03-05-2018, 01:03 PM
She speaks and he listens – as he always has. Oh, he is a rapt listener; made wide-eyed and attentive to her stories. Khaedrik – little shadow fiend, savors her stories – basks in the way they make him feel whole, part of something other than shadows and darkness and sin. He smiles then, but it was so void of expression that it seemed very hollow against the solidity of his curves.
”Where is he now, this uncle Rodrik?”
His voice is strangely mellifluous, fervent even. And perhaps it is not strange to her, but to him, the ever passionless, the colt made of void-dust and stale apathy, it is a curiosity. But there is no time to linger upon the subject of undead uncles; for she has asked a question and he must answer. Different.. In what kind of way?.
”I…I don´t know, I can´t recognize it” comes his response, unsure and suspicious
His nose wrinkles as he turns to his shadows; and they are strangely alive with ungodly glee at her words. Oh, they whisper, tales of corrupt prophecy, sultry suggestions and perilous paths, low and raspy; taunting his discerning ear.
”They say they can show me.” and part of him strains against this unholy idea, the other part; the greater part – yields to curiosity and so he lets them.
They curl around her then; seeking, prodding – but their touch is vile, godless. Oh, how they long to whisper fallacies to her ears – but their language is their own and Khaedrik is the only one to understand. He freezes – they are too athirst, too eager to obey. Listen his shadows beg him, coiling snakes of heresy. Oh, they will show him, show him her sins, ready to shatter that bond that tethers brother to sister and sanity. They are foreign to such tender devotion, never made to wield murmurs and crooning. But they drape around him – and he can hear the silent screams of his sister in his mind, terrible images of a future that cannot, must not be true. He can see the surprise in her expression, the way in which she watches her foal´s reflection dull and flicker out in her eyes. These were the things that his shadows fed on as Khaedrik stood; lifeless, listless. And over the intoxicating smell of flowers and sunshine did the vague smell of decaying flesh plague his nostrils. And is that blood, Khaedrik, sprayed in a fine mist along her thigh, that glitters so sickeningly red against her pale, pale skin?
”No” he whispers ”No, no, no”
He sees now; with asphyxiating clarity. He knows what she has done and the world falls apart. It is a terrible angst that palpitates against his heart, astringent and roaring. Woe! It grows to its height, endless volleys of blinding light – Khaedrik chokes on it, fears it and wishes for nothing more than to recoil into the tender gloom, spun of shadows and nightmares.
”What have you done” he wails – as his shadows continue to twirl in glee - ”What have you done”
@[Kagerus]
Uhm yes - I have no idea what this is - Khaedrik-muse kind of went out of control. Lemme know if you want me to change anything!