Craft;

[Castile]

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 magnetic pull lures him into her grasp, and an unwavering curiosity. Since the quest, he has questioned the reality that engulfs him. What is real, he wonders and half expects a desert to rise from beyond the foothills. An oasis, perhaps. There have been days in which he soared above the clouds and fought the wind to find what he thought was truly real.

But there is no desert, not anymore at least.

The land trembles when his claws gouge the soil, but his body shifts and reverts into that of a horse before attention is called to him. Towering trees provide some coverage as the wings shed away and hair sprouts from in between the scales to gradually envelope him. The jagged edges of his teeth recede and his formidable talons condense grotesquely into hooves.

By the time he confronts her – because his predatory senses offer acute tracking – he is a horse, just like her. Their colors contrast, her gold to his marbled. She is lovely while he is baroque. Her eyes are amber and his… his are the reason he stands in front of her with skepticism and uncertainty painted across his face. A fleeting wonderment of reality crosses his consciousness. Last he saw her, it seemed so real and yet so dreamlike. Darting his gaze from her, he confirms their place in the forest. Tree branches rustle beneath the weight of birds and not far off, a coyote cries.

He turns to study her again. ”Craft,” his voice rumbles, similar to a primal growl though not unkind, ”Who was he?” She will know, and she will remember him. It seems orange eyes are a rare trait.

castile

@[craft]