Re: Watercolor Wonder
Posted: Tue Mar 13, 2018 7:51 pm
Interesting, the not-saying. The pausing. Strange.
Reverie, not-saying, looking here, looking there. Perhaps that was her manner, her answer. Or perhaps, as she'd said, her mind was slightly... Adrift. What would it be, then, to have such a mind, drifting and languid, rather than rapid pulses that required meditation to understand.
Much meditation would be needed, later. Later. Right now, there were others. Interesting, the way they handled themselves, the way they glanced about.
Lace, asking questions, shifting topics. Done with the puzzle, then; the stranger accepting his fate, his own brand of madness. None of them could handle it, he said. As if he were faring much better, unable to rest, unable to find peace. Will collapse, at some point, pass out; the physical need overtaking the noise. Could happen at the wrong time, could be trouble. Would be interesting to see.
None of them could handle it. Do it anyway. See what happens. Fix them after, see if it's different next time. Why not? Could be wrong; they might handle it. Would be interesting to find out.
Why not split it, then, dilute it through everyone if there was not one who could take it all? Simple, simple, so obvious it was overlooked. Foolishness, the whole thing. But he couldn't say, the topic laid to rest, the conversation moving forward, an extended pause to bring emphasis to the close. Why? No reason that he could find. Strange and interesting, the workings of these others.
He stumbles, the other one - still no name for him, nothing but the stranger, nothing but the disjointed mind. Problems, puzzles, killed as soon as mentioned, an uncertainty in him. Interesting. Uncertain footing, too. Had he felt it, the small break, the little release? So sensitive. Stumbling, just a bit. Interesting.
Not-saying, he could see it, not-saying in the rest of them, now. Why?
Foolishness, the whole thing.
Lace on the ground. Asking over bondeds. Would Reverie give answer? How long did she drift when in such a state? Could she control it, bring herself back? Maybe, maybe not. Were there cachets, a safeguard that kept her mind in place while dancing the lip of a volcano? Could she slip away, even then, worst timing, fascinating results. Why would she be on a volcano? Why not? Nice places, air made thin by fire's hunger, so warm, burns the skin just from the heat, if it's the wrong skin.
His wasn't the wrong skin.
Lace, Lace, he didn't know how to handle her, what to make of her. Pretty, pretty Lace. Grooming, then laying in the damp earth. Long pause, putting an end to it all. Sharp looks, pretty words. Such a paradox, this one. What would be next? He, sporadic, predictable, a bit mad. We are all of us, a little mad. Why not flaunt it? He was learning, shifting, adjusting. Plasma is fluid, sharp, deadly. So deadly. Couldn't flaunt that, now could he?
snap-snap-snap, his thoughts, so fast, a blink. Searing through him. Moving on, then. Forward, always forward, never back. Never go back.
The flash of memory, not his own, barbed tongue ripping flesh, charring the blood, cooling the burns. Keeping it alive, waiting, waiting, patience or else the shock would get in the way. Poison in the barbs. Crying, screaming. Licking, ripping, burning, waiting. Such fun to toy with them. Tasted better. Never go back.
Tiny pulses, bleeding through. Whose mind was this, that touched his? Hard to say; his had stretched, pulsed, pushed. Grabbed something, hadn't meant to, have to watch for that. Did the others know? This one had; connection cut short, slapping him, ripping him out of the other. Perhaps they all knew, but him. He was, after all, new to all of this.
New to it all, still adjusting, as she'd said. Not bad, for a new topic.
What was his bonded like?
She suits me, he said, turning his gaze towards Lace as he answered her, burnt brown eyes laying on her flesh. The only words for it. What of his, though, the other one's? Must have made an impression, to want already to keep them safe, all of them safe. Or perhaps he simply had a hero complex. Martyr.
She is a shifter type; different aspects, different faces. I've seen a cat and a four-winged centaur, so far. I'm sure there's more.
Felt like there was more. Felt large, inside of him, the bond. The claiming.
He is mine.
Yes. He was.
Your own? he asked, and let his gaze drop to each, marking the question open.
He reached, reached, reached into the earth, leaking the excess, small relief but enough. Enough.
He remembered his lessons. He would remember this lesson, too.
Reverie, not-saying, looking here, looking there. Perhaps that was her manner, her answer. Or perhaps, as she'd said, her mind was slightly... Adrift. What would it be, then, to have such a mind, drifting and languid, rather than rapid pulses that required meditation to understand.
Much meditation would be needed, later. Later. Right now, there were others. Interesting, the way they handled themselves, the way they glanced about.
Lace, asking questions, shifting topics. Done with the puzzle, then; the stranger accepting his fate, his own brand of madness. None of them could handle it, he said. As if he were faring much better, unable to rest, unable to find peace. Will collapse, at some point, pass out; the physical need overtaking the noise. Could happen at the wrong time, could be trouble. Would be interesting to see.
None of them could handle it. Do it anyway. See what happens. Fix them after, see if it's different next time. Why not? Could be wrong; they might handle it. Would be interesting to find out.
Why not split it, then, dilute it through everyone if there was not one who could take it all? Simple, simple, so obvious it was overlooked. Foolishness, the whole thing. But he couldn't say, the topic laid to rest, the conversation moving forward, an extended pause to bring emphasis to the close. Why? No reason that he could find. Strange and interesting, the workings of these others.
He stumbles, the other one - still no name for him, nothing but the stranger, nothing but the disjointed mind. Problems, puzzles, killed as soon as mentioned, an uncertainty in him. Interesting. Uncertain footing, too. Had he felt it, the small break, the little release? So sensitive. Stumbling, just a bit. Interesting.
Not-saying, he could see it, not-saying in the rest of them, now. Why?
Foolishness, the whole thing.
Lace on the ground. Asking over bondeds. Would Reverie give answer? How long did she drift when in such a state? Could she control it, bring herself back? Maybe, maybe not. Were there cachets, a safeguard that kept her mind in place while dancing the lip of a volcano? Could she slip away, even then, worst timing, fascinating results. Why would she be on a volcano? Why not? Nice places, air made thin by fire's hunger, so warm, burns the skin just from the heat, if it's the wrong skin.
His wasn't the wrong skin.
Lace, Lace, he didn't know how to handle her, what to make of her. Pretty, pretty Lace. Grooming, then laying in the damp earth. Long pause, putting an end to it all. Sharp looks, pretty words. Such a paradox, this one. What would be next? He, sporadic, predictable, a bit mad. We are all of us, a little mad. Why not flaunt it? He was learning, shifting, adjusting. Plasma is fluid, sharp, deadly. So deadly. Couldn't flaunt that, now could he?
snap-snap-snap, his thoughts, so fast, a blink. Searing through him. Moving on, then. Forward, always forward, never back. Never go back.
The flash of memory, not his own, barbed tongue ripping flesh, charring the blood, cooling the burns. Keeping it alive, waiting, waiting, patience or else the shock would get in the way. Poison in the barbs. Crying, screaming. Licking, ripping, burning, waiting. Such fun to toy with them. Tasted better. Never go back.
Tiny pulses, bleeding through. Whose mind was this, that touched his? Hard to say; his had stretched, pulsed, pushed. Grabbed something, hadn't meant to, have to watch for that. Did the others know? This one had; connection cut short, slapping him, ripping him out of the other. Perhaps they all knew, but him. He was, after all, new to all of this.
New to it all, still adjusting, as she'd said. Not bad, for a new topic.
What was his bonded like?
She suits me, he said, turning his gaze towards Lace as he answered her, burnt brown eyes laying on her flesh. The only words for it. What of his, though, the other one's? Must have made an impression, to want already to keep them safe, all of them safe. Or perhaps he simply had a hero complex. Martyr.
She is a shifter type; different aspects, different faces. I've seen a cat and a four-winged centaur, so far. I'm sure there's more.
Felt like there was more. Felt large, inside of him, the bond. The claiming.
He is mine.
Yes. He was.
Your own? he asked, and let his gaze drop to each, marking the question open.
He reached, reached, reached into the earth, leaking the excess, small relief but enough. Enough.
He remembered his lessons. He would remember this lesson, too.