02-07-2018, 10:11 AM
Khaedrik is not particularly fond of shadow-lands and the tired impressionist lies that promise some archaic prowess nestled in the motley drama of moving shade and thick gloom. No, he finds few things to embalm his soul underneath canopies of pale stars and shadow-beasts; but nevertheless he considers sifting through the half-gloom that lingers beneath the trees and between the winding, age-old roots to keep her company on her patrol. If she is their protector, he is no more than the prying, wandering boy who cannot possibly understand why the world has been left in such a state, who does not know the meaning of things and delves far too deeply into the contractions of how the world works. That; and he is monster too.
Part of him; the part that hisses and cracks under his skin, wonders what she will do to the monsters when she finds them.
What will happen to them when you find them?” he asks – the embodiment of childlike innocence and anguish all at once.
She is more than just any ordinary horse residing in these lands, he realizes in a pang of angst. And here, at her doorstep beneath the vines and murky undergrowth he is humbled by the presence of her. Though he cannot explain why (as with so many things) she has rendered him stale and insignificant, and he bends like wilting grass to her.
”I would like to come with you,” he braves the uncertainties in his chest with pretended filigrees of steel; does he know that his voice does not bear him as well as he would wish it to? The smile he offers is cement-grey and far from ripe with boyish, golden assurance. But he meets her eyes with a craven abdication of his pretended joviality; he is child – aflame with the motley drama of pry and terror. ”But please don´t kill the monsters” he mutters, surprised to taste the truth of that statement on his tongue.
Somehow it fits him.