11-08-2019, 08:24 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
”Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have a foot fetish,” a wry grin and airy chuckle float from him like the acrid smoke he once exhaled. The humor twists around him, a cloud suspended in the space between them as their eyes meet and lock. He holds her there, a fire crackling in his gaze because he can nearly sense the same in her. There’s a reason that her mere presence attracts so many while others are obscured in the crowd. Castile searches for it now, reads the soft lines of her face. She is a shepherd, they her mindless lambs – or perhaps they will soon become her slaves. It’s only a matter of time until she reveals to them all what – or whom – she truly is, what greatness lies beneath the surface of her calm demeanor.
And he wants to know, but not like them, not like the brainless fools groveling at her feet.
It’s tempting to edge closer, to touch her and be the first to taste her skin on his lips, but he diligently refrains and remains poised confidently in front of her.
And what kind of first impression would that be?
A nonchalant sigh passes through him. ”Everyone wants to be on the monster’s good side,” he admits it as though he has a hundred times before. A contemplative haze crosses his face when he glances toward the distant horizon, counting back on his own experiences. They are wise not to make an enemy of him, and perhaps it’s equally as wise to pursue her own friendship, or respect at the very least. ”Straia,” he echoes her name, placing it alongside his ambitions and grand schemes as though she naturally belongs in his life, like she was placed back in Beqanna solely for him. ”Castile,” only his name, not a title, not a land. Like her, he doesn’t flaunt what he is or what he is capable of. They have time for that, so much of it, and he knows this to be true.
Their lives are already beginning to weave together.
And he wants to know, but not like them, not like the brainless fools groveling at her feet.
It’s tempting to edge closer, to touch her and be the first to taste her skin on his lips, but he diligently refrains and remains poised confidently in front of her.
And what kind of first impression would that be?
A nonchalant sigh passes through him. ”Everyone wants to be on the monster’s good side,” he admits it as though he has a hundred times before. A contemplative haze crosses his face when he glances toward the distant horizon, counting back on his own experiences. They are wise not to make an enemy of him, and perhaps it’s equally as wise to pursue her own friendship, or respect at the very least. ”Straia,” he echoes her name, placing it alongside his ambitions and grand schemes as though she naturally belongs in his life, like she was placed back in Beqanna solely for him. ”Castile,” only his name, not a title, not a land. Like her, he doesn’t flaunt what he is or what he is capable of. They have time for that, so much of it, and he knows this to be true.
Their lives are already beginning to weave together.
castile
@[Straia]