+- Beqanna (https://beqanna.com/forum)
+-- Forum: OOC (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=24)
+--- Forum: Archive (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=81)
+---- Forum: Lands (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=98)
+----- Forum: Nerine (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=91)
+----- Thread: [private] Wishbone, dear (/showthread.php?tid=19532)
Wishbone, dear - Khaedrik - 05-22-2018
The story repeats, is always the same: this place, that. A holy jackal with a feather says Go or Stay. In this case, Go.
Behind the wreck of a familiar body, alive with the slow thickness of bitter ruin, slid a flat companion that had kept its blackness, that should have soaked the earth in a streak of pitchblende and left a long trail of shadow behind the terrible, inexhaustible source of that motive power. The body moved with a strange, measured evenness, as if through deep water. The thick ropes of athletic muscle taut only with the long struggle to pull the shadow to which the body was harnessed.
Still, a conspiracy of grace and youthful power survived in the elegant, weathered form, as fickle and enduring as epic poetry: runic scars, the ceremony of time passed, the ritual erosion of winters wearing smooth the curve of a cliff-like, expressive lip the color of liquid gold, from which long whiskers splintered in a delicate profusion and caught a slant of cold light. The feet lifted and fell with the clean, rhythmic precision of a gazelle’s. The intricate work of the body as a whole was a flawless function despite the slow madness that had long since begun to poison the marrow. Even here; in the face of exile – he walked without pause or stumble.
It is the plangent note of her scent that has brought him here – that scent of courage and untamed wilderness he remembers so well; it is the memory of warm skin against cold lips, of the whisper-soft syllables of a name he has kept repeating in his sleep. Khaedrik wonders if she remembers him – if her eyes stray for the darkness and shadows at night the way his eyes seek the fair faces of wildflowers in spring. He wonders if she has stayed the same; mud-footed and intrepid, smart-mouthed and wise beyond her years or if time has marred her the way it has him.
Khaedrik does not fear the prying eyes of the Nerinian people – he does not fear their hoarse and whispered voices, for while he has no business here – he carries himself with the dauntless ease of a predator. For what has he – master of shadow and ruin to fear from anyone? No, Khaedrik, flagrant trespasser fears no-one but his own volatile mind. And that is what makes him a coward.
”Wishbone” he whispers – and her name is smoke and shadow on his lips. He closes his bitter-black eyes against the sound – wondering if she will come.
@[Wishbone]
RE: Wishbone, dear - Wishbone - 05-25-2018
haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
At night, her thoughts are plagued with him. Her dreams are thick with imagery of a golden colt doused in shadow and mystery and grief. She hears the wolf’s growl, the shadow’s whisper, the colt’s hush. Sometimes Wishbone wakes covered with a thin layer of sweat darkening her mahogany skin, tangled mane plastered to her neck. The echo of his voice (“There are moments when I think I am going crazy”) will breathe through her mind long into her moments of wakefulness, when the shadows of the night crowd around her shoulders.
She finds solace in the constellations of the night, watching the thin tails of the shooting stars leave lasting impressions on the blink of her eyelids. These nights are not those of terror or frustration, but rather nights of loneliness and nostalgia. That shadowy river a year ago (had it really been that long already?) and the shadowy colt that came with it never leaves her mind. She plays the soundtrack of his voice with her name when her sides are sore from Scorch’s training or when the bitterness of the wind drives her into the mouth of a cavern.
It’s an early morning when she hears it — that hush of her name riding on a breeze of shadow and smog. The sky is just beginning to wake from the depths of the night and not even the birds have begun to stir from their tree-top nests. Wishbone turns immediately, sable nose flaring pink nostrils to take in that familiar scent, and pops a rapid buck before galloping toward the whisper of her name.
Her dark mane streams from the crest of her mahogany neck, auburn highlights hinted by the weak yawn of the sun. It isn’t long before she spots him — the golden boy shrouded in darkness — and a laugh careens past her mouth. It is the season of searching, it seems; first Wolfbane calling her name at the border and now Khaedrik whispering her name at the border. Her mind doesn’t catch the irony of it (two boys, two friends, two meetings within the same season) but only the joy that comes with reconnection.
She slows as she approaches him, her wild gallop reining in to an easy trot. She’s barely broken a sweat from her run between the nearby forest and her shadow-friend, the training with Scorch and the endurance of her breed lending her powerful lungs and sinewy, strong muscle. Wishbone’s amber eyes scan the space around Khaedrik’s legs, searching for that protective wolf that had lurked just over his shoulder the first time they met. Whether the shadow-creature is there or not, the girl stops just short of Khaedrik’s shoulder and tips her face up to lip at his mane, tugging at the errant strands just behind his ear.
“Khaedrik.” She whispers his name into the gold of his ear and the sound of his name is equal parts sunshine and fire. Another laugh draws from her mouth, soft and husky, before she takes a few steps backward to look him over fully. Dammit, have all her childhood friends turned into handsome young men? Wishbone’s amber eyes seem to portray this recognition clearly, but the shadow-boy could easily be having the same thought about her (her slender, feminine curves are evermore highlighted by the cords of sinewy muscle covered by the smooth mahogany of her skin).
Wishbone tosses her dark forelock out of her face, revealing the very-same reckless smile that dazzled her mouth as a child. “I thought you just went and melted into the shadows.” She laughs again, loud as the waves that erode the cliffs yet as bewilderingly beautiful as the thousands of constellations that shine above. “What are you here for?” It doesn’t occur to Wishbone that it could be her.
She finds solace in the constellations of the night, watching the thin tails of the shooting stars leave lasting impressions on the blink of her eyelids. These nights are not those of terror or frustration, but rather nights of loneliness and nostalgia. That shadowy river a year ago (had it really been that long already?) and the shadowy colt that came with it never leaves her mind. She plays the soundtrack of his voice with her name when her sides are sore from Scorch’s training or when the bitterness of the wind drives her into the mouth of a cavern.
It’s an early morning when she hears it — that hush of her name riding on a breeze of shadow and smog. The sky is just beginning to wake from the depths of the night and not even the birds have begun to stir from their tree-top nests. Wishbone turns immediately, sable nose flaring pink nostrils to take in that familiar scent, and pops a rapid buck before galloping toward the whisper of her name.
Her dark mane streams from the crest of her mahogany neck, auburn highlights hinted by the weak yawn of the sun. It isn’t long before she spots him — the golden boy shrouded in darkness — and a laugh careens past her mouth. It is the season of searching, it seems; first Wolfbane calling her name at the border and now Khaedrik whispering her name at the border. Her mind doesn’t catch the irony of it (two boys, two friends, two meetings within the same season) but only the joy that comes with reconnection.
She slows as she approaches him, her wild gallop reining in to an easy trot. She’s barely broken a sweat from her run between the nearby forest and her shadow-friend, the training with Scorch and the endurance of her breed lending her powerful lungs and sinewy, strong muscle. Wishbone’s amber eyes scan the space around Khaedrik’s legs, searching for that protective wolf that had lurked just over his shoulder the first time they met. Whether the shadow-creature is there or not, the girl stops just short of Khaedrik’s shoulder and tips her face up to lip at his mane, tugging at the errant strands just behind his ear.
“Khaedrik.” She whispers his name into the gold of his ear and the sound of his name is equal parts sunshine and fire. Another laugh draws from her mouth, soft and husky, before she takes a few steps backward to look him over fully. Dammit, have all her childhood friends turned into handsome young men? Wishbone’s amber eyes seem to portray this recognition clearly, but the shadow-boy could easily be having the same thought about her (her slender, feminine curves are evermore highlighted by the cords of sinewy muscle covered by the smooth mahogany of her skin).
Wishbone tosses her dark forelock out of her face, revealing the very-same reckless smile that dazzled her mouth as a child. “I thought you just went and melted into the shadows.” She laughs again, loud as the waves that erode the cliffs yet as bewilderingly beautiful as the thousands of constellations that shine above. “What are you here for?” It doesn’t occur to Wishbone that it could be her.
@[Khaedrik]
RE: Wishbone, dear - Khaedrik - 05-28-2018
”Wishbone” breathed the shadows, to the ears of trees and foliage; but he lost their answer to mute wind, who carries all voices to her collection, at the fraying edge of the world. Again, he tried; and he told them without mouth of the way her skin was coated in the loving flames of dying day, and how her childish curls had quivered like young, copper bells in a church tower, and whether it is fate or luck – the sound of footfalls had him turn abruptly in a swirl of leaf laughter and waving fronds. His heels seemed slow and sluggish; his legs, heavy and indolent.
He blinks at this ghost of a girl – admiring the way her soft-spun hair frames her face, the confident swing and sway of her hip, and for a moment that stretches wide and thin into eternity that is all he can bring himself to do. It is a distraction that far too often travels down the length of his back (deceitfully strong and nevertheless swaying underneath the weight of his amphora of uncertainties), where he is rendered mute and paralyzed – a puerile ghost that shadows him as relentlessly as the wolf once did.
Ever so slowly, cautiously, the oddity of a smile crosses his lips and it coils on the tip of his tongue to bedew it with the words he struggles to find. It is rare, this thing that crawls and conquers his face like a thousand armies – you see, however many smiles that cracks the silence of his slightly roman-nosed face into brightness, this peculiar confection falls off him loosely and with the ease he so struggles to understand. It is a smile that articulates auburn-warmth on its own, beyond insecurities and silences that last through centuries.
”Khaedrik” she whispers to his ear and her silver-bell laugh sends a shiver down his spine. She is, he realizes as he fumbles through the closed doors of his mind, a creature that he will never come to wholly understand; the smile remains – so why is it then that he longs to sift through the passageways and pearl-white gateways of her?
He could love her, the thought is like dammed floodwaters rushing through his mind; asphyxiating and froth-tongued. But to him, the thought (however frightening, that he cannot deny) is anything but disturbing.
And so Khaedrik finds himself, still muted by the archaic notions that tangle in the musky earth-colors of her mane, rendered cautious enough to harness his curiosity. Momentarily.
”I did melt into the shadows” he finally answers, somberness contained in a murmuring, decorous softness. The surface is polished and polite, mastered in mirror-like restrictions. Still, the smile is there and it grows exponentially to contaminate the strange shadow-lands of his face with gold-glow and curiosity, he slips from precision and admits without afterthought: ”But they spat me back out, I don´t belong there” but the shadows still cling to him like a spider´s web – as if to contradict the words that fall so carelessly from his lips. He falls silent then – a pause and a flutter; ”I came to see you”
The silence is broken and they stand, boy (foreign and wayward), girl (earth-bound and ethereal), boy, girl and smile. And for a moment it is as it should be. He is relieved, thankful to find that she has come to meet him – and wordlessly, pensively, with boyish glee flickering in the shadow-brightness of his eyes he takes a step closer as if to share some dangerous secret.
He observes her in wonder, contemplates these peculiar things, and is no more than boy. Boy and content for the first time in centuries. Even so, she is still a shadow that frightens him (not as much now as moments ago, true) and he hesitates; the shadow-master wonders (silly and reduced to mere laughter) if he will ever dare to lean closer and leave the wraith-like warmth of his breath somewhere underneath her withers.
Unfortunately, self-obsessed, uncertain Khaedrik was never one to learn the rules of intimacy. And perhaps he should be thankful?
He cannot think of anything of substance to say but braves the silence (and her) nevertheless, let me ask you, then” his voice travels over his lips in a mere whisper, as though the aforementioned, dangerous secret travels over their seal and into the silence, even more perilous and intriguing. ”What have you been up to since last I saw you?”
@[Wishbone] Sorry for the novel - I just love them together <3
RE: Wishbone, dear - Wishbone - 06-04-2018
haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
The smile that spreads on his mouth both dazzles and shocks her. Her impressions of Khaedrik have been those of shadow and decomposition, never the warm glow of sun and ruggedly handsome mountain-face his smile offers her. She isn’t complaining; though the glow of his smile threatens to burn away the shadows that cradle themselves in the hollow of his cheeks, it adds a certain unrefined charm to his features. Wishbone finds herself smiling back, consumed by the starglow on his golden lips.
She laughs again, thinking of the darkness spewing him like water from a whale’s blowhole. Khaedrik belongs in the shadows just as much as she belongs on the next adventure. Yet her pleasure grows cold in her throat at his next words, not with dread but with a different, unidentifiable emotion that sends a flutter against the rhythms of her heart.
“That’s…” she means to say ridiculous, to tease him for the reasoning of his travels, but he is stepping closer and the air is catching in her throat. The scent of him nestles comfortingly against the scent of her, two lovebirds mingling in the world of chemistry. The look in his shadow-eyes makes her wonder if drowning feels the same. They are both so perplexed and yet so captivated by one another — two bold spirits strung along a delicate string.
With one wrong move, either of them could tumble from the tightrope and spread themselves in a broken display upon the concrete.
She waits with no words upon her tongue for once, caught up in the expression of drowning in him. A seagull caws above their heads, as if encouraging the pair to strike up conversation, and then Khaedrik is leaning ever closer and her heart is moving so quickly it might escape the prison of her ribcage. It is a simple question, spoken as though it were the answer to a hundred ancient questions, and she audibly releases the breath that had been trapped in the clutches of her unsure lungs.
Wishbone takes a tender step away (although every inch of her longs to move closer, to wrap her slender body around his shadowed one until their nerve endings brush together like whispering, aching fingers) to gather her thoughts. Her mind swims, reorienting itself after nearly suffocating from the presence of his water-shadow-self. “I came here.” Is that a hint of unsettlement in the song of her honey-whiskey voice? There’s enough for it to be a rumor, but not a fact.
“And I’m supposed to be queen soon.” It could be her salvation or condemnation. Wishbone shakes her head harshly, clearing her thoughts of the heavy news. Her dark mane rolls across her shoulders before settling in an unkempt mess. “But I don’t want to talk about it.” Where before her aura had been smoke and fire, the closeness of him had settled her to ash and rainfall. Her fire stokes itself once more, blazing a trail of instability between their aching, tender souls. “I can’t believe you found me! Have you ever been swimming in the ocean?”
She doesn’t wait for his answer. Wishbone is twisting on her heels, long tail kissing the emerald grass below their feet, and careening away from his shadowed side. A wild glance is cast over her shoulder, making sure Khaedrik follows her, before she pushes into a reckless gallop and stretches her limbs for the beach. They reach it easily, the girl’s quick pace spraying morning seawater so high into the air it falls back to dampen her head.
The early-morning sunlight catches on the droplets, painting them colors of rose gold and pale yellow before they darken the mahogany of her skin. She’s chest-deep already, salt-soaked waves pushing against her legs and soothing the heat of her muscles, and the entanglement of her tail floats upon the surface like shadowy kelp. “C’mon!” she cries and her nose dips into a tall wave to shovel more water into the sky, a carefree laugh upon her mouth.
She laughs again, thinking of the darkness spewing him like water from a whale’s blowhole. Khaedrik belongs in the shadows just as much as she belongs on the next adventure. Yet her pleasure grows cold in her throat at his next words, not with dread but with a different, unidentifiable emotion that sends a flutter against the rhythms of her heart.
“That’s…” she means to say ridiculous, to tease him for the reasoning of his travels, but he is stepping closer and the air is catching in her throat. The scent of him nestles comfortingly against the scent of her, two lovebirds mingling in the world of chemistry. The look in his shadow-eyes makes her wonder if drowning feels the same. They are both so perplexed and yet so captivated by one another — two bold spirits strung along a delicate string.
With one wrong move, either of them could tumble from the tightrope and spread themselves in a broken display upon the concrete.
She waits with no words upon her tongue for once, caught up in the expression of drowning in him. A seagull caws above their heads, as if encouraging the pair to strike up conversation, and then Khaedrik is leaning ever closer and her heart is moving so quickly it might escape the prison of her ribcage. It is a simple question, spoken as though it were the answer to a hundred ancient questions, and she audibly releases the breath that had been trapped in the clutches of her unsure lungs.
Wishbone takes a tender step away (although every inch of her longs to move closer, to wrap her slender body around his shadowed one until their nerve endings brush together like whispering, aching fingers) to gather her thoughts. Her mind swims, reorienting itself after nearly suffocating from the presence of his water-shadow-self. “I came here.” Is that a hint of unsettlement in the song of her honey-whiskey voice? There’s enough for it to be a rumor, but not a fact.
“And I’m supposed to be queen soon.” It could be her salvation or condemnation. Wishbone shakes her head harshly, clearing her thoughts of the heavy news. Her dark mane rolls across her shoulders before settling in an unkempt mess. “But I don’t want to talk about it.” Where before her aura had been smoke and fire, the closeness of him had settled her to ash and rainfall. Her fire stokes itself once more, blazing a trail of instability between their aching, tender souls. “I can’t believe you found me! Have you ever been swimming in the ocean?”
She doesn’t wait for his answer. Wishbone is twisting on her heels, long tail kissing the emerald grass below their feet, and careening away from his shadowed side. A wild glance is cast over her shoulder, making sure Khaedrik follows her, before she pushes into a reckless gallop and stretches her limbs for the beach. They reach it easily, the girl’s quick pace spraying morning seawater so high into the air it falls back to dampen her head.
The early-morning sunlight catches on the droplets, painting them colors of rose gold and pale yellow before they darken the mahogany of her skin. She’s chest-deep already, salt-soaked waves pushing against her legs and soothing the heat of her muscles, and the entanglement of her tail floats upon the surface like shadowy kelp. “C’mon!” she cries and her nose dips into a tall wave to shovel more water into the sky, a carefree laugh upon her mouth.
@[Khaedrik] / <33
RE: Wishbone, dear - Khaedrik - 06-20-2018
The thing that brought him here; that whisper through his blood; chants contentedly as she leans closer to him. And something under his skin that has lain dormant for far too long prickles like spider-bites. But the electricity is snuffed out by her sober words; and the storm harnessed behind his eyes fades.
So she had chosen the path of diplomat’s and princes – and he wonders if her heart had prayed for that path, for this future and fate; with great leaps goaded either by nightmares or by hope? Or if part of her longed to trip down the thicket’s path, were the grate of ugly oak’s skin would greet her sides; and nettles adorn her hair. He wonders if she knows what she’s done; this girl who beckons adventure. He wonders if the thorn-crown will change her, jade her. He hopes not, but having worshiped the dark that hems starlight Khaedrik knows better than anyone how these things can twist the soul.
”Queen Wishbone” he says; and there is softness in his words; a bittersweet lament. For a moment, for the duration of a fading smile’s memory on slack jaws, Khaedrik contemplated the difference of their lives – she would lead Leviathan´s into battle while he would cower in his darkness, belonging only partly to their world – partly somewhere else. And nevertheless – part of his own heart would be found in the sheen of her eye, and part of her in the shadow of his eyelash.
But there is not enough time for what ifs – she leaps from him and his heartbeat is a thunderstorm as he follows; and in the wake of her enthusiasm Khaedrik can forget who he is and the skin he wears. Khaedrik; urchin who danced gavottes with darkness was swallowed, and his predecessor was a swift, nimble thing of forest-feet and fleet grace following the auburn girl with the face that coaxed heroes to coo that her beauty was more than enchantment, that her grace was not a thing learned, but the algebra of gods, that she was as ephemeral as the blossom erupting in desert rain. And there is the child´s laughter in his throat – and the sea-foam breath of an adventurer in his lungs as he bolts after her. She is sea-spun and as nimble as an ocean nymph and he stops just by the water’s edge. Khaedrik has never been fond of the inky black ocean-depths, they remind him too much of his own shadows. But he smiles still, and he sends a shadow after her – liquid night that twists and simmers around her until it shapes itself into a giant, gleaming-eyed dolphin, inviting the girl to climb upon its back. Khaedrik lets the rest of them carry him through the water – and his body sings with their tune. There – in the roiling darkness just below the surface they feel at home, and he shudders.
”I’m not sure the ocean likes us” he says – but there is still the hint of a smile in his voice. His shadow-dolphin, twirling and spinning around Wishbone ignores the suspicion of its master. It is a bizarre creation – with its bright-gleam eyes and teeth as sharp as knives, leaping and gamboling around the girl, and Khaedrik cannot help but smile again.
@[Wishbone]
RE: Wishbone, dear - Wishbone - 06-23-2018
she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
wishbone
@[Khaedrik]
RE: Wishbone, dear - Khaedrik - 06-28-2018
There are moments, where the world feels oddly still, and this, watching her there in the salt sea (goddess, siren) is enough to send a shiver down his spine. And the shiver is as real as the shadows playing beside her. The monsters in sheep-clothes that even now seek to uproot her, and they would, if only for play, had he lost an ounce of control.
The tar-black of his eyes meet hers (galaxies of sea-stars and ocean-foam) and there is a plethora of words threatening to escape his gold-black lips.
Coward
Khaedrik wonders if she can sense the strain on his back, see the muscles stretch taut beneath his skin (the skin that aches for her touch) and hear the frantic beat of his heart.
”Not as beautiful as you” comes his own voice in response (shadow-smoke and uncharacteristic hunger) and the whirlpool of shadows around him trills and vibrates in compliance. There is raw honesty behind his words; and he is melting under the starfire of her gaze.
If only.
He is oblivion then - yearning to sing her praises in a language none but a seagull would understand. He floats closer to her, upholstered by shadows and some fever-bright longing – and the ocean is a dizzying chasm between them. So tantalizingly close he can almost taste the salt on her skin. She is the sun beckoning him close; and he wants to burn, burn, burn.
The shadows wrap around his spine, greedily, and his khol-black eyes fail to note the sharp fangs that rise unbidden on his dolphins black jaw. The thing slithers close and closer still – bolstered by the pandemonium in Khaedrik´s eye. Oh, but the boy is negligent, lost in the eternity-eyes of a girl he has dreamed about ever since he happened upon her those many years ago. Khaedrik fails to note the monster behind her as it rises; the open maw with the knife-sharp teeth, the slavering jaws. It is no longer a dolphin but something else, nightmare-spun and hungry.
Fool
Khaedrik leans forward; so desperate to place a kiss on that mahogany neck. To feel. To live beyond mere existence.
”I never stopped thinking about you” he whispers into her ear, it is a rash and wild thing to say, and he knows he shouldn´t, but he is lost under the warmth of her gaze. He once confessed his sins to her – so why not this? It is like wildfire spreading through his soul, burning away all traces of that black shadow-void that plagues him so. Maybe.
Maybe.
It is then he sees the hint of black in the periphery – the sea-monster (scythe-tailed and sharp-fanged) poised to strike. There is a predatory glint in its gleaming eyes – and the revelation turns the wildfire-warmth of his soul into ice. Khaedrik leaps at the very same moment the monsters greedy jaws frantically reaches for Wishbone, and the howl that escapes his lips is not a boy´s but a beast´s guttural howl. Boy and beast collide – a tangle of shadow and gold, of beast snarls and terror.
Khaedrik commands the thing to shore, tries to twist it into something hapless, harmless. The ocean is a hungry, wanting thing that swallows them both – boy and shadow and Khaedrik struggles to breathe. Every fiber of his being wound up like a clockwork of shadow and chaos. He forgets Wishbone there – she is a sea-nymph and he the drowning sailor. All he knows is that he needs to get his shadows far, far away from her.
Control
The monster – desperate for freedom – struggles against Khaedriks attempts to hem it to his side. But he is nonetheless the stronger of the two – and the beast has no other choice but to disintegrate into a spray of darkness.
Khaedrik reels frantically unto the bristling sand of the shore, shadows swarming around his feet as he falls to his knees. A broken thing, battered and bruised with wild wild eyes.
”I´m sorry” he whispers into the salt-sprayed air ”I´m sorry.”
Over and over and over.
@[Wishbone] - So this started out totally different, but poor Khaedrik can never be happy
Let me know if I should change anything!
RE: Wishbone, dear - Wishbone - 07-08-2018
she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
wishbone
@[Khaedrik] / so, when i haven't written in ten days, you get word vomit <3 sorry, not sorry?
RE: Wishbone, dear - Khaedrik - 07-26-2018
And he does not know in what way time passes, driven delirious by his own undeniable failure, by the magic that simpers wrathfully in his veins – he trembles now, feverish and detesting. How could he be so foolish. Khaedrik, beast and monster falls into the abyss, surges over the edge and tumbles into dark shafts of his own lawlessness. And it is only the honey-threnody of her voice that brings him back. She calls his name and his gaze meets those eyes of yawning galaxies.
Go away
He wants to scream the words, tell her she´s not safe here with him. But her touch is a sea of flames against his wet skin. Oh, how he wants to touch her – to lean into the heat of her, tether his hungry soul to those eyes of burning suns and adventure. There is the pain, endless and eternal, and the warmth of her body feels like ice. But he is a broken irresolute thing there on the beach –and he cannot let go of the last shard of sanity that still fetters him to this world. ”Wishbone” he whispers instead, and his voice is a harpoon tossed out at sea.
”I would never forgive myself”
If I hurt you. But she feels so soft underneath his breath, so warm and lovely – and she cannot save him now, he cannot save himself from the madness that chains him. And still, he loathes himself for surrendering so easily, he loathes himself for yielding to the beauty that lingers in her face. Gently he lets his lips roll over her withers, softly he kisses her as if she were a porcelain doll (how fragile, how feminine!) and for a moment the monster becomes the lover who wants no more than to whisper sweet nothings into her ears.
The monster, however, is a vicious one and threatens to consume him with white-edged conflagration. But Khaedrik rises – in a swirl of shadow-dust and self-doubt. His mane mingles with hers, his scent tumbles wildly with hers. He knows they won´t care for his broken smile, tonight they are reckless and feral – and it wouldn´t have mattered to them even if he had been shattered a thousand times. Oh, Khaedrik is a tragic anti-hero! Cloaked in shadows and sin he is majestic for a flickering moment, his lips trailing along her neck. Oh, he was never made to wield murmurs and crooning;
”I can´t control them when I’m with you” he whispers into her waiting ears, and he hates himself for being selfish, for not letting her go.
But he is undeniably, irrevocably lost to the magnetic pull she holds on him.
@[Wishbone] - I am so sorry this took forever to write as usual <3
RE: Wishbone, dear - Wishbone - 07-27-2018
she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
wishbone
@[Khaedrik] / so i realize this was Innocent Wishbone™ at the beginning of this thread and now it is not but i don't even care <3