blessed be the one
whose lips spill the truth of gods
whose lips spill the truth of gods
All-encompassing starlight, unbound, free to run around in the comsos above with little care for the ones that stare at it from below. The stars dance, unhindered by the gravitational pull of a dark, devouring black hole.
All-encompassing starlight, bound, entombed inside a crystalline case. It shifts and shimmers, adopting colors of dusk and tossing them away like a scrap of clothing.
He wonders what would happen if it broke.
Forever the resister, the runaway oracle questions. It would be swift— a simple swipe of his metal hoof against the shifting bark. He can already imagine how the sterling leaves that dance beneath the dark sky would shudder. Would they merely quake, though, or would they fall entirely?
How long until they wither and die without their nurturing mother to tend to them?
Tail twitching -agitation or interest?- the instrument of the gods paces a half-circle around the trunk of the ethereal tree.
(Yes, he can spy beauty; can make note of it and appreciate it. However, that does not mean it is safe from harm.)
Drune hadn't grown up with the stories told here — hadn't grown up with any stories, actually. His stories were something else entirely. They were coveted, revered, and thirsted after. They were not stories a child as young as he had been should have to bear witness to. Yet, bear witness to them he had.
Blazing fires, gaping chasms — they swallow and swallow, try as you might you cannot escape.
He has heard the tales, however. They spread like a blistering heat across the land.
Head tilting, thoughtfully, his glacial gaze narrows.
Do you bleed? He dares to ask; dares to defy.
He waits, preparing for the vision without a single dam in place to block it. He wants to know, and therefore, welcomes with open arms whatever the gods might choose to brush on his brow with poisoned fingertips.
Waiting and waiting. The leaves above sway expectantly.
The side of his mouth twitches. Contempt.
He is nothing but a puppet, meant to be used only when they deem it necessary; only when they want to have fun. Damn them to the deepest chasm. To the farthest depths where molten rock churn and rupture.
Sneering, an expression that is accompanied by a huff of air, the pawn jerks his head away from the trunk.
Cowardice are the ones that dare to place an unconsenting touch upon his skin. Foolish they are to believe he will ever come to finally breathe out their foretold visions to the populace ever again.
~
All-encompassing starlight, bound, entombed inside a crystalline case. It shifts and shimmers, adopting colors of dusk and tossing them away like a scrap of clothing.
Forever the resister, the runaway oracle questions. It would be swift— a simple swipe of his metal hoof against the shifting bark. He can already imagine how the sterling leaves that dance beneath the dark sky would shudder. Would they merely quake, though, or would they fall entirely?
How long until they wither and die without their nurturing mother to tend to them?
Tail twitching -agitation or interest?- the instrument of the gods paces a half-circle around the trunk of the ethereal tree.
(Yes, he can spy beauty; can make note of it and appreciate it. However, that does not mean it is safe from harm.)
Drune hadn't grown up with the stories told here — hadn't grown up with any stories, actually. His stories were something else entirely. They were coveted, revered, and thirsted after. They were not stories a child as young as he had been should have to bear witness to. Yet, bear witness to them he had.
Blazing fires, gaping chasms — they swallow and swallow, try as you might you cannot escape.
He has heard the tales, however. They spread like a blistering heat across the land.
Head tilting, thoughtfully, his glacial gaze narrows.
Do you bleed? He dares to ask; dares to defy.
He waits, preparing for the vision without a single dam in place to block it. He wants to know, and therefore, welcomes with open arms whatever the gods might choose to brush on his brow with poisoned fingertips.
Waiting and waiting. The leaves above sway expectantly.
The side of his mouth twitches. Contempt.
He is nothing but a puppet, meant to be used only when they deem it necessary; only when they want to have fun. Damn them to the deepest chasm. To the farthest depths where molten rock churn and rupture.
Sneering, an expression that is accompanied by a huff of air, the pawn jerks his head away from the trunk.
Cowardice are the ones that dare to place an unconsenting touch upon his skin. Foolish they are to believe he will ever come to finally breathe out their foretold visions to the populace ever again.
***STAFF EDIT
@
@drune has been awarded +1EXP!
