There is a strangeness to the moon-marked steed. A sense of control, as though his emotions were hidden beneath a layer of solemn calm. He seems ancient and yet young, a dark oxymoron framed in the gleam of a twilight moon. But his words are laden heavy with unspoken ghosts, like he had seen the worst the world had to offer- or perhaps he was weighed down by spectres of his own making. Without her telepathy, Castalla could not tell. Nor would she want to. It was not her place to root around in someone’s mind. And yet, amidst the memories that pressed against the bars of her own near insurmountable control, is sudden curiosity. The shadows caress the steed’s pale skin as though he were made from them, as though he were their kin. Castalla knew how to walk in the shadows unseen. She knew how to use the darkness to her advantage, to draw her targets into the black. But the shadows would inevitably betray her for they were not hers to wield. Yet they lingered around this man in a way they never did her. Even when she operated in the light, when she cared not to hide the wolf inside, she was always drawn to explore the darkness. But it was the darkness she had liked about Adrian, the shadows of a past ensnared by beautiful sorrow. Adrian had been her downfall, her curse and her burden. Adrian had been her enemy the whole time.
Grief weighs upon her own shoulders, heavy and hurting. But she is unbowed, unbroken, untamed. Even when she had wanted to die, tried to die, she had yet lived. Her wolf would always force her to live, even if it felt the loss of her mate even more keenly than she tied. A kajak’s wolf is their soul and the soul is not complete without its other half. Castalla’s soul was destined to remain sundered for eternity.
The Wolf is aware of the pale blue eyes wandering her form, as she is all glances tossed her way and all gazes that linger. But Tenebrae’s is not oppressive, he does not leer as many do. Instead, as the moon gleams in the oceanic depths of his gaze, he seems to mark out the scars that mar her form. Each one is a tale. Of battle, of death, of pain and anger. Each one is an image she will never be able to change. Though not a vain creature by any means, Castalla knows she will never be the pristine beauty of women like Valena and Rose. But there is a wild, untameable beauty in scars. And some degree of intimidation which usually serves as a nice deterrence to those who might try to take advantage of her. And those that do- well they get their very own scars.
They stand beneath the glow of the moon, illuminated in the empty silver light. Gilded in quiet melancholy and entwined by shared shadows. There is something about the moment, the calm sorrow and cool winter air, that tempts the femme to pour the thoughts from her mind. Like ambrosia pour from golden goblet or the silver water decanted into the moonlit baths in Nightfall Keep. But she holds her tongue as she always does, awaiting the right friend with whom to share the demons that haunt her every breath.
His voice is a rich baritone, smooth and sumptuous over the sharp edges of the fire-flecked light. And his words once more ignite the flame of curiosity within. “The Stallions?” She questions, her tone soft but subtly intrigued. She had learnt a little of Caligo- the patron Goddess of Dencote- who seemed akin to Castalla’s own Goddess, Nysa. But the Stallions was something she had not yet come across.
@Tenebrae <3
