GOLDY
Image by Lark.Bliss
please SCROMBL his skeleton vision, and darkness manipulation
The nightmare fades to darkness and clouds and it leaves him surging for the center of the storm, hooves pressing into mist and lightning as if it is something solid. He takes for granted that it will stay that way as he seeks the center of it all, but it doesn't. Between strides, it all evaporates. Panic wells up in him when his forehooves find nothing underneath them and he cries out, his voice carving his dismay into the shadowed walls. Blackwell falls like a stone in that vast emptiness until he remembers the incandescent wings at his sides and thrusts them outward, slowing the plummeting descent. Hovering, he peers into the storm's heart.
There's nothing.
Nothing at all. The center of it is quiet and still, its dull sides vaguely echoing the nightmares that feed into its body, but its heart holds nothing. He doesn't know what to make of this, is something wrong? This is not what he was told to expect.
There's a rumble above his head. What he thought was the heart he realizes is a stomach instead. Its sides begin to collapse around them, the wind swirling like acid, plucking those bright sunlight feathers from him and turning them dark. Like the belly of a serpent, it seeks to crush them, shifting its lightning ribs to pierce and break them and pull the yolk from the shell of their skin.
Fuck.
Blackwell ducks sizzling lightning but the wind catches him up and throws him back again into the rain and the hail and the softly screaming nightmares that make his heart race and his eyes flash.
"No--" his mouth fills with air like a gag. The storm tries to fill him with itself, to tear him apart with its fingers but with a wretched scream, he calls up fire and fury, loosening the whirlwind grip long enough to break free. It's chaos. He cannot see if the others are surviving or not, everything is dark except for the livid fire and lightning and he pumps the golden wings wildly, desperately, legs clawing at the air spinning 'round him. There is no through, no down, there is only up, and so he goes, chasing after the brightness ahead without knowing what it might be.
The nightmare storm is collapsing around him, crushing him with blind panic and a familiar voice that calls him back again and again. Beryl's son hesitates at her call and the storm drags him back down, below the surface of that bloody lake. He chokes and flails, the taste of iron on his tongue like a memory when he parts his lips to speak.
"This is not real," the gold-dashes stallion says, wasting his last bubbling breath on defiance. The reminder breaks the nightmare's spell, the blood becomes cloud again and he lunges upward, up and - at last - out, panting in the thin blue air so far above the mountains and the horrific boiling storm.
There's nothing.
Nothing at all. The center of it is quiet and still, its dull sides vaguely echoing the nightmares that feed into its body, but its heart holds nothing. He doesn't know what to make of this, is something wrong? This is not what he was told to expect.
There's a rumble above his head. What he thought was the heart he realizes is a stomach instead. Its sides begin to collapse around them, the wind swirling like acid, plucking those bright sunlight feathers from him and turning them dark. Like the belly of a serpent, it seeks to crush them, shifting its lightning ribs to pierce and break them and pull the yolk from the shell of their skin.
Fuck.
Blackwell ducks sizzling lightning but the wind catches him up and throws him back again into the rain and the hail and the softly screaming nightmares that make his heart race and his eyes flash.
"No--" his mouth fills with air like a gag. The storm tries to fill him with itself, to tear him apart with its fingers but with a wretched scream, he calls up fire and fury, loosening the whirlwind grip long enough to break free. It's chaos. He cannot see if the others are surviving or not, everything is dark except for the livid fire and lightning and he pumps the golden wings wildly, desperately, legs clawing at the air spinning 'round him. There is no through, no down, there is only up, and so he goes, chasing after the brightness ahead without knowing what it might be.
The nightmare storm is collapsing around him, crushing him with blind panic and a familiar voice that calls him back again and again. Beryl's son hesitates at her call and the storm drags him back down, below the surface of that bloody lake. He chokes and flails, the taste of iron on his tongue like a memory when he parts his lips to speak.
"This is not real," the gold-dashes stallion says, wasting his last bubbling breath on defiance. The reminder breaks the nightmare's spell, the blood becomes cloud again and he lunges upward, up and - at last - out, panting in the thin blue air so far above the mountains and the horrific boiling storm.
please SCROMBL his skeleton vision, and darkness manipulation