08-07-2022, 03:21 PM
T U M U L T
It is tempting, to simply leave.
This is not his home—not really. There is nothing to tether him here, save for memories that he would likely never shake, and possibly a child or two that he could only assume existed since he hadn’t actually met them. There is no reason for him to stay and watch the place continue to crumble, but perhaps there is a part of him that is sadistically curious to see what the end of the world looks like—and perhaps because he is foolish enough to think he won’t go down with it.
He is, after all, not one of them.
When this world swallows them whole it will spit out the outsiders, he thinks, and the entire ordeal will mesh into the rest of what feels like a fever dream.
Where it will leave him, he is not sure, but he is sure it will be somewhere better than here.
The storm-colored stallion is alone in the ruins, and though he knows there are others nearby, one of many strange things about this particular land is its ability to make you feel isolated. Other voices were carried away, seemingly trapped by the faint fog that hung loosely above the ground. Their figures remained shrouded in the same mist, or obscured by the rock formations that jutted from the ground.
It’s why when her voice pierces through the haze that it forces his attention onto her, his gray eyes surveying the area until it finds her pale form. Even from here he can see—and hear—that she seems irritated, and she has that pointed look about her that says she is searching for someone. Despite his detachment to this place, he cannot ignore the tug of empathy that shifts in his chest. He did not have anyone here to lose, but he is sure the flood and the storms had caused more than their fair share of strife for those that did.
Against his better judgment (a recurring theme for him in this place, he noted dryly) he finds himself walking towards her. Lightning flickers almost lazily across his skin, a summer storm turned to flesh as the storm-cloud wings at his sides drip slow, deliberate drops from the tips of them. There is nothing threatening in him right now—there rarely is, as he is slow to anger, despite what the hum of electricity implies—but the low thunder of his voice is difficult to soften when he asks her, “Are you looking for someone?”
This is not his home—not really. There is nothing to tether him here, save for memories that he would likely never shake, and possibly a child or two that he could only assume existed since he hadn’t actually met them. There is no reason for him to stay and watch the place continue to crumble, but perhaps there is a part of him that is sadistically curious to see what the end of the world looks like—and perhaps because he is foolish enough to think he won’t go down with it.
He is, after all, not one of them.
When this world swallows them whole it will spit out the outsiders, he thinks, and the entire ordeal will mesh into the rest of what feels like a fever dream.
Where it will leave him, he is not sure, but he is sure it will be somewhere better than here.
The storm-colored stallion is alone in the ruins, and though he knows there are others nearby, one of many strange things about this particular land is its ability to make you feel isolated. Other voices were carried away, seemingly trapped by the faint fog that hung loosely above the ground. Their figures remained shrouded in the same mist, or obscured by the rock formations that jutted from the ground.
It’s why when her voice pierces through the haze that it forces his attention onto her, his gray eyes surveying the area until it finds her pale form. Even from here he can see—and hear—that she seems irritated, and she has that pointed look about her that says she is searching for someone. Despite his detachment to this place, he cannot ignore the tug of empathy that shifts in his chest. He did not have anyone here to lose, but he is sure the flood and the storms had caused more than their fair share of strife for those that did.
Against his better judgment (a recurring theme for him in this place, he noted dryly) he finds himself walking towards her. Lightning flickers almost lazily across his skin, a summer storm turned to flesh as the storm-cloud wings at his sides drip slow, deliberate drops from the tips of them. There is nothing threatening in him right now—there rarely is, as he is slow to anger, despite what the hum of electricity implies—but the low thunder of his voice is difficult to soften when he asks her, “Are you looking for someone?”
CAN YOU TELL ME, WILL I BREAK OR WILL I BEND?
@Elegance