.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
05-30-2016, 04:49 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
Stillness—
(Almost as if he can't see you, can't hear you—)
—ghost.
His eyes were silvered in the moonlight, only the faintest hint of blue lurking in their sterling depths—the frost upon his horn and hooves a similar opaque shade. Night-time did interesting things to you; he glowed (like a ghost, that same voice whispered), he stood out, robbed of all color. And this stranger, whom he shared the darkness with, was bled of a vibrancy Mauja was sure he possessed in sunlight. (His memory said it was, his memory—his memory of someone he had never met.)
Even as the red bay turned it was done with stillness, grace, as if their corner of the world moved at a slower pace. Little seemed to stir around him, no wind ruffling his thick, black hair. Only the steam rising from his nostrils gave his life away.
The owls wheeled overhead on silent wings, two different sets of eyes watching the kite with wary curiosity—their own brand of neutrality, before Diego gave a soft cry and darted in closer, feinting with his claws, inviting to play. With an expectant gleam in his muted-amber gaze he hung back, awaiting a reaction.
And meanwhile, the stranger spoke; his voice was pleasant, his truly silver eyes locked on the northern horizon. For a moment, Mauja's gaze traveled between Roux's face and what lay beyond, wondering if there was something there, tugging at his feet (—heart?). Memories? A future? Promises?
All of them, perhaps—not even Mauja's memory was that awful.
Sacre. Roux. Twins, younger brothers to Aviya; sons of a dead mother and a now-lost father. Mauja's eyes closed, and he raised his head to the moonlight. A small, sad smile curved his dark lips.
"Mauja," he simply said, knowing that he was a spotted ghost from Roux's childhood, a presence who had lingered in the deep snows of the north and then one day, simply been blown away south by the tides of revenge. He wasn't sure if Roux would remember him—they hadn't shared words or names, and if not for his lineage, Mauja doubted he would've remembered the name. Where have you been? he wanted to say, Where have you been all this time?, and deeper, darker, Where were you when your sister died?.
Did he even know?
Mauja's face was smooth—serene, but for the tightening of the skin around his eyes as his eyelids pressed together harder, trying to contain the swell of emotion.
"I'm a friend of your father's," he ended up saying, a smoky whisper on a cold, cold night.
[ just... destroy me, okay? @Roux ]
(Almost as if he can't see you, can't hear you—)
—ghost.
His eyes were silvered in the moonlight, only the faintest hint of blue lurking in their sterling depths—the frost upon his horn and hooves a similar opaque shade. Night-time did interesting things to you; he glowed (like a ghost, that same voice whispered), he stood out, robbed of all color. And this stranger, whom he shared the darkness with, was bled of a vibrancy Mauja was sure he possessed in sunlight. (His memory said it was, his memory—his memory of someone he had never met.)
Even as the red bay turned it was done with stillness, grace, as if their corner of the world moved at a slower pace. Little seemed to stir around him, no wind ruffling his thick, black hair. Only the steam rising from his nostrils gave his life away.
The owls wheeled overhead on silent wings, two different sets of eyes watching the kite with wary curiosity—their own brand of neutrality, before Diego gave a soft cry and darted in closer, feinting with his claws, inviting to play. With an expectant gleam in his muted-amber gaze he hung back, awaiting a reaction.
And meanwhile, the stranger spoke; his voice was pleasant, his truly silver eyes locked on the northern horizon. For a moment, Mauja's gaze traveled between Roux's face and what lay beyond, wondering if there was something there, tugging at his feet (—heart?). Memories? A future? Promises?
All of them, perhaps—not even Mauja's memory was that awful.
Sacre. Roux. Twins, younger brothers to Aviya; sons of a dead mother and a now-lost father. Mauja's eyes closed, and he raised his head to the moonlight. A small, sad smile curved his dark lips.
"Mauja," he simply said, knowing that he was a spotted ghost from Roux's childhood, a presence who had lingered in the deep snows of the north and then one day, simply been blown away south by the tides of revenge. He wasn't sure if Roux would remember him—they hadn't shared words or names, and if not for his lineage, Mauja doubted he would've remembered the name. Where have you been? he wanted to say, Where have you been all this time?, and deeper, darker, Where were you when your sister died?.
Did he even know?
Mauja's face was smooth—serene, but for the tightening of the skin around his eyes as his eyelids pressed together harder, trying to contain the swell of emotion.
"I'm a friend of your father's," he ended up saying, a smoky whisper on a cold, cold night.
[ just... destroy me, okay? @Roux ]
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
