07-23-2022, 09:14 PM
Ryatah
She sees him along the riverbank, and for a long while she simply watches him from where she stands.
The Pampas is not a familiar land to her, as most of the newer lands were not. Most of her time had been spent in Tephra, Hyaline, or Taiga, and she tried not to think of how she likely would never see any of them again: just like the valley and the dale. The grasslands are unexpectedly lovely, though, and wandering the wildflower-filled fields and following the lazy curve of the river has served as a distraction from the darkness that now pulsed in her chest like a heartbeat.
She thinks it is just her imagination that it feels stronger; thinks it is just her imagination that it is even there at all. She had been trapped in the black void for so long that she does not always trust that she has returned to normal—or at least her version of it. She thinks she is just restless, that it is just the tension around her after the flood and the storms—her empathy drawing in everything negative, and she not taking the time to filter it out.
She sees him, though, and realizes it is not just her imagination. Something rises up in her chest, a tangible thread of darkness that feels both drawn to and repulsed by him—a remnant of shadow that followed her home from the void, burrowed into her veins.
But he is not the first one to kill her, and likely will not be the last. He is not the first man to hurt her.
Turning from him does not even cross her mind.
When she walks towards him it is with carefully veiled caution, giving the appearance of ease even though her pulse is thrumming. She is the same as she had been before, with the golden halo and golden wings, and stardust that trails from the ends of them to the ground. But the scar on her chest from where he had ripped out her heart remains, perhaps some masochistic part of her subconscious that did not want to heal the wound all the way, or perhaps because it took far more energy to regrow a heart and she could not be bothered to concern herself with the scar.
“Gale,” she stops a fair distance from him, watching him with eerily calm, dark eyes, and a placid kind of smile hardly touching her lips. She does not hate him; there is no malice in her tone, no disgust on her face. There is only a tentative distrust. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
The Pampas is not a familiar land to her, as most of the newer lands were not. Most of her time had been spent in Tephra, Hyaline, or Taiga, and she tried not to think of how she likely would never see any of them again: just like the valley and the dale. The grasslands are unexpectedly lovely, though, and wandering the wildflower-filled fields and following the lazy curve of the river has served as a distraction from the darkness that now pulsed in her chest like a heartbeat.
She thinks it is just her imagination that it feels stronger; thinks it is just her imagination that it is even there at all. She had been trapped in the black void for so long that she does not always trust that she has returned to normal—or at least her version of it. She thinks she is just restless, that it is just the tension around her after the flood and the storms—her empathy drawing in everything negative, and she not taking the time to filter it out.
She sees him, though, and realizes it is not just her imagination. Something rises up in her chest, a tangible thread of darkness that feels both drawn to and repulsed by him—a remnant of shadow that followed her home from the void, burrowed into her veins.
But he is not the first one to kill her, and likely will not be the last. He is not the first man to hurt her.
Turning from him does not even cross her mind.
When she walks towards him it is with carefully veiled caution, giving the appearance of ease even though her pulse is thrumming. She is the same as she had been before, with the golden halo and golden wings, and stardust that trails from the ends of them to the ground. But the scar on her chest from where he had ripped out her heart remains, perhaps some masochistic part of her subconscious that did not want to heal the wound all the way, or perhaps because it took far more energy to regrow a heart and she could not be bothered to concern herself with the scar.
“Gale,” she stops a fair distance from him, watching him with eerily calm, dark eyes, and a placid kind of smile hardly touching her lips. She does not hate him; there is no malice in her tone, no disgust on her face. There is only a tentative distrust. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
EVEN ANGELS HAVE THEIR WICKED SCHEMES
@
Gale