05-05-2020, 10:53 PM
GHAUL
i can take you there, but baby, you won't make it back
It is dark when he returns home to the Cove, or at least it had been his home this morning. The sea breeze is cool against his face when he lands in the sand. He has not sought out Gospel in some time, preferring to leave her alone for the most part. She had not taken kindly to his proclaiming Clarissa as his wife and yet she had always stayed close by. It gives him some hope that she will not lunge for the soft part of his throat and yet he doesn’t hold his breath.
The hellbeast sniffs at the wind until he’s certain he has her scent. Then, he slinks off further up the shoreline until he sees her familiar outline in the distance. Ghaul is in no hurry to catch up to her, especially given the curve of her belly. He has quickly learned that those with child are more apt to show their teeth than any other time of the year. And he doesn’t blame them, considering how on edge he’d been while his own nest was still brooding.
But he draws near and he offers a soft croon to announce his approach. He even braces himself for any attempt on his life.
“Gospel,” he says quietly, as though a conversational volume might invoke her wrath. “It’s time we spoke.”
And then he stops with several feet between them, wings poised and something like a smile on his scar tissue lips. Part of him has missed the way she tried to rip him apart, the quiet exchange of friendship in her mauling. The language of violence is spoken so easily between them that he forgets they were never born of the same sacrifice.
The hellbeast sniffs at the wind until he’s certain he has her scent. Then, he slinks off further up the shoreline until he sees her familiar outline in the distance. Ghaul is in no hurry to catch up to her, especially given the curve of her belly. He has quickly learned that those with child are more apt to show their teeth than any other time of the year. And he doesn’t blame them, considering how on edge he’d been while his own nest was still brooding.
But he draws near and he offers a soft croon to announce his approach. He even braces himself for any attempt on his life.
“Gospel,” he says quietly, as though a conversational volume might invoke her wrath. “It’s time we spoke.”
And then he stops with several feet between them, wings poised and something like a smile on his scar tissue lips. Part of him has missed the way she tried to rip him apart, the quiet exchange of friendship in her mauling. The language of violence is spoken so easily between them that he forgets they were never born of the same sacrifice.
@[gospel]