Introducing...
There are images that flit flit flit through my mind, feathers and phylacteries and faces that cry out in wild ecstasy. I don't know what they are pleased for, but they are so very happy that I am almost caught up in it enough to want to scream with them. In my dreams I dance to a symphony of ragged wingbeats and prayers. The land I inhabit is growing, dying, growing, dying in an endless, hopeless, inevitable cycle. Everything is cyclical, and everything lives alone only to pass away in solitude. In the end we are not the people we know nor the emotions we feel nor the places we have been, but only mewling fetuses going into the unknown, and we were the same coming into it.
I am -- here. I had to come to him. I needed to sleep and all of my dens had been found. I don't know how long it will be until he lets me go, but I told him that I'd leave once I rested and he said I will not. He will make arrangements for me. I have to trust him. He is the Marquis, after all. I fell asleep in his basement, in his felhunter's nest, but sleep was not enough to hide the perfume in the air. It smelled like blood and hay and sweat and fear, and no matter how deeply I rested, I could feel the fel in the room.
He's everything his parents would have wanted him to be. And more. He isn't hurting me, and I'm not certain whether he will, but he expects me to pay my debt to him. As I should. As I will.
But until then I will keep sleeping. Searching. The rest I get is rare and vivid and I know that if I truly focus, or maybe if I serenade the visions in my dreams fervently enough, there is meaning to be found.
Deprivation is not desperation.
Image credits:
Prayer by red-riding
My Dying Bird by Vetrova
upstairs. by arianna lerussi
I am -- here. I had to come to him. I needed to sleep and all of my dens had been found. I don't know how long it will be until he lets me go, but I told him that I'd leave once I rested and he said I will not. He will make arrangements for me. I have to trust him. He is the Marquis, after all. I fell asleep in his basement, in his felhunter's nest, but sleep was not enough to hide the perfume in the air. It smelled like blood and hay and sweat and fear, and no matter how deeply I rested, I could feel the fel in the room.
He's everything his parents would have wanted him to be. And more. He isn't hurting me, and I'm not certain whether he will, but he expects me to pay my debt to him. As I should. As I will.
But until then I will keep sleeping. Searching. The rest I get is rare and vivid and I know that if I truly focus, or maybe if I serenade the visions in my dreams fervently enough, there is meaning to be found.
Deprivation is not desperation.
Image credits:
Prayer by red-riding
My Dying Bird by Vetrova
upstairs. by arianna lerussi