I swear to god
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
Michael is watching the citizens of Denocte hang scarves for the festival, draped on hooks at every corner. He is watching carts of straw bales come up from the prairie, yellow and thick. The city is letting out a breath it hadn't meant to hold, through the long winter and even longer spring. Now, on the heels of summer, Denocte sighs and drops its shoulders to clear the rubble.
He raises a glass to them, grim and silent. It is not the first time that he thinks to himself maybe this is enough. Maybe this has to be enough. Michael's glass is empty, and simple - round, clear, full of nothing but some big and nameless want. He cannot help but think it looks so much like him.
Given enough time, even he can hum to life - Somewhere far above and far away the sky is just turning its darkest, the deep and somber blue humming the rest of the world to sleep. Michael is a cacophony inside himself, the roaring wind of the winter he fled still howls like so many wolves in the pit of his stomach. It is only here, in the din of strangers and the clanking and thumping of merchants at work, that he feels less loud than the world around him. Though his engine groans and his bones ache he resigns himself to the red and gold of the market street.
The only disguise he has ever needed is to be himself, in a city of strangers.
Maybe this has to be enough.
Michael picks them out of the crowd, two pale shapes in the river of bodies that are just bodies, not ghosts or beasts or the things that hunt him when he turns his back. Just white, rimmed in gray, laid out plain against the deluge. Ard must be miserable.
Suddenly he is moving, this ancient engine carving its way through the throngs, falling in step as he pulls up beside Erd. "I'm glad you're here," he says, to both of them. "This is... a lot."
He raises a glass to them, grim and silent. It is not the first time that he thinks to himself maybe this is enough. Maybe this has to be enough. Michael's glass is empty, and simple - round, clear, full of nothing but some big and nameless want. He cannot help but think it looks so much like him.
Given enough time, even he can hum to life - Somewhere far above and far away the sky is just turning its darkest, the deep and somber blue humming the rest of the world to sleep. Michael is a cacophony inside himself, the roaring wind of the winter he fled still howls like so many wolves in the pit of his stomach. It is only here, in the din of strangers and the clanking and thumping of merchants at work, that he feels less loud than the world around him. Though his engine groans and his bones ache he resigns himself to the red and gold of the market street.
The only disguise he has ever needed is to be himself, in a city of strangers.
Maybe this has to be enough.
Michael picks them out of the crowd, two pale shapes in the river of bodies that are just bodies, not ghosts or beasts or the things that hunt him when he turns his back. Just white, rimmed in gray, laid out plain against the deluge. Ard must be miserable.
Suddenly he is moving, this ancient engine carving its way through the throngs, falling in step as he pulls up beside Erd. "I'm glad you're here," he says, to both of them. "This is... a lot."
@Ard @Erd
