A shifting, a changing. The world distorts, winding and unwinding all while staying the same. A dry breeze blows; he feels every feather on his body lean into it. A trick of the light, a twist of the mind, and she comes into sharp, sharp focus. The ridge of her back, scruff thick enough to burrow in, and the narrowing of her beautiful eyes. Every brushstroke of her posture, every gesture suggests violence. She flicks her tail like drawing a sword and he smiles suddenly.
There You Are.
But crows aren’t supposed to smile. Hundreds of teeth are shoved monstrously in his beak, long and thin as fishbones. Absolutely grotesque. Worthless in a fight, especially here, especially with her-- he’s just showing off, playing games, crows just wanna have fun. And if further evidence was needed, he hops backward, with a ruffle of feathers, the instant she steps forward. She’s a cat, he’s a bird… the math isn’t hard and he's proud to consider himself a clever boy.
(Oh, he’s died before in dreams. This landscape is not always friendly to intruders. But dying’s not something he ever got used to. Didn’t ever want to “get used to”; most tastes were better left unacquired.)
But he isn't afraid, not really. Just cautious. When you’re on the ground and someone kicks you, you break or you get smart. Dune got smart. Smart enough to live this long, at least. It doesn’t mean as much, though, in front of someone like her. Someone who’s obviously never been kicked, never been down, never had to look in the mirror to practice the baring of teeth, the look in the eye, the illusion, the mask…
Someone like her just has to be, and the universe folds itself around her-- or that’s the thought that comes to mind when he meets her gaze and her tail flicks again, a serpentine warning.
It must be the bird in him that looks at her in all her wild rampant glory and thinks mine mine mine. It must be the dream carrying him away, dark nirvana. He’s an addict for this-- in his body, a slurred smile rises stupid on his face. He plods along, surrounded by scents he long ago stopped smelling, yoke so familiar a burden it becomes an extension of the body. And he lets the dream sweep him down and out to where life is just a speck, a mote at the edge of vision; blink and its gone gone nothing left but the too-still oasis and the wings on his back that ache to sail through galaxies.
He squawks at her, something tender, something urgent, sweet nothings, and flutters down to the sand where her carves with his beak:
DREAM BIGGER
There You Are.
But crows aren’t supposed to smile. Hundreds of teeth are shoved monstrously in his beak, long and thin as fishbones. Absolutely grotesque. Worthless in a fight, especially here, especially with her-- he’s just showing off, playing games, crows just wanna have fun. And if further evidence was needed, he hops backward, with a ruffle of feathers, the instant she steps forward. She’s a cat, he’s a bird… the math isn’t hard and he's proud to consider himself a clever boy.
(Oh, he’s died before in dreams. This landscape is not always friendly to intruders. But dying’s not something he ever got used to. Didn’t ever want to “get used to”; most tastes were better left unacquired.)
But he isn't afraid, not really. Just cautious. When you’re on the ground and someone kicks you, you break or you get smart. Dune got smart. Smart enough to live this long, at least. It doesn’t mean as much, though, in front of someone like her. Someone who’s obviously never been kicked, never been down, never had to look in the mirror to practice the baring of teeth, the look in the eye, the illusion, the mask…
Someone like her just has to be, and the universe folds itself around her-- or that’s the thought that comes to mind when he meets her gaze and her tail flicks again, a serpentine warning.
It must be the bird in him that looks at her in all her wild rampant glory and thinks mine mine mine. It must be the dream carrying him away, dark nirvana. He’s an addict for this-- in his body, a slurred smile rises stupid on his face. He plods along, surrounded by scents he long ago stopped smelling, yoke so familiar a burden it becomes an extension of the body. And he lets the dream sweep him down and out to where life is just a speck, a mote at the edge of vision; blink and its gone gone nothing left but the too-still oasis and the wings on his back that ache to sail through galaxies.
He squawks at her, something tender, something urgent, sweet nothings, and flutters down to the sand where her carves with his beak:
DREAM BIGGER
@Warset <3
