Whose afraid of the big bad wolf? [Any]

[Reuen]

Is it just me, Or do you wonder if we're put here just to see, Scars tell a thousand stories. Hidden beyond the ash ridge depths, there are sorrowful tales, heartbroken prose. I wish I could understand them, to piece them together. But they are as confusing as the constellations in the sky. Large clusters of them, silver and twinkling golds. Nebulas far, far away. I can only imagine what it is like up there, in the vast ebony skies. What it would be like among the stars, falling, falling. Beneath the starlit night, I wander. Each step, takes me an eternity, for I stop, dip my head and inhale the dry earth beneath my feet. I continue this, until I am in the middle of the meadow. Hollow eyes then reverting to the sky, blinking thrice, then closing my eyes and picturing the ebony skies. It had been dark, ever so dark. Screams, furious, deafening screams. I shiver, the only memory is pain, and it pulses in my deep scars — still healing, grateful for Wichita’s aid, they would probably be far worse. The worse ones are on my side, parallel against my ribcage. They had been bone deep, and I could feel the sinew bend and bow with every movement. The skin had started to cover it, but it was still salmon pink and sore. That went for my others. Each one had a tale, I wish I could tell. But everything is blank, everything is lost, and this irks me so. There’s a coldness inside of me, like ice embedding itself into my joints, freezing me in place. I stand there for hours, until the witching hour strikes. Even the stars disappear from the ebony heavens and leave nothing but a slither of silver moon. My creamy locks, knotted with burrs and thorns, fall in cascades of dreadlocks over my scarred neck. But I do not move. I watch, hollow eyes staring out into the night. The dull ache in my feet, my tendons, does not will me to shift. Nothing does. I stay there, immobile and watchful. As if now part of the landscape. There's a ghost; ethereal and pale. He haunts the field, a spectre that brightens my dying eyes. I watch him, he nears me, he has not seen me, statuesque and stone-dead. I lift my nose, bringing it up from the ground, inhaling, breathing in deeply, without regret. I watch him, feeling the earth almost bend and bow as he haunts it. My vocals feel closed, as if the box inside is rusted shut just like my mind, my tone is hoarse, like the dying flowers of autumn, falling to the ground beneath my feet. 'Ghost. Ghosts exist. You. You are a ghost.' I say, to the air, to the ethereal steed as he goes to pass me, I stretch out my neck, lips twisting and coiling into some strange attempt of a strangled smile. Oh, ghosts. They haunt me, the stretch their ethereal fingers and attempt to strangle me every day. I escaped something terrible and they want me back. i'm certain of one thing in my life, and that is the ghosts will follow me forever. 'Reuen.' I say, tasting it, salmon tongue rolling over course lips. My scarred side bends as I turn, stepping in a strange, mechanical movement until I am angled just like he, holding my crown just so, tilting it to the left, and then to the right. Then, I am as still as I was when he entered the field. Like stone, immobile and dead. My flanks barely shifting with breath. 'Reuen. All is ruin.' because it is, all is ruin, my mind, tattered and lay before me in pieces that I struggle to put together. My skin stretched out over china white bones, is matted and torn. My lips tweak and pull and once more my voice is almost haunting in it's delicate feathery touch. 'Ghosts... Ghosts are the night.' How much heartache we can take, Without hanging from the tallest tree? - resident of the gates -