02-26-2018, 10:22 AM
Admittedly, a part of his soul crumbles when Hestia confirms Nayl’s absence. He doesn’t want to believe it, glancing longingly to the cavern and desperately holding onto a thread of hope that she is simply in hiding with father. Her immortality would spare her from death, right? Hestia mirrors a compassion that he so rarely sees among strangers, reaching toward him and brushing against the bulk of his shoulder. Castile doesn’t flinch away from the contact, his body frozen in place as he mulls over her kindness in contrast to the other mare’s hostility.
(Break her.)
(She would be so easy to rip. So tender. So small.)
Castile swallows past the lump in his throat – past the vile and bold demands of the monster coiled within him – and funnels his attention on Hestia. ”No, I’m fine,” it’s only half of a lie as he battles his new inner hunger and the despair at being alone without a family. A storm cloud brews inside him, black and foreboding and unpredictable.
When he blinks, his pupils turn to slits.
When he blinks again, they’re normal.
”So, are you Queen now?” He assumes by sparing a glance to Volcan to notice how she sidles close to Hestia, submissive to the hierarchy but still with a venomous tongue. In attempt to subdue the roiling anger inside him, Castile eludes responding to the mare’s quip. An easy breath escapes him, refusing to let them see any sign of his inner battle.
(She is irrelevant.)
(Be done with her.)
A lackadaisical sweep of his tail settles his nerves by a minute amount, but enough for him to speak again, his voice remaining level. ”I would never bring harm to Nerine. Family means a great deal to me and this is where they settled. This is where I grew up. I will always be an ally for this land.” Its salty air is a part of his blood, part of his soul. His unruly locks still hold remnants of both salt and sand, never having washed it out. Castile’s love for Nerine will never be cleansed.
(Break her.)
(She would be so easy to rip. So tender. So small.)
Castile swallows past the lump in his throat – past the vile and bold demands of the monster coiled within him – and funnels his attention on Hestia. ”No, I’m fine,” it’s only half of a lie as he battles his new inner hunger and the despair at being alone without a family. A storm cloud brews inside him, black and foreboding and unpredictable.
When he blinks, his pupils turn to slits.
When he blinks again, they’re normal.
”So, are you Queen now?” He assumes by sparing a glance to Volcan to notice how she sidles close to Hestia, submissive to the hierarchy but still with a venomous tongue. In attempt to subdue the roiling anger inside him, Castile eludes responding to the mare’s quip. An easy breath escapes him, refusing to let them see any sign of his inner battle.
(She is irrelevant.)
(Be done with her.)
A lackadaisical sweep of his tail settles his nerves by a minute amount, but enough for him to speak again, his voice remaining level. ”I would never bring harm to Nerine. Family means a great deal to me and this is where they settled. This is where I grew up. I will always be an ally for this land.” Its salty air is a part of his blood, part of his soul. His unruly locks still hold remnants of both salt and sand, never having washed it out. Castile’s love for Nerine will never be cleansed.