Mournfully the little townhouse rumbles, restless in its slumber just as its owner was. Castalla thrashed wildly in her sleep, tossing and turning, reaching and kicking. Beneath closed lids her eyes rolled madly, her face the picture of horror as she fought the nightmare.
Catapulted awake her body convulsed as she oculars snapped open, her eyes that of a predator as they searched the shadows for any sign of the threats that consumed her sleeping moments. The sheets were ripped, torn to shreds by the clawed paws that replaced her hooves, her body coated in a thin film of sweat as her chest rose and fell rapidly with ragged breaths. Images still swirled before her eyes, the ghosts of her nightmare still haunting her. The Tyrant King cackled, his dagger rising up, up, up. And then it was Adrian, a sneer on his face and the dagger already coated with Skender’s blood. Still sucking air thirstily into her lungs she blinked to clear the visions, hating the way her body shook as she forced her paws to phase back into hooves.
Moonlight streamed through the crack in her curtains, chasing away a small shaft of the darkness. Knees still quivering Castalla untangled her body from the damp sheets, focusing on the feel of the cool wood beneath her hooves and the cold night’s breath as she slipped between gossamer curtains to stand on the small balcony. Denocte stretched out beneath her, bathed in silver and dancing with the flames of the lanterns that constantly illuminated the picturesque streets. The moon was high, the deep of night nigh and the city slept soundly, unperturbed by the Wolf’s haunted gaze as she watched it.
Discontent with simply observing and desperate for the freedom the open streets promised, Castalla left her abode, a silent predator in the night as she paced the cobbled roads agitatedly. Drawing in a deep breath the air was freezing as it filled her lungs but she relished the discomfort of it, attaching to anything that swept away the scenes that lingered. She could still feel that dagger, the hot trickle of blood over her skin and the taste of bile in her throat. Sighing heavily the warrior took the wide street to the training pavilion, deciding the familiar ache of her muscles was a better reprieve than the toxic burn of alcohol. The latter would likely only make her feel worse.
@Morrighan <3
