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
Castile adopted a nomadic lifestyle years ago, but it has since peaked with the plague’s arrival. Their world is in disarray, and rather than solidify his place anywhere, he has occupied himself by wandering place to place locating his own children. Easily enough, the infection seeped into his veins and webbed across his muscles. It has weakened him, but not stopped him.
Truthfully, he should have remained on the Island where it’s safe from the pestilence, and yet something urged him to still roam with endless wanderlust.
Wintry gusts buffet his body as he soars below the clouds with his mismatched eyes fallen on the trees below. Hunger churns within him, sharpening his vision as he scours for a meal. It has been long, far too long, since blood last spread across his tongue (weeks, he unhappily recalls). A primal need for it drives him deeper into the forest where he finally spirals in a gradual descent until his hooves heavily alight on the leaf beds. His wings immediately close to his sides and his teeth instinctually sharpen. He is prepared to hunt until a scent withdraws him from the predatory mindset. It rattles him initially, more in disbelief than anything else. Much to his confusion, there isn’t a hulking black stallion lumbering among the trees.
But how can his senses deceive him?
Castile pauses thoughtfully. His head turns left, then right, but he sees only a gunmetal blue male shaking away his slumber. He is prepared to retreat farther into the depths of the forest, but his eyes continue to dart back to the male until his curiosity bests him. Looming toward the figure, he is prepared to say hello in order to suppress the nagging feeling at the back of his mind. An introduction nearly tingles the thin line of his lips expectantly until he draws in another deep breath.
It can’t be true, but his senses can’t possibly be so distorted.
A breath catches in Castile’s throat as he stops in front of the stallion, his expectations thrown aside as he stares into Lior’s face, knowing it’s him in the way only a son can. ”Dad?”
Truthfully, he should have remained on the Island where it’s safe from the pestilence, and yet something urged him to still roam with endless wanderlust.
Wintry gusts buffet his body as he soars below the clouds with his mismatched eyes fallen on the trees below. Hunger churns within him, sharpening his vision as he scours for a meal. It has been long, far too long, since blood last spread across his tongue (weeks, he unhappily recalls). A primal need for it drives him deeper into the forest where he finally spirals in a gradual descent until his hooves heavily alight on the leaf beds. His wings immediately close to his sides and his teeth instinctually sharpen. He is prepared to hunt until a scent withdraws him from the predatory mindset. It rattles him initially, more in disbelief than anything else. Much to his confusion, there isn’t a hulking black stallion lumbering among the trees.
But how can his senses deceive him?
Castile pauses thoughtfully. His head turns left, then right, but he sees only a gunmetal blue male shaking away his slumber. He is prepared to retreat farther into the depths of the forest, but his eyes continue to dart back to the male until his curiosity bests him. Looming toward the figure, he is prepared to say hello in order to suppress the nagging feeling at the back of his mind. An introduction nearly tingles the thin line of his lips expectantly until he draws in another deep breath.
It can’t be true, but his senses can’t possibly be so distorted.
A breath catches in Castile’s throat as he stops in front of the stallion, his expectations thrown aside as he stares into Lior’s face, knowing it’s him in the way only a son can. ”Dad?”
castile
@[Lior]