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
A match; only a match. That’s all it would take to set the world aflame.
It sounds so easy when the comment slips like nectar from her lips; tantalizingly sweet and tempting. He would inch closer, to test the idea of it, but Straia is already inching toward him. Their eyes lock amid the mischievous glittering and he holds it for a long moment as she’s pulled into her memories. Castile sinfully lusts for her knowledge, for her wielded power, and for the stories that swim in the hooded darkness of her eyes.
There’s blood on her hands, he wants to accuse, but the worse are knots that he swallows back down. They both have seen the life fade from their victim’s eyes, seen the bodies break underneath them and the hearts stop. For months, Castile hated himself, but the truth of it slowly sunk to the back of his mind like a capsized ship. The memory remains, lingering at the bottom of his mind’s dark depths, but never revisited. As the years creep past, it continues disintegrating until the corresponding emotions fade into nothingness. Observing Straia, he assumes that decades have long since passed and the bodies in her wake are faceless, nearly forgotten. Once, she was something,, someone.
He can see it in the steeliness of her observance that she craves that same reputation, the one that he is creeping after. Prowess and recognition are vain wants, but they are both sinners.
She understands him and feeds him in a way that Karaugh nearly had when he was a juvenile. They want to help create disruption, and Castile is the willing participant. A slow blink and she is closer, her breath fanning across his cheek as she whispers decadently into his ear, laying down the trap for his arrogance to ensnare. ”You’re right,” he murmurs back in quiet realization, her barbed words a solid confirmation of his thoughts. They see him volatile and nothing more; they’ve dismissed the kind laughter they’ve shared, the loyalty, and the amiable warmth. He has done nothing to them and still they see him a monster.
You might as well become what they fear.
The words are weighted, and they burrow into his mind for a long while as he imagines succumbing to it all, falling into the category they see him in – to truly be the destruction they perceive. Castile glances down. He breathes slowly, contemplatively, before meeting her eyes again as she offers her help. Children of chaos he had said. We only need a match, she responded.
Nodding his head, he seizes the rare opportunity of greatness and immortality. ”Yes,” and then, because somehow he can picture her eons ago in her glory he adds, ”Show me. Make them regret crossing me…”
It sounds so easy when the comment slips like nectar from her lips; tantalizingly sweet and tempting. He would inch closer, to test the idea of it, but Straia is already inching toward him. Their eyes lock amid the mischievous glittering and he holds it for a long moment as she’s pulled into her memories. Castile sinfully lusts for her knowledge, for her wielded power, and for the stories that swim in the hooded darkness of her eyes.
There’s blood on her hands, he wants to accuse, but the worse are knots that he swallows back down. They both have seen the life fade from their victim’s eyes, seen the bodies break underneath them and the hearts stop. For months, Castile hated himself, but the truth of it slowly sunk to the back of his mind like a capsized ship. The memory remains, lingering at the bottom of his mind’s dark depths, but never revisited. As the years creep past, it continues disintegrating until the corresponding emotions fade into nothingness. Observing Straia, he assumes that decades have long since passed and the bodies in her wake are faceless, nearly forgotten. Once, she was something,, someone.
He can see it in the steeliness of her observance that she craves that same reputation, the one that he is creeping after. Prowess and recognition are vain wants, but they are both sinners.
She understands him and feeds him in a way that Karaugh nearly had when he was a juvenile. They want to help create disruption, and Castile is the willing participant. A slow blink and she is closer, her breath fanning across his cheek as she whispers decadently into his ear, laying down the trap for his arrogance to ensnare. ”You’re right,” he murmurs back in quiet realization, her barbed words a solid confirmation of his thoughts. They see him volatile and nothing more; they’ve dismissed the kind laughter they’ve shared, the loyalty, and the amiable warmth. He has done nothing to them and still they see him a monster.
You might as well become what they fear.
The words are weighted, and they burrow into his mind for a long while as he imagines succumbing to it all, falling into the category they see him in – to truly be the destruction they perceive. Castile glances down. He breathes slowly, contemplatively, before meeting her eyes again as she offers her help. Children of chaos he had said. We only need a match, she responded.
Nodding his head, he seizes the rare opportunity of greatness and immortality. ”Yes,” and then, because somehow he can picture her eons ago in her glory he adds, ”Show me. Make them regret crossing me…”
castile
@[Straia]