01-15-2021, 05:41 PM
stifled the choice and the air in my lungs;
better not to breathe than to breathe a lie
For all their bold independence, they are creatures that know safety is found in numbers. While they have an untold number of abilities, the instincts of their ancestors cling to their blood. This ancient knowledge (the feeling of something not right, the desire to seek others when things are unfamiliar, the comfort that finds both of them when they stand close together) is a tree standing in the core of their bodies. Its deep roots could not be upheaved by the fiercest of storms.
Tiercel knows the calm surrounding him is partially manufactured, but there is an original thread to it. The soft glow of Chasmata’s sides and the relief she brings as a peer does soothe him beneath the sudden darkness. His cerulean eyes search the sky as she does, peering into the vast swathe of emptiness. Tiercel’s chest tightens when he sees only black; there are no stars or moon to shimmer down on their heads. He might have shrugged off this observation last spring, but now the galaxies’ absence makes him worry for Islas.
He still cannot explain how she thrives beneath the starlight, but he understands it is essential for her.
The dun-and-navy pulls in a slow breath that plunges so deep into his lungs that his chest rises to fill with air. He holds it for a moment, focusing on the strange pinch that comes with such an action, before letting it softly slide out of his dark nostrils. “Chasmata,” he repeats, his voice neither friendly nor aggressive. A simple method of testing her name, of locking it away in his memory and tying her glowing face to the syllables.
As his voice falls silent, a great wind sweeps across them. It is the type of current that might tear across a wide-open plain, over low-lying rocks and empty fields. It feels warm on their skin, but it doesn’t feel good, even with the winter’s chill. The wind is a heavy, hot breath that flies against their shoulders and rips across their backs, grabbing the tangled bits of their hair and flinging them against their cheeks. Tiercel repeats her name, “Chasmata!” while the wind rages, but it sounds as though it were coming from somewhere far away.
It lasts only a few moments, yet when the wind finally vanishes, it feels as though it had been much longer. And Tiercel admits he feels different, like something from the middle of him has been stripped away and placed elsewhere. There is a new weight on his shoulders, and he assumes it is the hand of this strange darkness pressing down on him. His calm had slipped away with the wind and a bittersweet melody of anxiety and fear begins to softly wind between them.
He takes a shaking breath to steady himself, turning his face toward Chasmata. “Are you okay?”
Tiercel knows the calm surrounding him is partially manufactured, but there is an original thread to it. The soft glow of Chasmata’s sides and the relief she brings as a peer does soothe him beneath the sudden darkness. His cerulean eyes search the sky as she does, peering into the vast swathe of emptiness. Tiercel’s chest tightens when he sees only black; there are no stars or moon to shimmer down on their heads. He might have shrugged off this observation last spring, but now the galaxies’ absence makes him worry for Islas.
He still cannot explain how she thrives beneath the starlight, but he understands it is essential for her.
The dun-and-navy pulls in a slow breath that plunges so deep into his lungs that his chest rises to fill with air. He holds it for a moment, focusing on the strange pinch that comes with such an action, before letting it softly slide out of his dark nostrils. “Chasmata,” he repeats, his voice neither friendly nor aggressive. A simple method of testing her name, of locking it away in his memory and tying her glowing face to the syllables.
As his voice falls silent, a great wind sweeps across them. It is the type of current that might tear across a wide-open plain, over low-lying rocks and empty fields. It feels warm on their skin, but it doesn’t feel good, even with the winter’s chill. The wind is a heavy, hot breath that flies against their shoulders and rips across their backs, grabbing the tangled bits of their hair and flinging them against their cheeks. Tiercel repeats her name, “Chasmata!” while the wind rages, but it sounds as though it were coming from somewhere far away.
It lasts only a few moments, yet when the wind finally vanishes, it feels as though it had been much longer. And Tiercel admits he feels different, like something from the middle of him has been stripped away and placed elsewhere. There is a new weight on his shoulders, and he assumes it is the hand of this strange darkness pressing down on him. His calm had slipped away with the wind and a bittersweet melody of anxiety and fear begins to softly wind between them.
He takes a shaking breath to steady himself, turning his face toward Chasmata. “Are you okay?”
tiercel.
@[chasmata]