01-16-2019, 01:58 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
Of course, she was here, lingering in the trees then on the beach. Her scent mingled with Sochi, albeit briefly, but Castile still caught it and held it close knowing what is to come. Their reconnection is looming like stormy gray clouds to the west. Quietly, he observes them with stoicism furrowing his brow. Lightning cracks and illuminates the dark clouds on the horizon and distant thunder quietly rolls. It will be here in a couple hours, he assumes. Is this an omen? After having inhaled Sabra’s scent, he cannot help to imagine themselves – their turbulent relationship – as a similar destructive force of nature.
Adrenaline continues to course through Castile’s veins, but it is slowly subsiding. In his chest, the drumming of his heart is nearly audible. The sweet taste of Tiphon’s blood remains on his lips, still so fresh from victory. He doesn’t address the island just yet as he isolates himself and allows himself an opportunity to compose himself. Drooping his head, Castile begins losing himself in the shadows of his thoughts until suddenly extracted with a rough bump. Predatory in every way, his head whips to the side and his jaws – lined with jagged teeth – snap threateningly at the air. His muscles coil in preparation to attack, but his eyes save him the effort by glimpsing a familiar, opalescent face.
He notes how she quivers unexpectedly when she sees him, but it isn’t in excitement – not that he would expect that. Words fumble from her mouth, and he merely watches her in eerie silence. His mismatched eyes trace along the lines of her cheek and eyes, then to her neck and the scar he left her with. So much like Solace now. Two women he has cared for, both of them maimed on the gentle arches of their necks by his recklessness.
Evidence of his curse, of his stupidity and his mistakes.
Castile’s tongue slips out and glides across his lips thoughtfully before he finally addresses her, his voice level and throaty. ”This Island is mine now.” Let it be known. May she spread the word and it spread like dragon fire across Beqanna. Finally, this is his. Finally, a land of his own. Although the fight was anti-climactic, it at least had the desired results: he is the leader, and they have a healer in their midst.
”Sochi,” he affirms casually, rolling his shoulders as he considers both women and what draws him to them. They are so different, polar opposites, but still pique his interest nonetheless. ”Don’t say it,” he sees how Sabra struggles to find a descriptor, to admire the tigress in any way she can, but the words never rise. They remain a lump in her throat, blocked by her emotions as she tries to look everywhere but at him. An amused grin almost breaks the frown of his lips, but his stubbornness proves victorious. His expression doesn’t change. It remains unyielding, hooded. Even as difficult as it is to see Sabra seemingly so broken, so bent and folded down, Castile doesn’t flinch. He has since turned to face her since she bumped into him of course, but that is the only contact they share. ”Don’t apologize,” he retorts gruffly, his voice impassive and cold. His shoulder exhibits a ghostly burn where she had drawn his own blood, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. True, she poked and prodded, but he reacted just as he always has. Still dangerous, still volatile. It almost appears that he cannot be tamed. Time and time again, he has tried to love only to have another futile attempt tacked on his resume. ”Stop,” he growls, his neck arching and his ears falling back against his unruly locks, but only for a heartbeat. She is already assuming, already associating him and Sochi. There’s something there, unbridled and free, something he needs right now. ”I’m not tied down,” he assures in a tone laced with both relief and ice, ”and I don’t think I ever can be.”
Adrenaline continues to course through Castile’s veins, but it is slowly subsiding. In his chest, the drumming of his heart is nearly audible. The sweet taste of Tiphon’s blood remains on his lips, still so fresh from victory. He doesn’t address the island just yet as he isolates himself and allows himself an opportunity to compose himself. Drooping his head, Castile begins losing himself in the shadows of his thoughts until suddenly extracted with a rough bump. Predatory in every way, his head whips to the side and his jaws – lined with jagged teeth – snap threateningly at the air. His muscles coil in preparation to attack, but his eyes save him the effort by glimpsing a familiar, opalescent face.
He notes how she quivers unexpectedly when she sees him, but it isn’t in excitement – not that he would expect that. Words fumble from her mouth, and he merely watches her in eerie silence. His mismatched eyes trace along the lines of her cheek and eyes, then to her neck and the scar he left her with. So much like Solace now. Two women he has cared for, both of them maimed on the gentle arches of their necks by his recklessness.
Evidence of his curse, of his stupidity and his mistakes.
Castile’s tongue slips out and glides across his lips thoughtfully before he finally addresses her, his voice level and throaty. ”This Island is mine now.” Let it be known. May she spread the word and it spread like dragon fire across Beqanna. Finally, this is his. Finally, a land of his own. Although the fight was anti-climactic, it at least had the desired results: he is the leader, and they have a healer in their midst.
”Sochi,” he affirms casually, rolling his shoulders as he considers both women and what draws him to them. They are so different, polar opposites, but still pique his interest nonetheless. ”Don’t say it,” he sees how Sabra struggles to find a descriptor, to admire the tigress in any way she can, but the words never rise. They remain a lump in her throat, blocked by her emotions as she tries to look everywhere but at him. An amused grin almost breaks the frown of his lips, but his stubbornness proves victorious. His expression doesn’t change. It remains unyielding, hooded. Even as difficult as it is to see Sabra seemingly so broken, so bent and folded down, Castile doesn’t flinch. He has since turned to face her since she bumped into him of course, but that is the only contact they share. ”Don’t apologize,” he retorts gruffly, his voice impassive and cold. His shoulder exhibits a ghostly burn where she had drawn his own blood, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. True, she poked and prodded, but he reacted just as he always has. Still dangerous, still volatile. It almost appears that he cannot be tamed. Time and time again, he has tried to love only to have another futile attempt tacked on his resume. ”Stop,” he growls, his neck arching and his ears falling back against his unruly locks, but only for a heartbeat. She is already assuming, already associating him and Sochi. There’s something there, unbridled and free, something he needs right now. ”I’m not tied down,” he assures in a tone laced with both relief and ice, ”and I don’t think I ever can be.”
castile
@[Sabra]