and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
They both know who the monster is. Who the monsters are.
The knowledge ripples through him, beginning small until it swallows him. Somehow, he recognizes the sense of power that she possesses and realizes how much greater she is. Even as she swallows down her capabilities and maintains a steadfast appearance, something pulses across Castile’s skin like a magnet. It holds his attention and stabs another bot of curiosity into his loins.
And he knows she is doing the same.
Their gaze weaves together, intricate and meticulous, as they drink in and memorize every curve and every muscle. He cannot help to wonder if the fire stirring in his gut is reaching for her, provoking her. Can she sense it? Can she sense that he, too, is not all that he seems?
Wryly, he finally answers her in a cool tone. ”I think you already know, Straia,” that they are the monsters in this wild world, and that is what draws them together the second Death’s Gates crash and fall. As the words tumble freely past his lips, Castile already considers what is next and how best to describe this odd sense of precarious lust. Why is she so different among the returning faces? It’s a fair question, one in which he mulls over inquisitively before inching a step closer. His warm breath – it’s beginning to feel like smoke again – reaches toward her in crawling tendrils. ”Children of chaos always seemingly find each other,” they thrive on upheavals and havoc. Their hearts flutter to hear shouts of anguish and to watch their enemies burn. Even as Castile desperately clutches to his self-control, he realizes how he is slipping. The whitening of knuckles can last only so long until there is only one thing remaining:
To let go.
Their rumors and gossip fill his head until his thoughts are swimming, drowning. For the past few years, he has led Loess in an uneventful but flourishing life. It has been quiet, eerily so, and he has been anticipating a shift or a war. What he didn’t expect were his friends and comrades to turn against him. They speak of him as a monster instead of considering the kindness he has offered them. They threaten him, spread lies like wildfire, and still, he has done nothing to retaliate. Little do they know how thin his patience wears. Perhaps, that is why a sly grin stretches across his lips and a mischievous gleam catches his eyes. It comes as no surprise that his name coats the tongues of his peers. Inclining his head like an inquisitive bird, he asks, ”I made them fear me.” Not all of them cower at his feet or at his name, but they refuse to turn their back on him. They keep their eyes trained on the dragon king, wanting to rip him down and destroy his ambitions that they have fabricated. ”I have half a mind to give them what they want. They’ve obviously forgotten how charitable I can be,” a low growl twists into his husky voice that elicits a broader grin as magic seeps bit by bit back into his pores. ”They say I am a monster, a conqueror, a warmonger – and that’s while I’ve been sitting patiently in the back with Loess quietly in the palm of my hand. Can you imagine…” he trails off, assuming Straia already knows, for she, too, is a child of chaos.
Can you imagine the destruction if I actually tried, he thinks but doesn’t say.
The knowledge ripples through him, beginning small until it swallows him. Somehow, he recognizes the sense of power that she possesses and realizes how much greater she is. Even as she swallows down her capabilities and maintains a steadfast appearance, something pulses across Castile’s skin like a magnet. It holds his attention and stabs another bot of curiosity into his loins.
And he knows she is doing the same.
Their gaze weaves together, intricate and meticulous, as they drink in and memorize every curve and every muscle. He cannot help to wonder if the fire stirring in his gut is reaching for her, provoking her. Can she sense it? Can she sense that he, too, is not all that he seems?
Wryly, he finally answers her in a cool tone. ”I think you already know, Straia,” that they are the monsters in this wild world, and that is what draws them together the second Death’s Gates crash and fall. As the words tumble freely past his lips, Castile already considers what is next and how best to describe this odd sense of precarious lust. Why is she so different among the returning faces? It’s a fair question, one in which he mulls over inquisitively before inching a step closer. His warm breath – it’s beginning to feel like smoke again – reaches toward her in crawling tendrils. ”Children of chaos always seemingly find each other,” they thrive on upheavals and havoc. Their hearts flutter to hear shouts of anguish and to watch their enemies burn. Even as Castile desperately clutches to his self-control, he realizes how he is slipping. The whitening of knuckles can last only so long until there is only one thing remaining:
To let go.
Their rumors and gossip fill his head until his thoughts are swimming, drowning. For the past few years, he has led Loess in an uneventful but flourishing life. It has been quiet, eerily so, and he has been anticipating a shift or a war. What he didn’t expect were his friends and comrades to turn against him. They speak of him as a monster instead of considering the kindness he has offered them. They threaten him, spread lies like wildfire, and still, he has done nothing to retaliate. Little do they know how thin his patience wears. Perhaps, that is why a sly grin stretches across his lips and a mischievous gleam catches his eyes. It comes as no surprise that his name coats the tongues of his peers. Inclining his head like an inquisitive bird, he asks, ”I made them fear me.” Not all of them cower at his feet or at his name, but they refuse to turn their back on him. They keep their eyes trained on the dragon king, wanting to rip him down and destroy his ambitions that they have fabricated. ”I have half a mind to give them what they want. They’ve obviously forgotten how charitable I can be,” a low growl twists into his husky voice that elicits a broader grin as magic seeps bit by bit back into his pores. ”They say I am a monster, a conqueror, a warmonger – and that’s while I’ve been sitting patiently in the back with Loess quietly in the palm of my hand. Can you imagine…” he trails off, assuming Straia already knows, for she, too, is a child of chaos.
Can you imagine the destruction if I actually tried, he thinks but doesn’t say.
castile
@[Straia]