02-01-2021, 02:04 AM
choke them on the ashes of the dreams they burned
He had been following her.
He was reluctant to call it stalking, though if any had been able to decipher the shadowy figure from the surrounding darkness they would see his movements did have a predatory look to it. His steps were slow despite the fact he had no need to be overly cautious, as they were silent regardless. His head slung low and the shadows of his shoulders rolled like smoke, his movements almost mimicked the way he might walk in his canine form. Today he had chosen to be a horse—or as close to a horse as a shadow could be.
The feral nature of the canine was beginning to wear on him and he was finding it increasingly more difficult to ground himself.
It did not help that the lands were now rampant with all the things he craved.
The eclipse and the night’s refusal to depart had left most of the residents afraid and anxious, emotions that always seemed to be intertwined with sorrow and anger, too. While he had once been elated at this newfound freedom of being able to traverse Beqanna relatively unseen, he now found himself spiraling further into the very madness he had been fighting off. Where once he would avoid feeding when he felt the cravings gnawing at his gut, now he sought whoever he could to sate it. Anything to abate this wretched feeling, and while he had begun to notice that the more he consumed the more it took to satisfy him the next time, he simply couldn’t stop.
So he follows her, for no particular reason other than she exists and she is here, available. He is far enough behind that not even his fear aura could touch her, but were she to turn she would immediately see the crimson glow of his eyes, seemingly disembodied as they bobbed in the darkness. He lets himself close the gap between them, noticing the way she seems to have felt his presence. “It’s just me,” he says to her, as if that is somehow reassuring, the smoke of his voice curling like the very shadows of his mane. He had stopped, assuming that she would turn, and he had left what he thought was a comfortable distance between them. He didn’t want her to run; didn’t want her to be entirely afraid of him, and as always he swallows away the unease at wanting her to feel those things at all. “You shouldn’t really be alone here. Not with the dark the way that it is, I mean.”
He was reluctant to call it stalking, though if any had been able to decipher the shadowy figure from the surrounding darkness they would see his movements did have a predatory look to it. His steps were slow despite the fact he had no need to be overly cautious, as they were silent regardless. His head slung low and the shadows of his shoulders rolled like smoke, his movements almost mimicked the way he might walk in his canine form. Today he had chosen to be a horse—or as close to a horse as a shadow could be.
The feral nature of the canine was beginning to wear on him and he was finding it increasingly more difficult to ground himself.
It did not help that the lands were now rampant with all the things he craved.
The eclipse and the night’s refusal to depart had left most of the residents afraid and anxious, emotions that always seemed to be intertwined with sorrow and anger, too. While he had once been elated at this newfound freedom of being able to traverse Beqanna relatively unseen, he now found himself spiraling further into the very madness he had been fighting off. Where once he would avoid feeding when he felt the cravings gnawing at his gut, now he sought whoever he could to sate it. Anything to abate this wretched feeling, and while he had begun to notice that the more he consumed the more it took to satisfy him the next time, he simply couldn’t stop.
So he follows her, for no particular reason other than she exists and she is here, available. He is far enough behind that not even his fear aura could touch her, but were she to turn she would immediately see the crimson glow of his eyes, seemingly disembodied as they bobbed in the darkness. He lets himself close the gap between them, noticing the way she seems to have felt his presence. “It’s just me,” he says to her, as if that is somehow reassuring, the smoke of his voice curling like the very shadows of his mane. He had stopped, assuming that she would turn, and he had left what he thought was a comfortable distance between them. He didn’t want her to run; didn’t want her to be entirely afraid of him, and as always he swallows away the unease at wanting her to feel those things at all. “You shouldn’t really be alone here. Not with the dark the way that it is, I mean.”
torryn
@[Amarine]