11-11-2019, 11:32 AM
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
Flames lustfully kiss the edges of his gut now, sustaining themselves for the first time in months. Life is returning to his veins, an intravenous drip slowly reviving him. He can taste it almost, the acrid smoke that desperately tries to rise. The faerie took it away, but not permanently. It is returning. He is returning.
Castile’s skin prickles with awareness as Oceane washes her eyes across him, intrigued by him and fascinated by the mystery of what lies beneath his steely shell. Ruinam offered her a small taste of what he loves (burning fire, he reminisces) but she has yet to see herself what monster the King truly is. He is chilled iron, having already been malleable and shaped by the inferno of his past decisions and experiences. There remains a sliver of him, however, that is slightly weaker and prone to change. That is his future, the tales yet untold and the horrors that may one day await him.
As time goes on, he is increasingly eager for this shift in himself again. He adapts to his environment.
He seizes it.
It’s to his relief that not all the world is quite so cold and expectant of him. There are moments of solace that he can let the tension seep from his pores and run away, even if for a few hours in the mild Loessian winter. Ocean provides a reprieve from the turbulent, political war at hand. Her explorative endeavors provide him comfort in knowing that she and Isobell were safe, but also the current status of the island. A calculating nod greets her response, cataloguing the quiet that has once again plagued the Resort. Seemingly, it’s most active period was his brief overtaking as residents riled against him. Ever since, cobwebs collect on the trees and algae on the ponds. ”I’m happy to hear that,” he croons, grinning even as she sidles away, shying from the natural electricity that magnetizes them. He does not move in response; his hooves root themselves in place although his gaze closely follows her. Why he is happy, he doesn’t say. Blue is a passing face, one of hundreds. Although there is a touch of familiarity, he is falling to the dark chasms of Castile’s memory where many insignificant meetings seek shelter – away, but never gone.
It could also be their safe passage, but he did not fear Ruinam’s wrath; there is none to be had.
Inwardly, Castile wonders if the satisfaction stems from his absence from the island. He brought it to life, but his departure aided its downfall.
A cocky brute, he sometimes is.
Amid his musings, Oceane’s voice pulls him to this very moment again where he tastes and feels again the pleasure of her return. It can almost perceive as mutual, but he does not force that onto her, instead savoring the light humor blooming between them. ”It depends,” he begins with a wry grin and glistening eyes, ”Do you have wishes of me, or merely things you want to share with me?” It’s tempting to edge closer, to break the invisible barrier separating them, but he hesitates until the urge passes. Too soon, he reminds himself. ”I cannot event count all the different reasons everyone finds me,” a chuckle airily rises from his throat, nearly as weightless as the smoke that threatens to follow.
Castile’s skin prickles with awareness as Oceane washes her eyes across him, intrigued by him and fascinated by the mystery of what lies beneath his steely shell. Ruinam offered her a small taste of what he loves (burning fire, he reminisces) but she has yet to see herself what monster the King truly is. He is chilled iron, having already been malleable and shaped by the inferno of his past decisions and experiences. There remains a sliver of him, however, that is slightly weaker and prone to change. That is his future, the tales yet untold and the horrors that may one day await him.
As time goes on, he is increasingly eager for this shift in himself again. He adapts to his environment.
He seizes it.
It’s to his relief that not all the world is quite so cold and expectant of him. There are moments of solace that he can let the tension seep from his pores and run away, even if for a few hours in the mild Loessian winter. Ocean provides a reprieve from the turbulent, political war at hand. Her explorative endeavors provide him comfort in knowing that she and Isobell were safe, but also the current status of the island. A calculating nod greets her response, cataloguing the quiet that has once again plagued the Resort. Seemingly, it’s most active period was his brief overtaking as residents riled against him. Ever since, cobwebs collect on the trees and algae on the ponds. ”I’m happy to hear that,” he croons, grinning even as she sidles away, shying from the natural electricity that magnetizes them. He does not move in response; his hooves root themselves in place although his gaze closely follows her. Why he is happy, he doesn’t say. Blue is a passing face, one of hundreds. Although there is a touch of familiarity, he is falling to the dark chasms of Castile’s memory where many insignificant meetings seek shelter – away, but never gone.
It could also be their safe passage, but he did not fear Ruinam’s wrath; there is none to be had.
Inwardly, Castile wonders if the satisfaction stems from his absence from the island. He brought it to life, but his departure aided its downfall.
A cocky brute, he sometimes is.
Amid his musings, Oceane’s voice pulls him to this very moment again where he tastes and feels again the pleasure of her return. It can almost perceive as mutual, but he does not force that onto her, instead savoring the light humor blooming between them. ”It depends,” he begins with a wry grin and glistening eyes, ”Do you have wishes of me, or merely things you want to share with me?” It’s tempting to edge closer, to break the invisible barrier separating them, but he hesitates until the urge passes. Too soon, he reminds himself. ”I cannot event count all the different reasons everyone finds me,” a chuckle airily rises from his throat, nearly as weightless as the smoke that threatens to follow.
castile
@[Oceane]