03-19-2018, 02:35 PM
Difference is a theme in Beqanna; it’s a way of life, to be unique. Even in his limited time alive, Castile has learned the ways of this strange world. He thrives in it knowing that he, too, belongs in this statistic despite clutching onto the fear of his prowess.
Had he known that she was self-conscious, he may have well approached her differently, but his curiosity has led him from the foothills to her as she weaves through the scattered knots of horses. The colorations that paint her briefly remind him of a sunset, of the fiery burst of light he often watches before night falls. It calls to him and lures him ever closer until he is in front of her, grinning crookedly. ”Hi,” he begins as his youthfulness seeps through the tone of his intrigue, ”You’re really cool looking.” His mismatched eyes – pewter and gold – fan across her in fascination, noting how her flame-licked body transitions into a mane most differently colored. ”I’m actually rather jealous,” he is plain to her – almost – if not for the broad wings clutched to his sides.
She can’t see what he truly is, or how dangerous he is.
With a roll of his shoulders, he inches a single step back. He levels his gaze on hers – it isn’t intense, he thinks (hopes) – and he searches the lines of her face and the darkness of her hooded eyes. ”I’m Castile,” another monster, he doesn’t say to her as a warm breeze kisses his flank and tousles his unruly locks. Another spring has reached their home and thawed the ice. Like her, mud has caked itself along his feathered legs and underbelly, but it doesn’t faze him. Few things seemingly do. What suction tries rooting him in place is minute in comparison to the level of curiosity he has for her already. It almost slips his mind that he comes with the scent of Loess clinging to his sides, a place yearning for more monsters.
Had he known that she was self-conscious, he may have well approached her differently, but his curiosity has led him from the foothills to her as she weaves through the scattered knots of horses. The colorations that paint her briefly remind him of a sunset, of the fiery burst of light he often watches before night falls. It calls to him and lures him ever closer until he is in front of her, grinning crookedly. ”Hi,” he begins as his youthfulness seeps through the tone of his intrigue, ”You’re really cool looking.” His mismatched eyes – pewter and gold – fan across her in fascination, noting how her flame-licked body transitions into a mane most differently colored. ”I’m actually rather jealous,” he is plain to her – almost – if not for the broad wings clutched to his sides.
She can’t see what he truly is, or how dangerous he is.
With a roll of his shoulders, he inches a single step back. He levels his gaze on hers – it isn’t intense, he thinks (hopes) – and he searches the lines of her face and the darkness of her hooded eyes. ”I’m Castile,” another monster, he doesn’t say to her as a warm breeze kisses his flank and tousles his unruly locks. Another spring has reached their home and thawed the ice. Like her, mud has caked itself along his feathered legs and underbelly, but it doesn’t faze him. Few things seemingly do. What suction tries rooting him in place is minute in comparison to the level of curiosity he has for her already. It almost slips his mind that he comes with the scent of Loess clinging to his sides, a place yearning for more monsters.