every scar and bone will build my throne
The delicate workings of my mind were shifting uncontrollably. The throes of the inner workings finding some interest, intrigue. I hadn't met many here, safe for the birds (Oh, but these birds, they are everywhere, and certainly not escapable.) and when in the deepest, darkest parts of the wood, all you have are your thoughts and the feathery hellions, it isn't much to call upon.
This girl, this girl. She added a sprinkle of what my mother would call magic, if not for the lack of such actual magical properties, I would say she was right. But this magic, it was as normal as living and as needed as breathing. 'Ah, but if it did I would not be as forthcoming as I'd wish. Rules and such.' I roll my shoulders, it is a languid action, depicting the uneasy boredom that knots my sinew and binds my bone. The quiver of winter on the breeze, entangles my silver bronze mane. The ash, the cinders, they embed themselves into me, knitting in with my coat, a fine layer of dust. Where my mother, my father were so easily claimed by the Chamber, I was uncertain if that was what I wished. Either way, I was too young to to much about it, other than chase the bothersome murder about the Chamber and have my own little tidbits of fun.
'Rules are quite the drag.' My tone is sharp, continuous, as I draw up my amber tinged eyes to watch her; her laugh almost seems infectious and the way it shifts from my chest, up my throat, feels more parasitic. 'That is the first time my name.. hasn't been said in vain.' words burn from my lips, like the falling hot spires of fire from the glimmering tree, that emits the eerie red glow from the distance. Momentarily my eyes catch it, filtering my gaze away from the girl. The Chamber burns, the Chamber burns with something more than life, it has purpose and it uses the chamberling's to direct, to do it's business. It is quite the haunting tale, really. A darkly romantic one if you think of it; The chamber, the stealer of hearts, the burner of souls...
'We're all new once. I would feel the entirely same way, if I were to leave these woods.' I cocked my hind leg, snapping my gunmetal talk across my loins. 'Just think of it as an adventure. A new canvas to paint your new world upon.' Oh, that was my mother talking and as the words fall from my lips in a foray of black magic, I keep the nightly pursed. Shaking my head. Gilt eyes find her curiosity, her down-trodden soul, to be far, far more interesting now. I take the breaching gap between us, and swallow it with my strides, closer to the little beating heart, her quivering breath.
'If you feel Home is where your parents are, I would be inclined to digress. I was born here, it is quite there home but for me, for me it has not become such, yet.' I pause here, something more lyrical, prose and poetic should fall from baritone lips, but instead I offer a twist of a smirk and my tone is dark, smooth and Vercingetorix rather than Engelsfors. 'You could mesh yourself with the pines rather well. You already understand the birds need for an unrelenting torture, I would think you'd fit right in.' Her doubt marks her pretty blue tinted face, and I reach out my peppered muzzle, indirect, curious and yet restricted. To touch her, it seemed almost forbidden, and yet enticingly I grasp at the fruit of the apple. Perhaps the serpent I will be, weaving my way around, slithering. I shake my head then, pulling back, the urge to touch the girl falling to my feet.
'Home is where you make it, Wayra. You can make your home anywhere.'
vercingetorix
killdare x engelsfors