01-18-2017, 04:18 PM
Kilte
R
the feelin' like you're smilin' even brighter when the weather's shit
H
e is not alone for long once he reaches Death’s house. He had been guarded by the voice of Death as he plucked his way through Beqanna - not once running into foe nor friend (perhaps this was Death’s doing). And now? Now he saw the crest of his Angel topping the canyons. Her body was dark silk, glowing in the setting sun, and her hair rifled through the wind like fire. She had come - he would not need to face Death alone.
Her voice sings to him, a siren song that whispers in his ears like a salve for his sorrows. Was he hurt? His body was sunken, his skin bit and raw by the cold, his legs marred by his battle through the woods - but he was whole, he was alive. He shook his head as his Angel nudged his spindly legs and ribbed sides - her touch was serene, the first he had had in too long, and his eyes closed slightly. The image of his mother appeared, nosing him and his siblings the same way, as his father lurked in the corner. No, this was nothing like that - his mother, like his father, had been all business - cleaning off one foal and then on to the next. His Angel, however, touched him like he was new born again; gentle and careful, thorough but tender. Even still, his body shook when she touched him, his legs threatening to spill beneath him, his breath ragged.
He is broken from his thoughts - his name, she asked for. He had only spoken his name once, to the wolven creature that lorded over him in the woods. How long ago had that been? How foreign did his name feel now? “Ruan..” He spoke quietly, pulling the name from his foggy thoughts. That had been his guardian’s name, hadn’t it. Ruan. Kilter blinked blearly up at his Angel, his head cocked almost in confusion, his mind swimmingly delirious, his thoughts hard to grasp.
She curses, and Kilter smiles lucidly - he did not think that angel’s spoke like his father had. He nods, as she lightly takes off, picking her way down the canyon. His body was tired, his feet ached and blistered where the snow had taken their hold, and he stumbled after his Angel - knowing the only reason he could keep moving was because of her, his beacon of light before him.
Blindly, he followed, unseeing to the wasteland around them - a cragged and ugly place. She stops, and he bumps into her, sidestepping slightly. Water - food; things he could not remember seeing in some time. Again, she orders, and again he listens - his Angel would keep him safe.
Greedily he drinks, the cold water burning him like fire, but quenching the parched desert throat he had come to live with throughout the winter. Foliage too, dry and brittle things that fell far short of the nourishment he once knew - but beggers could not be choosers, and he had his fill until his small belly was round and bloating.
Once done, he looked to her - she was unmoving, only her eyes and her ears swiveling alert and atent. Satiated, he comes to her again, “Do angels have to eat?” Kilter surveyed the harsh land around them, a fitting place for Death. “Have you been to Death’s home before?” His head cocks in question. “What are we doing here, Angel?”
eight and topsail’s timid telekinetic