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
The scent spurs Castile from his rest, bringing to life his predatory senses as they drink in Vulgaris for the first time in months. Emotions rush forward and seep into Castile’s vision as it hungrily rakes across the surrounding area. Slit pupils dart side to side until the reptilian man comes into view.
(He will want his crown back)
Not necessarily.
(Never give it back)
The raspy voice hisses into his mind, feeding him brutish agitation until he is able to suppress it after a moment’s battle.
Composure falls across him like a blanket when he descends from his perch on a small, rocky ledge. He clambers down, unhinging pebbles in the process. A slow blink returns his eyes to normal, his body portraying nothing of his predatory nature as he approaches. He takes pause only once when another man intervenes. Their combination is loud, angry. Castile curiously listens from afar, waiting for an opportunity that never truly comes. It doesn’t entirely involve him, their dispute, and yet he steps forward with flashing eyes. ”My, my, my. Dealing with some historic grudges, I assume?”
Traitor. The accusation rang clearly. It piqued Castile’s interest more than anything else. As much as he wants to claim knowledge of Loess’ intricacies, he is actually limited. Vulgaris was here, demanded healers to be among them, and then suddenly the crown was on someone else’s head- his.
Castile’s eyes flicker between the two men. ”Vulgaris,” his voice, gravelly and deep, reverberates with familiarity before his attention falls onto the other. ”Wolfbane.” they’ve met briefly, the conversation brimming with gratitude for Castile having kept an eye on Pteron. He’s family. That’s simply how it works, no? He once babysat Lepis, but with her gone, Pteron has his attention.
With no aversion in either direction, the dragon king remains level in his voice and posture, neutral even in his judgment. ”What seems to be the problem?”
(He will want his crown back)
Not necessarily.
(Never give it back)
The raspy voice hisses into his mind, feeding him brutish agitation until he is able to suppress it after a moment’s battle.
Composure falls across him like a blanket when he descends from his perch on a small, rocky ledge. He clambers down, unhinging pebbles in the process. A slow blink returns his eyes to normal, his body portraying nothing of his predatory nature as he approaches. He takes pause only once when another man intervenes. Their combination is loud, angry. Castile curiously listens from afar, waiting for an opportunity that never truly comes. It doesn’t entirely involve him, their dispute, and yet he steps forward with flashing eyes. ”My, my, my. Dealing with some historic grudges, I assume?”
Traitor. The accusation rang clearly. It piqued Castile’s interest more than anything else. As much as he wants to claim knowledge of Loess’ intricacies, he is actually limited. Vulgaris was here, demanded healers to be among them, and then suddenly the crown was on someone else’s head- his.
Castile’s eyes flicker between the two men. ”Vulgaris,” his voice, gravelly and deep, reverberates with familiarity before his attention falls onto the other. ”Wolfbane.” they’ve met briefly, the conversation brimming with gratitude for Castile having kept an eye on Pteron. He’s family. That’s simply how it works, no? He once babysat Lepis, but with her gone, Pteron has his attention.
With no aversion in either direction, the dragon king remains level in his voice and posture, neutral even in his judgment. ”What seems to be the problem?”
castile
@[vulgaris] @[Wolfbane]