Aamu
He escapes once the shadows begin to lengthen: flies his coop and lopes through the snow, west, away, away. Not with any particular destination in mind, just...away. The settlement, with its unanswered questions and ruins and that black, looming Spire, had suddenly seemed too crowded. For one who does not need to breathe he had felt oddly suffocated.
So he escapes. It feels good to shed his pretense of being alive, to break the rust from his joints and limbs and run, breathless, quickened. With no components that will tire it feels like he can run forever, the world opening from horizon to horizon—
It feels like something is missing, something he can't put his finger on.
Which sums up his existence right now.
He doesn't care how much time passes out here. He is not beholden to anyone, and doubts anyone would miss him, or care enough to go looking. And out here, under the open sky, things seem clearer. He breathes in; holds it, lets it warm to the tepid temperature of his mortal shell. Breathes it out; it pools like a white cloud, rising, dissipating.
He knows well enough where he is: the barrows and meadows of the aptly named King's End. Snow covers the colorful flowers of Mourn, a gentle, rolling landscape of pale grief. He wanders the paths like a ghost, fingertips trailing along trees, benches, anything within reach. The night deepens, then lightens, and Aamu finally slips onto a bench. He is neat: knees and legs together, his frayed coat straightened out. Absently he reaches behind him to tug his long braid forward over a shoulder, letting it spill into his lap as his fingers comb through the tangled tuft at its end.
Above him, the sky continues to lighten in the east, changing to a cold and pale blue. Aamu's eyes are on the horizon, under the pretense of judging how much time he has left before he has to find cover.
He doesn't think it's entirely coincidence he went here.
He rolls the name around his mouth, searches through his memories for who it is. The details elude him, but the feeling remains: someone he cares for, deeply.
"Oheň," he whispers in white, fingers twisting the leather cord holding his hair together.
If he came here for revelations, he is disappointed.
Open to anyone he hasn't threaded with!
So he escapes. It feels good to shed his pretense of being alive, to break the rust from his joints and limbs and run, breathless, quickened. With no components that will tire it feels like he can run forever, the world opening from horizon to horizon—
It feels like something is missing, something he can't put his finger on.
Which sums up his existence right now.
He doesn't care how much time passes out here. He is not beholden to anyone, and doubts anyone would miss him, or care enough to go looking. And out here, under the open sky, things seem clearer. He breathes in; holds it, lets it warm to the tepid temperature of his mortal shell. Breathes it out; it pools like a white cloud, rising, dissipating.
He knows well enough where he is: the barrows and meadows of the aptly named King's End. Snow covers the colorful flowers of Mourn, a gentle, rolling landscape of pale grief. He wanders the paths like a ghost, fingertips trailing along trees, benches, anything within reach. The night deepens, then lightens, and Aamu finally slips onto a bench. He is neat: knees and legs together, his frayed coat straightened out. Absently he reaches behind him to tug his long braid forward over a shoulder, letting it spill into his lap as his fingers comb through the tangled tuft at its end.
Above him, the sky continues to lighten in the east, changing to a cold and pale blue. Aamu's eyes are on the horizon, under the pretense of judging how much time he has left before he has to find cover.
He doesn't think it's entirely coincidence he went here.
He rolls the name around his mouth, searches through his memories for who it is. The details elude him, but the feeling remains: someone he cares for, deeply.
"Oheň," he whispers in white, fingers twisting the leather cord holding his hair together.
If he came here for revelations, he is disappointed.
Open to anyone he hasn't threaded with!
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
You are the morning when it's clear
