09-10-2018, 04:12 PM
He whispers the shadows near as he winds through the path that leads to the Forest. The world was silent. Almost peaceful, if it were not the type of silence that forebodes something much less pleasant. The eye of the storm, perhaps, or the pause in a verbal fight that escalates it to physical. There was tension in the way the golden stallion moved, an impatience masked by the simplicity of his actions, frosted over by the sweetness of the afternoon sun that turned monsters and shadows into milk and honey.
It is a memory that has him out of his hiding today. The image of a mahogany girl with sea-salt on her skin is what takes him further and further into the darkness of the woodland; she dances (he follows), a maiden in a dream, with whispers of suitors and love-songs in her eyes – and her memory lays a smile upon golden lips. He is still Khaedrik, of shadows and regret, but deep in the shadows of the otherworldly forest he is more than horse and more than boy…. He is freedom and insanity, darkness and a beautiful, changing light. So he goes onward, with no thoughts in his head and no pain in his heart, deeper along a path which his shadows have carved, deeper into the Beqanna-woods, deeper into the shadows which happily calls his name to urge him onward.
And at his heels, limned in shadow and ill-intent goes the wolf. It is a vile thing, bright-eyed and sharp-fanged, but just as much a part of the golden stallion as the longing in his heart. It does not move the way a wolf should, but flickers in and out of sight like a chimera. It whispers, whispers, whispers into his ears, a poem of darkness and havoc and Khaedriks glitter-dark eyes grow wide and wider still. There is shadowsong in his blood, and a terrible loneliness in his eye.
If only there was a way to lead a normal life, whispers the boy.
If only, answers the wolf.