E I K
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Something in the pit of his chest has become unsettled. When he sleeps it tries to tear itself from his body, it seeks to answer the question he has not formed with words. He dreams in symbols and numbers, shapes that swell and then burst with seawater. He is drowning, and then he is not drowning. When he wakes, reality lacks the sharp edge of his dreams. It is hard to tell if the horizon ends or not.
(He suspects it does. If he could walk far enough he would reach a dark pane of glass, cool to the touch. A wall reaching as tall and wide as he could see, longer even than the horizon. Darkness on the other side. Darkness, how trite- isn't that how everything ends. He never claimed to have an imagination)
The keep has been full of whispers and shadows lately. Would that he could flick them away like flies. (So this is his life now.) But life is not so kind to him. This world still seems so strange to him, so nuanced. All politics and magic and lies, a thousand times more complicated than the cycles of war that shaped him. It surprises him to find a room he is forbidden entry. More rules, walls spun from words. He hears a groan on the other side-- a wounded man, guarded by walls and secrets.
A familiar distaste settles on his tongue.
When he returns later that evening, it takes nothing more than the puff of a broad, scarred chest and the flattening of his ears to gain entry. He can be imposing, when he wants. He's learned that they are all strangers here, held together by spiderwebs of assumption. And when you are a stranger it is easy to be whomever you wish.
The cell is dark and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. The first thing he notices are the horns, obviously. Then the broad chest and the lion's tail. In the dim light he can barely make out the traces of scars,
The scar-flecked grey carries a water skin on his shoulders, which he lowers to the ground now. A small cloud of dust (sand? dried shit? it is hard to tell) rises, catching the few beams of light that enter the cell.
"Water." He says. He is wary but unafraid of the stranger before him. Fear is no longer in his nature. (You think that is a strength, don't you. You know you're a fool but you don't care.) There is a long pause-- he smells the sweat, and the bitter smell akin to poison (--and-- is that ylang ylang again??). "So what did you do to end up here?" There is almost a warmth to his voice, as though he too were prisoner here. Almost.
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@rostislav woah sorry this is a lot longer than I intended o_o
Time makes fools of us all
