merely exists without acting. His tail coils around his feet as he lies down, embracing a rare moment of relaxation as he swallows another coppery tang of blood scraped from his lips.
It’s enough to satisfy him for now, for perhaps a few hours until he craves more. It’s already the second hunt of the morning, the first having been equine. The only reason he decided on a deer this time is that somehow, amid the internal fray, Castile’s true self was able to surface for a fleeting moment to press the sense of remorse. It was enough to deter a second horse as the next meal, but the clear sense of judgment is once again slipping.
Day after day, his life spirals deeper into that of a predator. This is what he considered himself, he told the faerie. Being a dragon defines him, and so she granted him a taste of his claims. Little did he realize that the predatory nature – when in full control – has little regret or empathy. Hunt, breed, survive. Those are the simplistic measures and necessities of life. It was his true self, that as a prey animal, that granted him understanding of the world and his heart. Now, that great part of him fades.
The balance is gone as the hissing draconic voice becomes primary; heading his actions like a general in battle. It – his predatory self – thrives on mayhem and barbaric urges that have, naturally, ripped apart pieces of lands. Icicle Isle seethes and crumbles underneath the ashes. Loess gropes desperately for command until Oceane returns (although Lepis is being true to herself by unseating the proclaimed successor of the Dragon King). Realizing his inability to command as he struggles with himself, Castile finds a moment of solace here, far from political reach.
There’s no shade for his immense size, no hiding. The winter sun settles across his body, colored bronze with a porcelain underbelly as he placidly digests his meals and observes the ongoings surrounding him. No roar, no growl, no aggression. Basking in the mild winter day, Castile, for once, merely exists without acting. His tail coils around his feet as he lies down, embracing a rare moment of relaxation as he swallows another coppery tang of blood scraped from his lips.
castile