jamie
08-30-2021, 03:28 PM
jamie
I CAN’T EXACTLY DESCRIBE HOW I FEEL
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
It would not be hard to find them, the first three daughters.
Beyza.
It would be as simple as sending an army of shadows out into the world in search of them.
And yet.
He does not.
Perhaps it is because he has no interest in finding them.
Or perhaps it is because he is merely biding his time, waiting.
The white magician does take up more space in his thoughts than he would care to admit, though. When he calls upon the dogs to do his bidding, when he watches them sink their teeth into the throats, when he watches the life bleed out of his prey, he thinks of her and how she, too, had been so willing to kill for him.
What had changed?
This is the thought that haunts him.
What had changed?
They were meant to be all-powerful, the five of them. The black magician, the white magician, the daughters of creation. But the reaper prowls alone now. He rarely strays far from Pangea, lurking in the same cave in which he had spent his crippled youth. (He will never forget where he came from, Jamie, because it is the rage that fuels him. It is the disgust that spurs him into action.)
But he has ventured out to check on the nymph daughters today. Never getting close enough that they might notice him, no. Just peering at them from a distance. Loathing them and all that they represent. The staggering beauty of them as they languish in their pools, tethered there by his magic.
He is on his way from the forest daughter’s secluded pony now, making his way through the forest, flanked by two elk crafted from shadow. The breath is a rattling wheeze, as it has always been, and the eyes are the same freakish yellow.
So many have died at his hand since the last time Jamie was spotted in the forest, feeding the dark heart, and he wears that same shark-tooth smile. Ink-black mouth dripping something terrible as he moves, silent.
Beyza.
It would be as simple as sending an army of shadows out into the world in search of them.
And yet.
He does not.
Perhaps it is because he has no interest in finding them.
Or perhaps it is because he is merely biding his time, waiting.
The white magician does take up more space in his thoughts than he would care to admit, though. When he calls upon the dogs to do his bidding, when he watches them sink their teeth into the throats, when he watches the life bleed out of his prey, he thinks of her and how she, too, had been so willing to kill for him.
What had changed?
This is the thought that haunts him.
What had changed?
They were meant to be all-powerful, the five of them. The black magician, the white magician, the daughters of creation. But the reaper prowls alone now. He rarely strays far from Pangea, lurking in the same cave in which he had spent his crippled youth. (He will never forget where he came from, Jamie, because it is the rage that fuels him. It is the disgust that spurs him into action.)
But he has ventured out to check on the nymph daughters today. Never getting close enough that they might notice him, no. Just peering at them from a distance. Loathing them and all that they represent. The staggering beauty of them as they languish in their pools, tethered there by his magic.
He is on his way from the forest daughter’s secluded pony now, making his way through the forest, flanked by two elk crafted from shadow. The breath is a rattling wheeze, as it has always been, and the eyes are the same freakish yellow.
So many have died at his hand since the last time Jamie was spotted in the forest, feeding the dark heart, and he wears that same shark-tooth smile. Ink-black mouth dripping something terrible as he moves, silent.
AND IT LEAVES ME COLD