there is something foul inside
it howls & aches
it howls & aches
He has had many thoughts within his mind that were never his own—knows intrusive, acidic things well for he was fed them since he was but a young man. He has felt the need to do as they say many a time, but he has also learned how to ignore them for how can one not learn such resilience when exposed to such things all his life? The wolves have always savagely snarled at him to do things no one should ever, and he used to willingly head their call.
But no more.
This resilience does not mean he is oblivious, of course. After all, the wolves of his own making still reside within him. He can still hear them lurking within the very depths of the chasm that cleaves him in two, eyeing the newest resident that wishes to feast upon what the wolves have only ever played with as a predator does its prey.
So yes, he hears it, but he does not answer for the only thing that can soothe the beast of old is a woman of short stature, whose snowy coat soothed his scorched, scarred skin with every single delicate touch. No violent wave could do it—even if such a thing could lead to something.
Something that, even in death, he would never forgive himself for. For while he was hopeless and filled with despair now, he was also determined.
Determined to find her, that single patch of white he could bear to look at. To find him, that weaving speck of mangled fire that kept him company. He would find them. He would search until his blood stained whatever ground he found himself on.
He almost believes he has found the latter when he spies a speck of red within the cool, desolate waves of the sea. Having stared at the water as intensely as he had been, it was hard to miss. It causes him to pause, manages to do what the trinkets in his hair cannot. His hooves cement themselves within the blemished sand. What little spark of hope that kindled to life inside of him, though, is quickly doused by a heavy blanket of disappointment as he comes to see more.
Comes to see someone he could hardly care for. His heart aches once more.
His ears pin back harshly against his poll and he resumes his pacing. He does not watch the emergence of the crowned eater as they rise from the frothing depths of the sea. He ignores all as he now finds himself incapable of caring whatsoever. At another time, one before the separation from his beloved, he would have never dared to resume his movements but Calyndar is no longer that man.
He is now equal parts apprentice of Satanael and lover of Edda—two opposing forces that result in a compound that leads to erratic, unable to be estimated, results. This is why, whenever the other -with teeth that might have given him pause any other time (besides, he has stared down those with sharper)- finally comes to stand a few paces away from him, he does not react as one might expect.
'You're shoreline?' He nearly asks as he comes to a stop at the end of his well-worn trench—on the far opposite side of where the stranger stands. He doesn't find himself capable of returning the abnormal smile they give him.
What troubles you?
The acidic thing inside of him, that thing of old, doesn't like that question. He can hear the calls, but the Satanael's trained slayer was never one to take kindly to such prying questions. That was the other's first mistake.
Neck arching, dislike radiating through him at the other's inability to remain still, the scarred man remains completely still.
"You have some gall to walk up to someone you don't even know and ask such things," he retorts. As if he would reveal anything to a mere stranger when even Edda herself -his other half- knows the only the bare minimum of the atrocities that ail him. She knows only what she needs to, to understand why he acted as he did before they were separated. "My troubles are my own—sorry." His troubles always have been and always would be.
He feels the need to resume pacing, but he refrains. "The 'canyon'," he begins, "will be gone with the rise of the tide. So will I. No need to be overly concerned." He states, knowing well enough that he could never leave a lasting imprint on, of all things, sand.
Then, abruptly and uncaring, he speaks up again. "Mind telling me why you care?" About the sand, about his troubles. Even through the opposing mixture that inhabits him now, he knows he isn't entitled to any answer. Not when he didn't give the other one. However, that doesn't mean he won't try for one.
The dark thing, the once alpha to the wolves inside of him, waits.
Speech, @ Anyone!
But no more.
This resilience does not mean he is oblivious, of course. After all, the wolves of his own making still reside within him. He can still hear them lurking within the very depths of the chasm that cleaves him in two, eyeing the newest resident that wishes to feast upon what the wolves have only ever played with as a predator does its prey.
So yes, he hears it, but he does not answer for the only thing that can soothe the beast of old is a woman of short stature, whose snowy coat soothed his scorched, scarred skin with every single delicate touch. No violent wave could do it—even if such a thing could lead to something.
Something that, even in death, he would never forgive himself for. For while he was hopeless and filled with despair now, he was also determined.
Determined to find her, that single patch of white he could bear to look at. To find him, that weaving speck of mangled fire that kept him company. He would find them. He would search until his blood stained whatever ground he found himself on.
He almost believes he has found the latter when he spies a speck of red within the cool, desolate waves of the sea. Having stared at the water as intensely as he had been, it was hard to miss. It causes him to pause, manages to do what the trinkets in his hair cannot. His hooves cement themselves within the blemished sand. What little spark of hope that kindled to life inside of him, though, is quickly doused by a heavy blanket of disappointment as he comes to see more.
Comes to see someone he could hardly care for. His heart aches once more.
His ears pin back harshly against his poll and he resumes his pacing. He does not watch the emergence of the crowned eater as they rise from the frothing depths of the sea. He ignores all as he now finds himself incapable of caring whatsoever. At another time, one before the separation from his beloved, he would have never dared to resume his movements but Calyndar is no longer that man.
He is now equal parts apprentice of Satanael and lover of Edda—two opposing forces that result in a compound that leads to erratic, unable to be estimated, results. This is why, whenever the other -with teeth that might have given him pause any other time (besides, he has stared down those with sharper)- finally comes to stand a few paces away from him, he does not react as one might expect.
'You're shoreline?' He nearly asks as he comes to a stop at the end of his well-worn trench—on the far opposite side of where the stranger stands. He doesn't find himself capable of returning the abnormal smile they give him.
What troubles you?
The acidic thing inside of him, that thing of old, doesn't like that question. He can hear the calls, but the Satanael's trained slayer was never one to take kindly to such prying questions. That was the other's first mistake.
Neck arching, dislike radiating through him at the other's inability to remain still, the scarred man remains completely still.
"You have some gall to walk up to someone you don't even know and ask such things," he retorts. As if he would reveal anything to a mere stranger when even Edda herself -his other half- knows the only the bare minimum of the atrocities that ail him. She knows only what she needs to, to understand why he acted as he did before they were separated. "My troubles are my own—sorry." His troubles always have been and always would be.
He feels the need to resume pacing, but he refrains. "The 'canyon'," he begins, "will be gone with the rise of the tide. So will I. No need to be overly concerned." He states, knowing well enough that he could never leave a lasting imprint on, of all things, sand.
Then, abruptly and uncaring, he speaks up again. "Mind telling me why you care?" About the sand, about his troubles. Even through the opposing mixture that inhabits him now, he knows he isn't entitled to any answer. Not when he didn't give the other one. However, that doesn't mean he won't try for one.
The dark thing, the once alpha to the wolves inside of him, waits.
