01-26-2021, 03:26 PM
my shadow's shedding skin ...
When they had woken to the darkness, Dretch had immediately turned to him, her face twisted into an all-too-familiar scowl. 'You did this,' she had accused, her young voice filled with willful anger. He had answered her that maddeningly slow smirk and shrugged a thin shoulder. He is not a god. No, his is not the hand who plunged Beqanna down, holding her beneath the surface with a blank curiosity -- how long can she hold her breath? --; but, he will happily go down for it, even if only in the mind of one.
The filly and her mentor had shifted and disappeared on the wind, leaving the demon to his own devices for the time being. He is restless. He can feel them out there, the monsters who are as ancient, and more, as he. (Or at least as he once was. Somehow he had been pulled into this corporeal body, the result of a union of two black-hearted individuals; something he would resent were it not for the inexplicable bond he feels for said individuals, an unanticipated byproduct of this fleshly vessel). Since the trio had woken to darkness, the days and nights had run together. He, Set, and Dretch woke and slept and hunted with a foreign (now familiar) rhythm. No real purpose, no real ties aside from the ones that bind them to one another ... and the perpetual night. His gaunt form slips through the silence, unconsciously using the shadows to guide his steps as his mind wanders. They shift and swirl beneath his feet, now and again becoming near-tangible creatures no bigger than his hoof, yellow eyes bright and eager as they skitter off into unknown reaches.
The soft thud-suck of pads on spring-dampened earth pass by him unnoticed as the wolf pack disperses, parting around him in unspoken unison before rejoining one another somewhere on his back trail. It is the rattle of bone on bone, carried on the density of the humid night air, that finally draws him from his evanescent thoughts. There is no need to alter his path as the soft murmur of voices draws him nearer for no reason other than to break up the monotony of his current existence. Slipping through the shadows is as effortless as breathing, even more so now that the shadows have no limit, and it's somewhere between crimson eyes and soft pink. The white of his pupil-less eyes seem to glow because of the black and lightless backdrop, their milkiness belying their perception. A dry tongue drags across equally dry lips, but no words follow its track. A tiny yellow-eyed creature doggedly crawls up his bony foreleg, grasping and pulling with knobby limbs and clacking teeth before nestling into the dreads lain along the dull hide of his neck.
The filly and her mentor had shifted and disappeared on the wind, leaving the demon to his own devices for the time being. He is restless. He can feel them out there, the monsters who are as ancient, and more, as he. (Or at least as he once was. Somehow he had been pulled into this corporeal body, the result of a union of two black-hearted individuals; something he would resent were it not for the inexplicable bond he feels for said individuals, an unanticipated byproduct of this fleshly vessel). Since the trio had woken to darkness, the days and nights had run together. He, Set, and Dretch woke and slept and hunted with a foreign (now familiar) rhythm. No real purpose, no real ties aside from the ones that bind them to one another ... and the perpetual night. His gaunt form slips through the silence, unconsciously using the shadows to guide his steps as his mind wanders. They shift and swirl beneath his feet, now and again becoming near-tangible creatures no bigger than his hoof, yellow eyes bright and eager as they skitter off into unknown reaches.
The soft thud-suck of pads on spring-dampened earth pass by him unnoticed as the wolf pack disperses, parting around him in unspoken unison before rejoining one another somewhere on his back trail. It is the rattle of bone on bone, carried on the density of the humid night air, that finally draws him from his evanescent thoughts. There is no need to alter his path as the soft murmur of voices draws him nearer for no reason other than to break up the monotony of his current existence. Slipping through the shadows is as effortless as breathing, even more so now that the shadows have no limit, and it's somewhere between crimson eyes and soft pink. The white of his pupil-less eyes seem to glow because of the black and lightless backdrop, their milkiness belying their perception. A dry tongue drags across equally dry lips, but no words follow its track. A tiny yellow-eyed creature doggedly crawls up his bony foreleg, grasping and pulling with knobby limbs and clacking teeth before nestling into the dreads lain along the dull hide of his neck.
