02-17-2019, 04:07 PM
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
Listening. Watching.
It’s what he does – a constant rotation as his eyes rove across Loess from different vantage points. There have been days that he has curled on a ledge, draconic in every way, and observed the life that roamed and sprouted across the foothills. Admittedly, he has also been finding tunnels in the mountains that kiss between Loess and Hyaline. A dragon’s roost. A nest. A place for his family as they expand and nestle into the kingdom. It’s the least he could do.
Coincidentally, he is curled on the ledge, his neck arched around and his eyes shut in a light sleep, when he hears his name carried on a summer gale. A low rumble resonates through his body and trembles the cliffside as he stirs. The voice, although unfamiliar, carries an air of purpose that brings him to his feet. He isn’t rushed. He stretches and scrapes his talons across the rocks, his jaws yawning open tiredly. Only after blinking away the haziness of his exhaustion does Castile shift his body and address the woman. By the time he has reached her – after a brief glide from his perch – she is squaring herself to face him with a stern expression painted across her face.
”A bold statement,” he growls deeply as his eyes trace across her intensely. He listens to her, however, and considers her offers, but finds himself shrugging. ”We have healers, but they aren’t enough. You won’t be enough. It requires magic. It requires something greater than a mere healer can provide.” He has tasted the temporary relief that a simple healer can give, but the symptoms always returned. It was so delectable, so sweet, at first. Castile was optimistic that the infection was removed, but days later, his cough returned. It rattled him. A week after that, blood dribbled from his nostrils.
Tiphon, a healing angel, was not even enough.
The iron tang of blood settles on his tongue. It’s a bitter taste in this moment as she protests what Vulgaris began. Is it his own blood he tastes, or that of his most recent kill? Castile’s lip curls and his eyes narrow on her. ”You’re funny if you think you can boss your own king,” he scolds her with a furrowed brow until grasping onto her final offer. A smug grin abruptly arises and tips up the corners of his mouth. ”Consider yourself stuck in Loess then. You have a job to do.” And it will never end, he muses. The victims of the plague – himself included – requires a rare power to dissolve the infection in their blood. He wants so bad to find it, to provide it to those within these mountainous walls, but thus far it has been futile. One day, they will find a healer to cure them all.
It’s what he does – a constant rotation as his eyes rove across Loess from different vantage points. There have been days that he has curled on a ledge, draconic in every way, and observed the life that roamed and sprouted across the foothills. Admittedly, he has also been finding tunnels in the mountains that kiss between Loess and Hyaline. A dragon’s roost. A nest. A place for his family as they expand and nestle into the kingdom. It’s the least he could do.
Coincidentally, he is curled on the ledge, his neck arched around and his eyes shut in a light sleep, when he hears his name carried on a summer gale. A low rumble resonates through his body and trembles the cliffside as he stirs. The voice, although unfamiliar, carries an air of purpose that brings him to his feet. He isn’t rushed. He stretches and scrapes his talons across the rocks, his jaws yawning open tiredly. Only after blinking away the haziness of his exhaustion does Castile shift his body and address the woman. By the time he has reached her – after a brief glide from his perch – she is squaring herself to face him with a stern expression painted across her face.
”A bold statement,” he growls deeply as his eyes trace across her intensely. He listens to her, however, and considers her offers, but finds himself shrugging. ”We have healers, but they aren’t enough. You won’t be enough. It requires magic. It requires something greater than a mere healer can provide.” He has tasted the temporary relief that a simple healer can give, but the symptoms always returned. It was so delectable, so sweet, at first. Castile was optimistic that the infection was removed, but days later, his cough returned. It rattled him. A week after that, blood dribbled from his nostrils.
Tiphon, a healing angel, was not even enough.
The iron tang of blood settles on his tongue. It’s a bitter taste in this moment as she protests what Vulgaris began. Is it his own blood he tastes, or that of his most recent kill? Castile’s lip curls and his eyes narrow on her. ”You’re funny if you think you can boss your own king,” he scolds her with a furrowed brow until grasping onto her final offer. A smug grin abruptly arises and tips up the corners of his mouth. ”Consider yourself stuck in Loess then. You have a job to do.” And it will never end, he muses. The victims of the plague – himself included – requires a rare power to dissolve the infection in their blood. He wants so bad to find it, to provide it to those within these mountainous walls, but thus far it has been futile. One day, they will find a healer to cure them all.
castile
@[Caelestra]