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10-16-2015, 04:08 PM
He had found that things often changed around him—words and voices, looks and bodies, the silent language of the world shifting like the flow of a current. Either his presence inspired a sense of safety, of comfort, or one of awe, fear, or loathing. Whatever he would inspire here, today, would change the scene irrevocably once he stepped out of his shelter. And that was the reason he lingered where he was, uncertain of if his presence would scare her off, or lure her deeper into their fog. In silence, he shifted. He shouldn't be there—shouldn't be watching, shouldn't be listening, hidden in the safe embrace of the mist. He was privy to something private, an interaction between two others. Something he had nothing to do with.
And yet he couldn't move away, held down and chained in place by the gentle ebb and flow of their voices. He heard—he saw—how the steady cadence of Tembovu's voice soothed her fear, how his steadfast reassurance planted seeds of hope and future in her soul. Mauja's blue eyes turned away from them. If he showed himself, would that change? Would his penchant for wrecking things destroy her fragile hope?
He felt like a ghost in his own home, a specter in the fog, a haunter—the chill creeping down your spine at night, the lonesome night-song of a wolf... It was all him, the blue sorrow in his eyes, and with a heavy heart he turned his gaze aside again. What was he doing, prying into the lives of others? What was he doing, thinking he rather liked being a ghost—seeing these precious moments, these shifts in a timeline, without altering them with his presence?
And as the pair wandered away into the Edge Mauja found himself following, trailing in their wake, the mist swirling around his entire frame. Stop, he whispered to himself, but there was no stopping. And soon, he knew that his ruse would fail, his cover would be blown, and that moment which he dreaded—the moment when he altered the course of the future—would come to pass.
And at times, as their ghost haunted them, the fog thinned to reveal the frost-wraith in its white embrace—pristine and frigidly pale, with icy eyes glazed over by distance and pain.
[ @Calypso @Tembovu ]
And yet he couldn't move away, held down and chained in place by the gentle ebb and flow of their voices. He heard—he saw—how the steady cadence of Tembovu's voice soothed her fear, how his steadfast reassurance planted seeds of hope and future in her soul. Mauja's blue eyes turned away from them. If he showed himself, would that change? Would his penchant for wrecking things destroy her fragile hope?
He felt like a ghost in his own home, a specter in the fog, a haunter—the chill creeping down your spine at night, the lonesome night-song of a wolf... It was all him, the blue sorrow in his eyes, and with a heavy heart he turned his gaze aside again. What was he doing, prying into the lives of others? What was he doing, thinking he rather liked being a ghost—seeing these precious moments, these shifts in a timeline, without altering them with his presence?
And as the pair wandered away into the Edge Mauja found himself following, trailing in their wake, the mist swirling around his entire frame. Stop, he whispered to himself, but there was no stopping. And soon, he knew that his ruse would fail, his cover would be blown, and that moment which he dreaded—the moment when he altered the course of the future—would come to pass.
And at times, as their ghost haunted them, the fog thinned to reveal the frost-wraith in its white embrace—pristine and frigidly pale, with icy eyes glazed over by distance and pain.
[ @Calypso @Tembovu ]
lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .
