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02-19-2015, 04:41 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Och där kommer dom jag ser dom mellan träden
Snälla kan du hjälpa mig att fly
Deras ögon är som mareld över världen
Jag kryper där i askan, fågel Fenix född som ny...
What am I even doing here? He swallowed. It tasted bitter, the briny air not able to fully purge it. Here: the beach, the Edge.. Helovia. At the end of a long and crooked road it had lain, offered him some chance of starting over, but instead of going for redemption he'd gone for rekindling his crusade, returning to the ideals hammered into him by the witch-hunters. It had been like sinking back underneath the surface to dwell in murky, lukewarm waters, kept safe as much from himself as from the outside world. He had looked to those ideals for strength and meaning, and he had found both, and he had been so much more (that pain was hollow now, though, meaningless and insignificant), but it had all been a lie.
He'd come to Helovia to start over, thinking he could reap the world, but instead of cutting his losses and fleeing with his wounded heart and pride he had remained, to take every single battering it threw his way. He was no martyr; martyrs aren't self-proclaimed. If he clung to ideas that were three years outdated and stubbornly insisted that, yes, he was Helovia's demon, it wouldn't make him something beautiful, some kind of pariah or outcast angel—it would just make him a bitter old fool.
He shifted, a blue-washed ghost in the lightless night. What was he, if not a bitter old fool?
It was the kind of depressing truth he lived with, habits that were too hard to break, thought patterns that had somehow become parts of his skull, so hard were they to shift. And now, this.. this re-awakening of something he had thought was dying. Part of him wanted to give up, and part of him wanted to keep hoping.
He just didn't know what he wanted the most.
Diego's head suddenly turned, sharp eyes sweeping once, then finding, and locking. Someone was coming, sweeping through the dark night air on oddly shaped wings—a small shape barreling through a dusky world, a little light-bringer, or maybe just a lost soul trying to find home.
Maybe, a lost soul come to return to the sea. One Pegasus comes out, one goes in.. balance. A humorless smirk curved his dark lips, but he didn't turn to watch. He wasn't sure if he wanted to attract attention, because he was standing upon a thin edge that could tip him either way, between something resembling normalcy and that other, darker beast—the kind of restlessness that made accidents happen.
The small girl's touch-down wasn't all that graceful, though, and the bond swam with amusement as the owl watched her somersault into a neat pile of wings and legs. Mauja grunted. She probably would've screamed if she'd hurt herself, so there was nothing to worry about. The body could withstand more than you expected of it, even such small ones as hers. So he simply kept on gazing out, wishing she would go away quietly, because what could he offer her? Nothing. What could she offer him? Nothing, probably.
Distraction, at the most. Maybe he needed it, maybe he didn't, but the beauty of others is that you never get to decide for them what they're going to do. So, of course, she came bounding over—the kind of youth who either didn't know or ignored fire, then, and not the kind who had been burnt and feared it. Not that there was any literal fire here...
And so his quiet night was shattered, falling down in a soft sprinkling of shards around him. There were no stars, just the ocean's blue glow, and the muted attempts of his sun-rock trying to escape its prison of talons. They were both ghosts in the lack of light, outlined in the hazy reflection off the sea; it made his eyes seem darker than they were. "Myrrine," he rumbled quietly. He wasn't angry, he just felt.. sad, in a way. A little lost, a little desolate. "Of course I remember." He didn't remember everything, and far from perfectly, but he remembered much at least. Slowly, his eyes slid over her back, to the oddly bunched, striped wings; obviously, she could fly with them, but to his inexperienced eye the looked.. stunted. Misshapen. His head tilted to the side, long forelock sliding off his face to hang before one eye, and with calm curiosity he asked "Can you spread your wings for me?".
[ @[Myrrine] ]
Snälla kan du hjälpa mig att fly
Deras ögon är som mareld över världen
Jag kryper där i askan, fågel Fenix född som ny...
What am I even doing here? He swallowed. It tasted bitter, the briny air not able to fully purge it. Here: the beach, the Edge.. Helovia. At the end of a long and crooked road it had lain, offered him some chance of starting over, but instead of going for redemption he'd gone for rekindling his crusade, returning to the ideals hammered into him by the witch-hunters. It had been like sinking back underneath the surface to dwell in murky, lukewarm waters, kept safe as much from himself as from the outside world. He had looked to those ideals for strength and meaning, and he had found both, and he had been so much more (that pain was hollow now, though, meaningless and insignificant), but it had all been a lie.
He'd come to Helovia to start over, thinking he could reap the world, but instead of cutting his losses and fleeing with his wounded heart and pride he had remained, to take every single battering it threw his way. He was no martyr; martyrs aren't self-proclaimed. If he clung to ideas that were three years outdated and stubbornly insisted that, yes, he was Helovia's demon, it wouldn't make him something beautiful, some kind of pariah or outcast angel—it would just make him a bitter old fool.
He shifted, a blue-washed ghost in the lightless night. What was he, if not a bitter old fool?
It was the kind of depressing truth he lived with, habits that were too hard to break, thought patterns that had somehow become parts of his skull, so hard were they to shift. And now, this.. this re-awakening of something he had thought was dying. Part of him wanted to give up, and part of him wanted to keep hoping.
He just didn't know what he wanted the most.
Diego's head suddenly turned, sharp eyes sweeping once, then finding, and locking. Someone was coming, sweeping through the dark night air on oddly shaped wings—a small shape barreling through a dusky world, a little light-bringer, or maybe just a lost soul trying to find home.
Maybe, a lost soul come to return to the sea. One Pegasus comes out, one goes in.. balance. A humorless smirk curved his dark lips, but he didn't turn to watch. He wasn't sure if he wanted to attract attention, because he was standing upon a thin edge that could tip him either way, between something resembling normalcy and that other, darker beast—the kind of restlessness that made accidents happen.
The small girl's touch-down wasn't all that graceful, though, and the bond swam with amusement as the owl watched her somersault into a neat pile of wings and legs. Mauja grunted. She probably would've screamed if she'd hurt herself, so there was nothing to worry about. The body could withstand more than you expected of it, even such small ones as hers. So he simply kept on gazing out, wishing she would go away quietly, because what could he offer her? Nothing. What could she offer him? Nothing, probably.
Distraction, at the most. Maybe he needed it, maybe he didn't, but the beauty of others is that you never get to decide for them what they're going to do. So, of course, she came bounding over—the kind of youth who either didn't know or ignored fire, then, and not the kind who had been burnt and feared it. Not that there was any literal fire here...
And so his quiet night was shattered, falling down in a soft sprinkling of shards around him. There were no stars, just the ocean's blue glow, and the muted attempts of his sun-rock trying to escape its prison of talons. They were both ghosts in the lack of light, outlined in the hazy reflection off the sea; it made his eyes seem darker than they were. "Myrrine," he rumbled quietly. He wasn't angry, he just felt.. sad, in a way. A little lost, a little desolate. "Of course I remember." He didn't remember everything, and far from perfectly, but he remembered much at least. Slowly, his eyes slid over her back, to the oddly bunched, striped wings; obviously, she could fly with them, but to his inexperienced eye the looked.. stunted. Misshapen. His head tilted to the side, long forelock sliding off his face to hang before one eye, and with calm curiosity he asked "Can you spread your wings for me?".
[ @[Myrrine] ]
