"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
as your love starts to surround you all of their words are trying to drown you
Pyxis was exhausted. Exhausted in a way that she has never experienced before. From the toil of the quest to the run-in with Daemron, she had been completely tapped dry. She had run from him—would always run from him, it seemed—but it had not taken her long to notice that Red had been on her tail. At first, she had simply ignored the wolf, doubling back on her path and curving through trees, hoping that she would lose her, but it had been ultimately futile. Truthfully, she had always known that it would be futile.
Eventually, she had simply accepted Red’s company, appreciated it in the deepest caverns of her hearts because it felt like a connection to Daemron that did not necessarily signify her own weakness. Finally, she had come to a clearing and her legs had buckled, body not gently dropping but coming to the ground with a harsh thud. Her breath had escaped from her lungs, and she had let sleep claim her violently.
The last thing she had seen was Red walking near her and sitting, standing guard over the night.
Pyxis is not sure how long she had slept for, only that when she had woken up, she had been ravenous and Red had not been pleased. As soon as the wolf had confirmed that she was conscious enough to take care of herself, she had slipped away into the underbrush, returning several hours later with a belly that was noticeably more full and a much less dangerous glint in her eye. During that time, Pyxis had managed to gather her wits enough to find water, eat a few bites of the sweet grass, and then lie down.
Even though she had spent hours (days?) asleep, exhaustion still pulled dangerously at her, and she could not help but slip back into it—closing her eyes as soon as Red found her spot and became comfortable.
***
This pattern continued for several more cycles before she finally forced herself out of it, standing on legs that felt weak and shaky and just nodding at the wolf. “Well, we certainly can’t have this continue—can we, Red?” The words felt reminiscent of her old self, but she felt hollowed and ultimately fraudulent. But, then again, everything that she did was fraudulent. Hadn’t she proven that with Daemron?
His name sears across the back of her mind, and she winces, feeling the painful clenching of her heart in her chest as she thinks about his silvery gaze and the fronds wrapping around his face. Shaking her head, she frowns, before she straightens and then makes her way closer to the center of the meadow with Red by her side. Hopefully, she would find conversation that was light and bubbly and made her whole.
Please. Let her feel alive again.
and you break, it's too late for you to fall apart and the blame that you claim is all your own fault
12-16-2015, 05:17 PM (This post was last modified: 12-16-2015, 05:27 PM by Tarnished.)
I watch you fast asleep,
All I fear means nothing.
The darkness is split by red light, heat rises from the cracks and he can smell smoke and practically feel the flames licking at his skin; he imagines demons that lick their lips—hungry, starving things that think his sins smell sweet enough to eat. He smiles, all fangs, then prepares to make the leap; but then, a bright white light pierces the darkness behind him and it chases off the shadows and their bloody red. He is being dragged backwards now and it doesn’t matter that he wants to stay; it doesn’t matter that he struggles against whatever force is pulling him along, that his nails scrape and break and his blood smears across the rock. The light wants him. He sneers, reaching again towards the darkness—but the darkness will not have him, not after what he’s done to the Dreamweaver.
At least the light has plans for him.
It places him strategically, so that he might find its intended target that much faster; she’s a pretty thing, sweet and soft, but he is an ugly thing—a twisted being, broken and put together many times over, so he has no qualms about tricking her and bedding her, too. And once the deed is done, he goes; he leaves her alone and doesn’t consider until later what might become of this in the spring.
“A gift,” says the light, nowhere and everywhere all at once.
“Gifts,” he murmurs, disappearing into the shadows.
**
It feels like years have passed since Tarnished last laid eyes on the meadow. His daughter is off, somewhere; frolicking with the fawns, perhaps; he supposes keeping her fed on doe milk has given her a soft spot for deer and he makes a mental note to never eat one in front of her. She’s all he has now. The others are gone, dead or worse. He isn’t sure anymore which is worse. The crowd seems to move in slow-motion; sluggish and zombie-like, they slip out of his way like a wave reluctant to recoil from the shore and he wonders if he should remind them of what he is, who he is—what he can do to them. But the more rational side of him argues that it’s the sudden onset of the cold, not disrespect that makes them slow to move; his right eye twitches, he grits his teeth so hard it hurts.
And then she appears with her little wolf, distracting him.
The transition is almost instant, the anger is gone and he is slightly fascinated by the dynamic happening right in front of him; he wonders how it came to be, as others around them must wonder, too, and his golden eyes flit back and forth as he glances between the two of them. Soon, curiosity gets the best of him and he slinks forwards; slow, but deliberate, he keeps his attention focused mainly on the wolf while he approaches the mare. “Hello,” Tarnished says, stopping far enough away so as not to be be seen as much of a threat.
“Interesting, that,” he nods his head towards the wolf. “You don’t see one of those traveling with a horse everyday.”
tarnished
Vanquish x Nocturnal equus mutatio, immortality, disease manipulation, trait immunity
as your love starts to surround you all of their words are trying to drown you
Pyxis does not often view others as threats—at least not in the traditional sense. She does not fear that they will sink teeth into flesh, that sinew will be ripped from bone, that blood will leak until she is naught but a dried corpse. Instead, she fears of more insidious deaths. She fears closeness, trusting. She fears that she will invite someone in and they will slip the knife into her gut when she is not looking. She fears that she will make someone else the center of her world and they will leave her empty, crumbling, dead.
So she does not notice that he gives them a berth, and she almost does not realize what he is talking about—her relationship with Daemron had made her numb to the strangeness of it all. “Hello,” she echoes without thought, simply falling back onto the practiced mannerisms. When it clicks, she laughs lightly, the sound surprisingly genuine; it was the first time in a long time she had found something amusing. Red merely scoffs, slinking away from the stallion to lay near Pyxis’, her eyes never leaving the stranger.
“Oh, well, I do believe she is playing the long game. Short hunts can grow terribly boring.” Pyxis angles her head down to the wolf, her blue eyes bright with amusement. “I have warned her before that I taste awful; however, she is stubborn. C'est la vie. Some must learn such truths for themselves.” That much was true—the memory of her first encounter with Red searing across her belly. It had been so similar to this, so casual. She had been completely in control. Just when had it gone so completely off the rails?
Shaking her pretty head, she does her best to rid herself of the thoughts, focusing on the stallion in front of her. She was grateful, for a brief moment, that he looked nothing like Daemron. That was at least some small blessing. “My name is Pyxis.” She does not introduce the wolf—does not believe it is her right without permission. “Do you often make it a habit of commenting on stranger’s habits and companions?”
and you break, it's too late for you to fall apart and the blame that you claim is all your own fault
Where was my guardian angel when everything happened?
I wonder about this often, constantly weighing the night out in my head and tracing every last fingerprint and footstep. I think about what the air smelt like, and how my mouth felt drier than a crisp winter afternoon. I reminisce about the psychological impact, how it was an entanglement of truth and lie.
I still feel the pressure of hands drawing down on my forearm.
I still remember what it felt like to run with two legs.
Where was my guardian angel then?
Turkish has woken me the past three nights, my terrors becoming more and more vivid with every nap. Each time I close my eyes, I fear for the moment that I will awake in the creaking home of demons. Every time I feel my lids become heavy, I fight myself to stay awake just a little longer. You can do anything to me; my mind will always be my most dangerous space.
Where are you safe if not in your own body?
He, Turkish, has tried to lay on me. He has tried waking me, and not waking me. He has tried talking about things that make me happy, memories of us (though very fresh and hardly memories at all) to put me in a better state. Nothing works.
I hear him laugh. I see her smile. I see them agree on one thing, and one thing only—to have had me, was their biggest mistake.
Get your hands off me.
I am sleep deprived as a result, not a choice I find ideal but hardly a choice at all. Sleep and risk death by fear, or groggily meander the meadow for fresh air and put fellow dwellers at risk of my short temper. I am not happy, I am not even passive: I am angry.
Angry at everything.
Angry that Turkish feels like a million pounds around my neck.
Angry the jungle is overwhelmingly hot.
Angry I haven’t had an appetite, and angry that the water is too damn cold for my liking.
I am angry that the girl before me has a canine as a companion while I am stuck with a constrictor as a pet. I am not a pet.
You are just about as useful as one.
I don’t like you being tired.
Well, I don’t like you at all but you don’t hear me complaining.
Grass, dying from the change of season, clings to my hooves damp and filthy. I love this time of year. I don’t like winter, I don’t like fall, but I love to watch the world die. This is truly the closest we will ever get to an apocalypse until another meteor explodes our world. I watch leaves dangle with every ounce of strength only to fall into a crumbly death. I listen with every step the sound of blades being suffocated beneath my weight and left with an ugly yellow hue. I watch as birds fly far far away to avoid the season to come, and then pretend they get eaten or die a painful death from some sort of illness or injury.
My mouth is watering.
I know why my guardian angel never came, now.
He is too busy guarding the world from me.
I have lurked in the shadows all afternoon watching this fool sleep in a soft daze. The wolf won’t leave her, which is the only reason I haven’t allowed Turkish his monthly meal. I won’t risk him to a canine, he can pick a meal without the backup of a dog. Though he is starving (and so am I), I refuse to risk it.
I know now to lose him would be losing half of myself, literally.
Do you know what a Daemon is? Part of your soul becomes reincarnated as physical matter in some shape or form. I have done my digging on this sort of situation, researched every ounce of what this means and the stigma behind it. And to lose him, if he were to die, I would feel as if part of myself had gotten torn from my heart. He wouldn’t return into an energy form, he wouldn’t come back another shape or size, he would simply not exist. And therefore, part of me would be gone with him. It is why he is stuck within a radius of myself, unable to wander beyond the length of our invisible chain without both of us becoming ill and weak. It is why he feels every bit of emotion I feel, and why if I am in pain so he is. He is truly my soul mate, truly my second half—he is my world.
He will not die because some wolf didn’t want to sacrifice her friend.
So here I have been, watching. She sleeps softly, happily, and I hate her for that. I long for a nap that leaves me happier than when I last opened my eyes. I want to rip her limb from limb, transform into my other frame and suffocate her till her last breath exhales from her lungs. I want to see her eyes panic, her legs twitch, and feel her heart struggle for that last pump of blood. I want to see it all.
That bitch gets to sleep soundly.
She deserves to die.
Oh, guardian angel, won’t you please come guard my soul? I have only the best intentions at heart.
I suffer from daddy problems.
…because society has decided that to be an excellent excuse.
Turkish has tuned me out fully by now, perhaps he is angry because he is hungry. Either way he is halfway down my leg and slithering off into the brush.
Do not go far.
Only out of speaking distance.
OK.
Another being has decided that this female is of interest, perhaps not in the same way I find her interesting but whatever, who really cares anyways. He has approached her and is speaking to her and my competitive side becomes a little agitated. I have a damn python joint to my hip and here you are deciding sleeping beauty with a red mutt is more interesting.
It must be true; we are all blinded by doe eyed princesses.
Maybe it is the fact I haven’t had male conversation in a few weeks, maybe it is the fact that I am insecure and want attention on myself, or maybe it is the fact that I am just really bothered—whatever the reason, the motive behind the action, I find myself meandering over to their conversation.
Is daddy issues a valid excuse yet, angel?
I appear passive, strong, bold. My body swings ever so slightly with a confident sway, my crystal blue eyes heavy set on both their frames—comparing the weak to the strong. She seems so dainty, so pretty and so petite in comparison to the fancy knight in her wake.
“Is it too late to be included?” My voice is smooth, harmonized and feminine. I watch her wolf, used to having a predator at my side and feeling completely at ease. “I make it a habit to comment on a strangers habit and companion, personally. But seeing as you beat me to it,” she flicks her tail lightly against her side, “I will keep my commentary to myself.”
Well, now isn’t that a first.
“I am Smother.”
Now, now guardian angel. Where art thou in times of need?
Just kidding.
Continue guarding the world, lovely creature, they will need you more than I.
