[open] i'm some sick hound, any

[orson]

i’m some sick hound, digging for bones
if it weren’t for second chances, we’d all be alone

Here, the thing whispers in his ear and tells him where to set his foot.
On and on and on across the meadow, through the forest, where he seems to dim, flit in and out of focus. (Is he an apparition? Is he no more real than the thing that guides him?)

On and on and on along the edge of the river, the thing tells him where to set his feet.
But it is not always a kind thing because sometimes the child is a petulant child and he does not do as he’s told. Sometimes he sets a toe out of line just for the thrill of it and the thing that is not always a kind thing will deliberately tell the boy to set his foot in a hole. And the child who is sometimes a petulant child will cry out in pain as the ankle pulses in pain and the thing that is not always a kind thing will laugh with delight.

On and and on and on they go, the thing telling the child where to set his feet and the child sometimes doing as he’s told and sometimes not.

Until darkness falls and the world comes alive, laying itself bare before the boy’s eyes. 
It is a secret world, just as he is secret. They are two things that cannot co-exist, you see.
Only one of them can be visible at a time. One or the other. 

In the day, the child is visible to the world.
In the night, the world is visible to the child.

Never both at once.

It is day now and the thing tells the boy to set his foot here.
Here, the thing says and today it is not a kind thing, though the child has not been a petulant child today. But when the boy sets down his foot, the earth is not dry. It is wet, so dreadfully wet. He had heard the river but he had trusted the thing to keep him safe. (Never trust a dark thing. Never trust a dead thing.)

The boy stops short at the edge of the river.

“No,” he says to the thing, which tells him to walk further into the river.

Go, the thing tells him. Go on, boy.

“No,” the blind boy says, staring up at the sky, though he cannot see this either. “You want me to drown.” Oh, how the dead thing laughs.

orson

[kota]

back to the lone lanes of the sea, i slip silently;

Kota

“you want me to drown?”

And Kota’s ears prick to the sound of a young voice mixing with the sound of rushing riverwater. Her heart crumples – was it a child? Her breath is robbed from her as she rounds the corner, finding a blind boy looking up at a sky his fogged eyes cannot see. Her orbs orbit her quietly, floating in graceful perfect circles around her body as she approaches the golden colt. “Hey,” she says this so softly, stopping just short of being close enough to reach out. Her blue eyes blink wide, looking over his body, looking at his face; he was listening to something, to someone. Her ear cocks and she looks around, nothing but them and the river.

The little fox, Fraxni, her companion, steps just in front of her. He’s still a baby, and curious, but timid, holding his little black nose to the peculiar smelling air. The tingle of magic makes his fur prickle, he puffs up, looking up to Kota and back to the child. “A spell?” Fraxni’s little voice comes through her thoughts so softly, she’s still not used to telepathy with him, “A curse?” his voice comes again. “I don’t know.” her own voice echoes back. The pair look on, concern on the paint woman’s face, her expression tight with worry. What was he doing?

“Don’t.” she sucks in a sharp inhale, raising her head and flashing her tail. Her orbs swirl chaotically around before settling back to orbit her calmly. What was he doing out here alone? What was trying to drown him? Is he ill, or is there some ghoul trying to pull him under the dark rapids? Whatever the situation, Kota isn’t having it. Not the kids.

[orson]

i’m some sick hound, digging for bones
if it weren’t for second chances, we’d all be alone

The sound of the river disguises the sound of her approach, so when she speaks he cannot be certain if she’s a living thing or a dead thing.

He turns his head in the direction of her voice, blinking his unseeing eyes and tilting his golden head. He sucks in a sharp breath, testing the air, though he is too young for this to be effective. The dead thing laughs at his attempts. 

“Are you an alive thing or a dead thing?” he asks the voice.

The dead thing howls! Such a foul mood the dead thing is in today. Wildly unhelpful and vengeful. Teasing and mocking. Dead thing, the soul tells the boy and the boy sighs. Not that it makes a difference, really. Although maybe an alive thing could help guide him away from the river if the dead things were only going to make fun of him and try to drown him all day.

He takes a series of shuffling steps backwards away from the edge of the river until the female voice sounds again, says ‘don’t’ and he stops. 

“Why?” he asks, frustration brewing in the cage of his chest.

She will drown you, the soul tells the boy and gives him a phantom nudge in the ribs and the boy gives a little kick and shouts, “stop it!” at the soul, who gives another spectacular howl of laughter. And the boy, who must look to be having some kind of fit, stomps a front hoof and slaps his small tail against his flank and bares his little teeth, says, “I just want to go home!”

He tells it to both the dead things, nostrils flaring. “So one of you better tell me how to get there!” He doesn’t care which dead thing guides him, just so long as one of them gets him there safely. 

orson

@[kota] oreo had a lil mood swing