04-06-2020, 04:53 PM
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 hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
In the murky shadows of the forest, there’s an apparition. It’s a flicker of white at the corner of his eye, a fleeting motion, that he slowly turns his head to acknowledge. She approaches slowly, taking note of them first, but Castile has already trained his eyes back to the soulful girl staring deeply into the water. While she may recognize him, it isn’t mutual. There were so many faces lost in the crowd that day on the island. With blood spilled on the sand, his attention was sickeningly focused on victory and conquering. The opposition only angered him more, blinding him with endless rage until everything finally ended.
So, he doesn’t entirely understand the sharpness in her voice or where it stems from; nonetheless, he scoffs. ”Have fun with that,” he quips, welcoming her to sink or swim. Maybe he should – would? – join her, but then again, the jaded tone of her voice steers him from the idea. ”Well damn,” his neck retracts, barely, but enough to exhibit a feeble sense of surprise. His large eyes blink, the slit pupils contracting eerily as they rise from her reflection to the guarded wall of her face. ”Duly noted, sweetie,” sarcastic humor drips from his lips, a half chuckle rising from his throat. Before he can say more – prod her, more like – the porcelain girl has joined them with bright eyes brimming with fascination.
Funny, he notes, how the two women so drastically contrast.
Bone-white and pure, the youngest of them lacks enough life experience to darken her face. There are no stress lines carving her brow or scars webbing her slender body. Castile notices, scrutinizes, before resting his gaze on the draconic wings. The tip of his tail flicks as he sifts through the rising emotions, determining to suppress it all for the sake of conversation, even if it is still odd to hold conversation in this body.
A disgruntled moan vibrates through him, trembling a nearby tree. His scaled brows stitch together and a frown upends his previous grin. ”What, am I not pretty?” As the girl brightens herself – my, what a beautiful little star – Castile responds by rippling his own color and altering it to match hers. The piebald pattern recedes, bleaching him to all white like her, even his eyes except for the obsidian, slit pupils that contract and dilate with the fickle lighting. An eerie look, he assumes, but he doesn’t bother to look at his reflection in the nearby pond. He doesn’t change either, not yet, as he inclines his head toward the first woman, still oblivious to their names. ”What do you think you will lose?” If there’s one thing he is familiar with, it is loss.
So, he doesn’t entirely understand the sharpness in her voice or where it stems from; nonetheless, he scoffs. ”Have fun with that,” he quips, welcoming her to sink or swim. Maybe he should – would? – join her, but then again, the jaded tone of her voice steers him from the idea. ”Well damn,” his neck retracts, barely, but enough to exhibit a feeble sense of surprise. His large eyes blink, the slit pupils contracting eerily as they rise from her reflection to the guarded wall of her face. ”Duly noted, sweetie,” sarcastic humor drips from his lips, a half chuckle rising from his throat. Before he can say more – prod her, more like – the porcelain girl has joined them with bright eyes brimming with fascination.
Funny, he notes, how the two women so drastically contrast.
Bone-white and pure, the youngest of them lacks enough life experience to darken her face. There are no stress lines carving her brow or scars webbing her slender body. Castile notices, scrutinizes, before resting his gaze on the draconic wings. The tip of his tail flicks as he sifts through the rising emotions, determining to suppress it all for the sake of conversation, even if it is still odd to hold conversation in this body.
A disgruntled moan vibrates through him, trembling a nearby tree. His scaled brows stitch together and a frown upends his previous grin. ”What, am I not pretty?” As the girl brightens herself – my, what a beautiful little star – Castile responds by rippling his own color and altering it to match hers. The piebald pattern recedes, bleaching him to all white like her, even his eyes except for the obsidian, slit pupils that contract and dilate with the fickle lighting. An eerie look, he assumes, but he doesn’t bother to look at his reflection in the nearby pond. He doesn’t change either, not yet, as he inclines his head toward the first woman, still oblivious to their names. ”What do you think you will lose?” If there’s one thing he is familiar with, it is loss.
castile
@[luster] @[Beyza]