01-24-2016, 06:35 PM
is crowded w/ lovers & searchers
& leavers so eager to please & forget.
Home is not a concept of great import to him. Or, it hasn’t been.
When home was first the dark days of babyhood, fresh from the suspension of the womb; then the damp and sandy side of some rigid once-was...
Maybe his first real ‘home’ was the side of that similarly golden woman: without the wings, but with a heartbeat and body heat. But that had been a thing without borders, nondescript and fickle—if ‘home’ is a thing with no need of a place or any constancy, then though it had been sad and quiet, it was something in lieu of nothing (or, something worse than nothing), and therefore infinitely better.
That golden woman would have been home, then. But she never felt like it, though she had tried her best. It was still a shadowy thing. He did not understand the structure or mechanics behind it. What makes it and what bends and breaks it.
That he is here must mark a shift in all of that.
A reworking; there is no other reason to be here but to find a home. Or to offer one. It is an odd thing for him to suddenly be compelled to pursue, all things considered. But then, he has seen the faces of loneliness and aimless surrendered to depravity—it has steeled him against the pull, the evocation he has undeniably felt wrap around his throat and coo in his ear. That thing that sends him turning over stones to find thrills in darkness. He is searching for that thing to wrap around him like a shield.
A man swimming against a current and fight the undertow.
Maybe, like the child is the reason this mare quells her wanderlust, that is why he moves to them, now. Looking for the things, peice by piece, that will bind him down.
She is nervous. He can tell. He need not even take that knowledge from her mind for himself. It is apparent in the way her muscles tense and in the wary quality of her glances. His pale tail brushes across his navy hocks. Cold and interwoven with pre-winter.
“Hello.” He looks at the child, her spitting image. If he has a soft spot for anything, perhaps it is children most of all. One thing, most ironically and unbelievably, he shares with some of his more loathsome siblings. To differing degrees. “I’m Chessur. Who is this?” He turns his dark eyes slowly back to the mare, a smile faint on his blue lips.
It comes more natural to him than to his kin. It fits his features, even if he does not find much use for it.
Trashlip and Phina's
BASE BY BRONZEHALO