IN MY PREVIOUS LIFE I WAS A TWO-WINGED SPARROW SITTING ON THE UNROTTED FENCE, SINGING TO THE WALNUT SAPLINGS. OR MAYBE I WAS SALTWATER CURLED IN WARM MURMURS AROUND THE LIMESTONE CALICLES OF LIVE CORAL REEFS. OR MAYBE I WAS AN IRIS-BUSH, MY HANDS HONEY-BEE-LOUD, MY LAUGHTER BLUE AS UNSPILLED BLOOD, OR HAVE I ALWAYS BEEN THIS SHAPE OF BODY-STRIVING-FOR, THIS MAN DESTINED TO ACHE? I WORRY I AM ORPHIC NOW ONLY IN THE SENSE THAT I'M LOOKING BACK? NO, SOMEWHERE IN ME THERE MUST BE A FLIGHT AND CHURN AND BURSTING OPEN.
There is an alabaster stallion standing in the center of the courtyard. The market-goers swarm around him standing still and statuesque at their center. He is the rock around which the river breaks. In the distance there is a fountain which, beneath the quiet murmur of constant conversation and movement, whispers like a dream. Lyr listens mostly to that sound, but every so often his ears flick toward the conversation as it streams around him, but his eyes remained fixated on a single object of fascination:
It is the brilliant banner, stretched across the stucco archway announcing the entrance of the market. The silk is as crimson as his eyes; and woven at its center is a golden sun sigil, catching metallically in the afternoon light.
Lyr is there longer than necessary; until the sun dips from center-sky, down toward the horizon. The detached part of his mind acknowledges the frivolous excess; the rational part of him understands he wastes his time by standing so religiously beneath Solis's banner. Perhaps it is because there is still a remnant of him that, from his father’s ecclesiastical teachings, clings to the idea of a deity. He moves only when Vespera takes the sky, into the emptying market-place, beyond, beyond.
Lyr finds himself in a small garden, full of cacti and a single palm tree. Lyr takes note of the Solis statue in the far corner, overseeing the garden. There is a small fountain, and stucco walls, and if not for the eyes of that statue which follow him… he would find it quite peaceful. The fact he does not irritates him.
As it is, Lyr cannot rest. He paces to and fro, and nearly returns to the tavern at the end of the street where he is staying… but the banner still burns in his mind, and lionesque he stalks across the soft dirt until his eye-level with the statue. It continues to glower at him; all raging pride and aggression.
He turns, and nearly leaves—
There is a pause no longer than a heartbeat.
Then, Lyr lashes out with a hind leg. The kick collides solidly with the statue, and he feels the reverberations into his hips. The pain is acute and ephemeral; the statue falls slow, slow, slow, and then cracks loudly against the stucco bricks.
The sun has left the sky; dusk’s soft fingers reach across it, dark blue and indigo. Lyr is looking at the sky as he exits the garden, nearly lackadaisical, and begins to walk toward the tavern where he is staying. Within him there is something brooding larger than the sea; something dark and fathomless; unnamable at least, to him.
It is rage; seething, disdainful, and consuming. Lyr is full of it.
@Efphion || "Speech."
Coding by Avis.
i know i am damned for the pyre
no matter how bright you glow when you call for me
