03-11-2018, 01:40 PM
This pit he has fallen into has no remorse. Falling evermore into a world of darkness and monsters he does not quite belong to. Oh, but there are no strings to pull him back up to the surface, and thus he continues his fall – and wonders how long it will take until he reaches the ground. His wolf-thing, barb-tooted and yellow-eyed is waiting; he can almost feel the thing salivate at the thought. It wants nothing more than for him to finally give in; to lose the last lucidity he clings so fervently to.
But today; his turgid eyes – bitter-black and dispassionate - study the pale face of Ilma, and for the moment, no thoughts of crimson red against her skin (pristine white and sublime) pass his mind. Khaedrik collects the stories of everyone he meets – anything to make them more alive - beings not of flesh and blood (to tear and maim) but hopes and dreams and life. So that he can scribble them into the storybook in his chest. Together these stories make up what is left of his sanity, small strands of yarn to weave around his soul. He desperately hopes that Ilma; white as a misplaced angel, can help him fill those pages.
”Kagerus” he echoes in response, and his wolf sinks further into the shadows as if the mere name is something to loathe and despise. But the boy’s eyes grow more lucid. ”She is my sister.” Oh, there are no visible similarities between the two; except for their inherent penchant for darkness. But he doubts this is something she knows about her. Kagerus hides her fangs well; even to herself.
Alas – an advantage Khaedrik lacks.
”Where did you live before you came to Hyaline?” he desperately needs to know; needs to knit her story together so that it can fit neatly into that book of his.
Until she asks him about his shadows; his demons that never seem to stray too far, for their fury lay hidden beneath a blanket of feathers. The wolf lifts its atrocious head – as if it knows she is talking about it. And perhaps on some plane of existence it does. The question is one Khaedrik cannot answer – even if he wanted to. He knows so little about the monsters that have been his constant companions since he was born. He doesn´t know that they are mere figments of his own sick imagination, no, to him – they are their own. Terrible, vile things of destruction and death. And still; somehow they are part of him.
”They are part of me.” he answers, and his voice is shadow-smoke. The shadows reach for her sleek white hide, twirl around her like a second skin. But these shadows have no wolf-teeth or hidden claws; they are mere wisps of darkness, distant, cold, harmless. ”Just as I am part of them” he concludes, and just like that they return to their master. A brilliant spider web of darkness against the golden of his skin.
It is where they belong, after all.
@[Ilma]