<center><link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Fredericka+the+Great|Marcellus+SC|Special+Elite|Tangerine" rel="stylesheet"><style> .castcont {position:relative;z-index:1;width:560px;border:2px solid black;padding-top:20px;background:#061212;box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px black;border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;} .castquote {position:relative;z-index:2;text-align:right; font: 9px 'time new roman'; color: #f07e73;padding-bottom:20px;left:-10px;} .castmessage {position:relative; z-index:2;border-left:1px solid #f07e73;padding-right:50px;padding-left:10px;left:20px;text-align:justify;font:12px 'times new roman'; color:#AEB0AF;} .castgradient {position:relative;z-index:3;width:560;height:50px;top:20px;background: -ms-linear-gradient(top, rgba(6,18,18,1) 0%, rgba(125,185,232,0) 100%);background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(6,18,18,1) 0%,rgba(125,185,232,0) 100%);background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(6,18,18,1) 0%,rgba(125,185,232,0) 100%)} .castimage {position:relative;z-index:2;width:560px;margin:-30px;} .castname {position:relative;z-index:3;color:#f07e73;font:30px 'tangerine';top:-351px;left:190px;letter-spacing:15px;text-shadow: 13px 0px 4px #AEB0AF;}</style><div class="castcont"> <div class="castquote">and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left<br>a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was</div><div class="castmessage">
How is it that a thread already connects him to her? Even as her voice rings across Beqanna’s expanse, Castile is aware who called it. There’s a gravitational pull toward her because, oddly enough, they share similar ideations. Straia, however, has conquered so much while Castile has only just scratched the surface.
Somehow, she understands him.
And her voice lures him from the jaded summit in Loess.
Still a victim of the Wysteria Faerie, he arrives in his draconic form. Dried blood on his tail flakes away during his brief flight, his left wing ripped at the innermost corner. These are the repercussions of his blind rage, but he nonetheless wears them as trophies. To be unscarred – untouched – is to not have lived or defended life. Old lacerations spider web across him, but their prominence is more notable as a horse than dragon. The memories are there, hanging by threads, as he soars among the clouds during a brisk winter day.
Kilgare. Sabra. Ivar. Beryl. Ruinam.
Each of them hold claims on his body now, marking him and playing a role in his life’s tale. They’ve helped to mold him, from adolescence to adulthood, from prince to king. Yet still, he is not deterred. Yet still, Castile’s life continues with unwritten chapters ahead.
Straia is aware of his ambitions, but that doesn’t entirely mean that she will offer herself to him so easily. Nothing so sweet and succulent comes without effort.
Like a bee to honey, Castile finds her at the base of the Mountain. A mischievous gleam rises to his mismatched eyes as his immense body lands in front of her. His talons gouge the soil underneath, unsettling rocks and trembling the ground underneath. There are already others here, and he regards them with mild curiosity, his eyes lingering on Leilan for another moment longer. They are both draconic, standing here with an amassing crowd. A low growl rattles through him, a noise that trembles the nearby tree branches. Birds take flight and animals skitter away.
Stop. It’s Leilan. Focus.
(Competition. A threat. An enemy)
Corded muscles contract in readiness, but Castile’s finer judgment weakly intervenes and settles the tension stiffening his body. Slowly, his wings fold to his sides. His scales ripple to their natural piebald pattern, and the gold band appears across his face. He says nothing to Leilan or the girl. There’s a thoughtful hesitation before Castile inclines his massive head to look down at Straia. In her silence, there is expectation from them all. Steadying his mismatched eyes on her, he considers the question although it is one they have once discussed. A toothy grin peels back his lips briefly, but he makes no indication that they’ve met.
<i>”Power,”</i> he proclaims, <i>”and greatness.”</i> But you know this, he doesn’t say, as their eyes fleetingly lock. A long pause follows as he considers his ideals, diving into his thoughts and sifting through what is draconic and what is truly <b>him</b>. <i>”I feel… hindered,”</i> because he wanted more than just Loess. He craves an empire in the palm of his hand, power to achieve greatness and to have his name etched forever in the history books. A legacy will follow in pursuit, he imagines. First comes first, and for it, there is a price. They once discussed the cost of such novelties, and Castile contemplates this with a fine-toothed comb.
My heart, he nearly offers her, but it isn’t in a romantic way as she may (unwillingly) take it. Such a bothersome thing it is, and it has only fed him grief year after year.
My soul, he considers, but then he would no longer truly be himself on the inside.
My life, but then he would have no control of himself, nothing to individualize himself as. Or, he realizes, he would be dead and unable to reach any of his goals or ambitions.
Either way, Castile would be a slave to his ambitions, but aren’t they all? Isn’t this what she requests of them? To give her monumental leverage and to consider the heavy price?
Black smoke pools from his nostrils as his thoughts jump back and forth from one idea to another.
We will build you an empire and we will tear down your enemies, she once said. In return, be prepared to have everything taken from you.
Glancing to his left wing, Castile edges toward his conclusion. It tickles the edge of his tongue and flirts with his lips. He has lost Sochi, and he has resigned his control of Loess. There are sediments of joy sprinkled in his path, but the two greatest things, he destroyed. Drawing in a breath, he looks at Straia once more. With his neck proudly arched and an untamed ferocity burning in his eyes, he finally says, <i>”Everything. I offer you everything of me and what I have.”</i> His heart, his soul, his body, his broken love - every fragment that makes him whole.
</div> <div class="castgradient"></div> <img class="castimage" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3a/f6/0c/3af60ca3191f811e43ba97ce40851796.jpg"> <div class="castname">castile</div> </div></center>
He is for Loess
How is it that a thread already connects him to her? Even as her voice rings across Beqanna’s expanse, Castile is aware who called it. There’s a gravitational pull toward her because, oddly enough, they share similar ideations. Straia, however, has conquered so much while Castile has only just scratched the surface.
Somehow, she understands him.
And her voice lures him from the jaded summit in Loess.
Still a victim of the Wysteria Faerie, he arrives in his draconic form. Dried blood on his tail flakes away during his brief flight, his left wing ripped at the innermost corner. These are the repercussions of his blind rage, but he nonetheless wears them as trophies. To be unscarred – untouched – is to not have lived or defended life. Old lacerations spider web across him, but their prominence is more notable as a horse than dragon. The memories are there, hanging by threads, as he soars among the clouds during a brisk winter day.
Kilgare. Sabra. Ivar. Beryl. Ruinam.
Each of them hold claims on his body now, marking him and playing a role in his life’s tale. They’ve helped to mold him, from adolescence to adulthood, from prince to king. Yet still, he is not deterred. Yet still, Castile’s life continues with unwritten chapters ahead.
Straia is aware of his ambitions, but that doesn’t entirely mean that she will offer herself to him so easily. Nothing so sweet and succulent comes without effort.
Like a bee to honey, Castile finds her at the base of the Mountain. A mischievous gleam rises to his mismatched eyes as his immense body lands in front of her. His talons gouge the soil underneath, unsettling rocks and trembling the ground underneath. There are already others here, and he regards them with mild curiosity, his eyes lingering on Leilan for another moment longer. They are both draconic, standing here with an amassing crowd. A low growl rattles through him, a noise that trembles the nearby tree branches. Birds take flight and animals skitter away.
Stop. It’s Leilan. Focus.
(Competition. A threat. An enemy)
Corded muscles contract in readiness, but Castile’s finer judgment weakly intervenes and settles the tension stiffening his body. Slowly, his wings fold to his sides. His scales ripple to their natural piebald pattern, and the gold band appears across his face. He says nothing to Leilan or the girl. There’s a thoughtful hesitation before Castile inclines his massive head to look down at Straia. In her silence, there is expectation from them all. Steadying his mismatched eyes on her, he considers the question although it is one they have once discussed. A toothy grin peels back his lips briefly, but he makes no indication that they’ve met.
<i>”Power,”</i> he proclaims, <i>”and greatness.”</i> But you know this, he doesn’t say, as their eyes fleetingly lock. A long pause follows as he considers his ideals, diving into his thoughts and sifting through what is draconic and what is truly <b>him</b>. <i>”I feel… hindered,”</i> because he wanted more than just Loess. He craves an empire in the palm of his hand, power to achieve greatness and to have his name etched forever in the history books. A legacy will follow in pursuit, he imagines. First comes first, and for it, there is a price. They once discussed the cost of such novelties, and Castile contemplates this with a fine-toothed comb.
My heart, he nearly offers her, but it isn’t in a romantic way as she may (unwillingly) take it. Such a bothersome thing it is, and it has only fed him grief year after year.
My soul, he considers, but then he would no longer truly be himself on the inside.
My life, but then he would have no control of himself, nothing to individualize himself as. Or, he realizes, he would be dead and unable to reach any of his goals or ambitions.
Either way, Castile would be a slave to his ambitions, but aren’t they all? Isn’t this what she requests of them? To give her monumental leverage and to consider the heavy price?
Black smoke pools from his nostrils as his thoughts jump back and forth from one idea to another.
We will build you an empire and we will tear down your enemies, she once said. In return, be prepared to have everything taken from you.
Glancing to his left wing, Castile edges toward his conclusion. It tickles the edge of his tongue and flirts with his lips. He has lost Sochi, and he has resigned his control of Loess. There are sediments of joy sprinkled in his path, but the two greatest things, he destroyed. Drawing in a breath, he looks at Straia once more. With his neck proudly arched and an untamed ferocity burning in his eyes, he finally says, <i>”Everything. I offer you everything of me and what I have.”</i> His heart, his soul, his body, his broken love - every fragment that makes him whole.
</div> <div class="castgradient"></div> <img class="castimage" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3a/f6/0c/3af60ca3191f811e43ba97ce40851796.jpg"> <div class="castname">castile</div> </div></center>
He is for Loess