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03-21-2016, 04:22 PM
hellsparkle
"And just where are we," he says, but it isn't much of a question; more of a statement, a little piece of hell slipping out like smoke between dark lips. His voice, quiet as it is, is smooth. Silky.
'Who cares,' she whispers back, tail-tip twitching in agitation. She is perched elegantly upon his hindquarters, ears perked, eyes bright; a flash of sharp teeth given in a feral grin. Her weight, her warmth, is a welcome blanket in the mild winter; a little snow pools around his dark hooves, and a few snowflakes drift from an uninspiring gray sky, but the wind is mild. Despite the setting of the sun he knows the night will be—well, he was about to say 'kind', but weather is neither good nor evil. Weather simply is. He snorts. "I suppose none of us does," he simply tells her, sweeping through the mixture of thin underbrush and blanketing white.
They're shadows, both of them—inside out, he's black, she's black; the only thing which isn't black is her molten eyes. They spin and churn, violent and wild, while his are smooth. She is ferocity, he pretends at calm; poise. A slight, wicked, grin curves his lips as he stares at the slim trunks like prison-bars. It is just a trick of the season, but he likes the imagery of it all the same. This place, bound and locked, sealed, with nowhere to run. Nowhere to go.
He snorts, again, a puff of white (life) clouding from his nose. He will not be this place's jailer, nor its executioner, or liberator, or any other fancy word he can dream of; he will simply be, a priest for the lost—
(—a priest who knows that he is God—)
—and he wonders who he will be here, the tempest. A little shudder runs down his spine, feathers rustling in solemn whispers. "I suppose others might, though," and his movements cease like another snowflake drifting to its end; he stands like a shadow in the oncoming twilight, slowly growing lost in thought.
[ This was terrible. I don't know how to write him. I don't know that I want to write him. Forgive me. ]
'Who cares,' she whispers back, tail-tip twitching in agitation. She is perched elegantly upon his hindquarters, ears perked, eyes bright; a flash of sharp teeth given in a feral grin. Her weight, her warmth, is a welcome blanket in the mild winter; a little snow pools around his dark hooves, and a few snowflakes drift from an uninspiring gray sky, but the wind is mild. Despite the setting of the sun he knows the night will be—well, he was about to say 'kind', but weather is neither good nor evil. Weather simply is. He snorts. "I suppose none of us does," he simply tells her, sweeping through the mixture of thin underbrush and blanketing white.
They're shadows, both of them—inside out, he's black, she's black; the only thing which isn't black is her molten eyes. They spin and churn, violent and wild, while his are smooth. She is ferocity, he pretends at calm; poise. A slight, wicked, grin curves his lips as he stares at the slim trunks like prison-bars. It is just a trick of the season, but he likes the imagery of it all the same. This place, bound and locked, sealed, with nowhere to run. Nowhere to go.
He snorts, again, a puff of white (life) clouding from his nose. He will not be this place's jailer, nor its executioner, or liberator, or any other fancy word he can dream of; he will simply be, a priest for the lost—
(—
—and he wonders who he will be here, the tempest. A little shudder runs down his spine, feathers rustling in solemn whispers. "I suppose others might, though," and his movements cease like another snowflake drifting to its end; he stands like a shadow in the oncoming twilight, slowly growing lost in thought.
[ This was terrible. I don't know how to write him. I don't know that I want to write him. Forgive me. ]
