i'm not a whole person, and i dont think i ever will be
parts of me died in the house i grew up in
Once again, he’s slipped away to clear his thoughts. Slipped out into the wildwood with the chill of the morning chasing after him. Despite the shaking of the blight, it hasn’t progressed too far, not like the animals the others had become. And for that, he’s lucky. But he knows it’s only a matter of time. And so he travels while he can still remember, still feel the snow that has overtaken the land, and he recalls Loren’s words enough to agree with it.
He’s never seen snow before, and after a few weeks of it he’s so tired of it.
He’d rather take the constant floods of Korofi over this. But he continues on, trying to escape the thoughts in his head, the tremble in his hands, when he notices someone else is there too, singing quietly to the tune of the morning. From the looks of it, gathering things. He wonders for a moment if it's for Longnight, an event he has yet to experience but has been warned about. Perhaps she knows more of it than he does, or prepares far better than him, wallowing in his own self pity.
He stuffs his trembling hands into the pockets of the jacket he wears, covered with furs and leather and boots to fight against the chill. His hair is swept back well enough, but there’s wounds along his neck, jaw, and cheek that haven’t fully healed yet. He’s not sure they ever will. But he approaches anyway, making his presence known but slight heavy footfalls in the dampened snow. And then he takes a leap of curiosity, to drown the thoughts and travels of his mind. “For Longnight?” He questions, keeping his distance. He’s pretty tall after all, and there’s a part of him that wonders if she’ll be like Phoebe and go for an attack rather than a chat. But he has no roses to inspire it, just himself. And so he waits.
He’s never seen snow before, and after a few weeks of it he’s so tired of it.
He’d rather take the constant floods of Korofi over this. But he continues on, trying to escape the thoughts in his head, the tremble in his hands, when he notices someone else is there too, singing quietly to the tune of the morning. From the looks of it, gathering things. He wonders for a moment if it's for Longnight, an event he has yet to experience but has been warned about. Perhaps she knows more of it than he does, or prepares far better than him, wallowing in his own self pity.
He stuffs his trembling hands into the pockets of the jacket he wears, covered with furs and leather and boots to fight against the chill. His hair is swept back well enough, but there’s wounds along his neck, jaw, and cheek that haven’t fully healed yet. He’s not sure they ever will. But he approaches anyway, making his presence known but slight heavy footfalls in the dampened snow. And then he takes a leap of curiosity, to drown the thoughts and travels of his mind. “For Longnight?” He questions, keeping his distance. He’s pretty tall after all, and there’s a part of him that wonders if she’ll be like Phoebe and go for an attack rather than a chat. But he has no roses to inspire it, just himself. And so he waits.
& i visit them in dreams
SUNJATA
