10-25-2020, 08:17 AM
Wight
I do not speak for the trees.
The thoughts aren’t mine, and, at first, I wonder if they aren’t stray thoughts from that pretty mare that’s taken over Sylva. She always seems to have some vagrant hallucination hanging around, although I don’t think I’ve ever heard them before now. Really, though, you would think with that shaft of wood through her chest that if anyone speaks for the trees, it would be her, so I guess it’s probably not one of her thoughts following me. No, I think, it’s much more likely to be my new friend. The change of expression over his face is excruciating in its slowness, the handsome falls away like an avalanche, leaving ravaged, angry edges that cut the cold air like ice. He professes not to care for moths, or to need me, and I scoff at both assertions. Seems to me that he doesn't do very much at all.
But he does snap the vines, and that’s the most important thing. Friends helping friends, y’know? I stay prone a moment longer, testing the formerly trapped ankle, and then roll up onto my belly in the snow while my demon-boy steps away, his indolent mind-voice drawling slow across my brain like lazy snowflakes drifting across the grey sky. I think he means it to sound threatening, but honestly, this all sounds great and I bounce up to my feet again, hobbling slightly when a rush of pins and needles swallows one hoof too-long caught in ivy. The sensation soon fades and I fill up the space he tries to place between us before he has the opportunity to protest. The moths still living flutter in my wake, seeking the warm curls of my mane and tail while I stretch up onto my toes to press my bloodied nose to his cheek.
"My.Name.Is.Wight!" I manage to remember to say this slowly for him, but my grip on that control fades quickly as the thoughts roll from my tongue, "AndTheseAreMyMoths. Theydon'thavenamestheyarejustmoths."
The thoughts aren’t mine, and, at first, I wonder if they aren’t stray thoughts from that pretty mare that’s taken over Sylva. She always seems to have some vagrant hallucination hanging around, although I don’t think I’ve ever heard them before now. Really, though, you would think with that shaft of wood through her chest that if anyone speaks for the trees, it would be her, so I guess it’s probably not one of her thoughts following me. No, I think, it’s much more likely to be my new friend. The change of expression over his face is excruciating in its slowness, the handsome falls away like an avalanche, leaving ravaged, angry edges that cut the cold air like ice. He professes not to care for moths, or to need me, and I scoff at both assertions. Seems to me that he doesn't do very much at all.
But he does snap the vines, and that’s the most important thing. Friends helping friends, y’know? I stay prone a moment longer, testing the formerly trapped ankle, and then roll up onto my belly in the snow while my demon-boy steps away, his indolent mind-voice drawling slow across my brain like lazy snowflakes drifting across the grey sky. I think he means it to sound threatening, but honestly, this all sounds great and I bounce up to my feet again, hobbling slightly when a rush of pins and needles swallows one hoof too-long caught in ivy. The sensation soon fades and I fill up the space he tries to place between us before he has the opportunity to protest. The moths still living flutter in my wake, seeking the warm curls of my mane and tail while I stretch up onto my toes to press my bloodied nose to his cheek.
"My.Name.Is.Wight!" I manage to remember to say this slowly for him, but my grip on that control fades quickly as the thoughts roll from my tongue, "AndTheseAreMyMoths. Theydon'thavenamestheyarejustmoths."
@[Molech]