[Loras] Paper Wings
Posted: Sat Aug 08, 2020 10:09 pm
This thread is abandoned.
Hungry...
Ice of the heart clung so sweetly to bitter reminiscence of a past long lost to the last shreds of civility present within. All he had learned, all he had ever known, he began to lay fallow as potential in his mind casted an overlay upon the small bit of perfectly rectangular animal skin canvas stretched over an easel. Ink as black as the heart of the man who lashed it to the paper, it drawled in slow, weary scrawls, looping, winding in careful pictographic skelter.
Language of the aether, he sewed life into that page and gently blew a warm, humid breath upon until the shining ink beneath the caged lantern above lost its glister and dried to the paper. Creases across the paper marked different areas, a practiced shape that would serve the form of the life he would create.
Crickets chirped in the jungle of stone and trees outside his window, the pitch black giving him not a single reason to fear; his end would come, he knew, but he’d made allies among the monsters of this world by proxy of his own sad fate, so why fret? The only monster he was afraid of, was himself...
Hungry...
What a grand and intoxicating innocence he sought to ascribe upon his own being, a cure. If only life were more fair to he who never wanted to be aware of his neighbor’s wife and her aroma of life suffusing his home to leave him so maddened that the only answer was to lose himself in his work, else the unthinkable.
Eyes peeling, a mind snapped back to memories of a time when things were simpler. A woman, her long hair, her arms a comforting noose around his body as she pressed and creased paper together with her thumbs, a perfume from her hair imprinting deep within his nose never to be forgotten. That paper widow. So slowly...
Vivid verily, he ought to know the pleasure papercraft brought him. It was his pleasure.
Rasping strokes worked down the edges of the paper, massaging in the finer pathways of the ink, which bore the illusion of life; his own blood had been mixed in with the noxious solution, giving it a curious, strong scent reminiscent of a brew more ethanol than palate tempting. This lure carefully inscribed would serve the form, aetheric pathways helping to draw the latent aether present in the world. Channeling to a center left negative, the artist carefully rendered and adjusted the thinnest strokes to sculpt a finer Lure.
Wide, red eyes scrounged across the surface for imperfections long before satisfaction gave rise to the truth that he was finished, at least in part. What remained was more complicated. Claws raked the backs of his hands in the idle ritual of frisky fidgeting, a mind piecing together a design of the mind of another. Down his brush again dabbed, first to ink well and then to paper, carefully tracing the first stroke.
”Hmm, hmn-hum. Na-nh-na-da...” rippled words from dry lips, escaping further the encroaching scent.
Hungry...
Vows to hold oneself tight to a pole, to be lashed by ones own weakness were a self-inflicted torture that Aeraku had come to know, the slimmest sliver of comfort derived solely from the vindication he felt for doing ‘good’ by the masses and peers who would judge him dead if they knew.
Drawing in the cool, fresh air, he tasted her blood upon it again and rolled his head left to right, the motion mirrored by the brush in his fingers. Catching himself fantasizing, he shivered. Fingers rose to splay across his face, eyes wide between the gaps as he uttered his discontent through the rumbling cry of a slavering throat by a crumbling man.
Pulling fingers down, they soon grasped the edge of the desk, distracted mind on the cusp of action before he wrenched it away by squeezing the brush in the pads of his palm, the other making fresh the incision he’d made upon his finger to let blood upon the vial of ink he worked his craft with.
Her blood talks.
If she won’t shut it, after I gave her that poultice...
Told her what she’d never been told, about her own body.
Given what I am, is it really my fault if I follow her to the markets again in the morning?
The distraction returned in force, and he met it head on with a tilt forward, laying his chin upon the cool wood and shutting those eyes. The organ inside his chest beat with fervor, and his arms stretched across the wood as if he were his own canvas to pain with the ink of introspection. Liquid crystals seeped from tightly shut eyes.
If none suffer, does it make of me a creep to partake for comfort?
A malady, with no remedy.
The gods have forsaken me, and yet...
I try...
Hungry...
Ice of the heart clung so sweetly to bitter reminiscence of a past long lost to the last shreds of civility present within. All he had learned, all he had ever known, he began to lay fallow as potential in his mind casted an overlay upon the small bit of perfectly rectangular animal skin canvas stretched over an easel. Ink as black as the heart of the man who lashed it to the paper, it drawled in slow, weary scrawls, looping, winding in careful pictographic skelter.
Language of the aether, he sewed life into that page and gently blew a warm, humid breath upon until the shining ink beneath the caged lantern above lost its glister and dried to the paper. Creases across the paper marked different areas, a practiced shape that would serve the form of the life he would create.
Crickets chirped in the jungle of stone and trees outside his window, the pitch black giving him not a single reason to fear; his end would come, he knew, but he’d made allies among the monsters of this world by proxy of his own sad fate, so why fret? The only monster he was afraid of, was himself...
Hungry...
What a grand and intoxicating innocence he sought to ascribe upon his own being, a cure. If only life were more fair to he who never wanted to be aware of his neighbor’s wife and her aroma of life suffusing his home to leave him so maddened that the only answer was to lose himself in his work, else the unthinkable.
Eyes peeling, a mind snapped back to memories of a time when things were simpler. A woman, her long hair, her arms a comforting noose around his body as she pressed and creased paper together with her thumbs, a perfume from her hair imprinting deep within his nose never to be forgotten. That paper widow. So slowly...
Vivid verily, he ought to know the pleasure papercraft brought him. It was his pleasure.
Rasping strokes worked down the edges of the paper, massaging in the finer pathways of the ink, which bore the illusion of life; his own blood had been mixed in with the noxious solution, giving it a curious, strong scent reminiscent of a brew more ethanol than palate tempting. This lure carefully inscribed would serve the form, aetheric pathways helping to draw the latent aether present in the world. Channeling to a center left negative, the artist carefully rendered and adjusted the thinnest strokes to sculpt a finer Lure.
Wide, red eyes scrounged across the surface for imperfections long before satisfaction gave rise to the truth that he was finished, at least in part. What remained was more complicated. Claws raked the backs of his hands in the idle ritual of frisky fidgeting, a mind piecing together a design of the mind of another. Down his brush again dabbed, first to ink well and then to paper, carefully tracing the first stroke.
”Hmm, hmn-hum. Na-nh-na-da...” rippled words from dry lips, escaping further the encroaching scent.
Hungry...
Vows to hold oneself tight to a pole, to be lashed by ones own weakness were a self-inflicted torture that Aeraku had come to know, the slimmest sliver of comfort derived solely from the vindication he felt for doing ‘good’ by the masses and peers who would judge him dead if they knew.
Drawing in the cool, fresh air, he tasted her blood upon it again and rolled his head left to right, the motion mirrored by the brush in his fingers. Catching himself fantasizing, he shivered. Fingers rose to splay across his face, eyes wide between the gaps as he uttered his discontent through the rumbling cry of a slavering throat by a crumbling man.
Pulling fingers down, they soon grasped the edge of the desk, distracted mind on the cusp of action before he wrenched it away by squeezing the brush in the pads of his palm, the other making fresh the incision he’d made upon his finger to let blood upon the vial of ink he worked his craft with.
Her blood talks.
If she won’t shut it, after I gave her that poultice...
Told her what she’d never been told, about her own body.
Given what I am, is it really my fault if I follow her to the markets again in the morning?
The distraction returned in force, and he met it head on with a tilt forward, laying his chin upon the cool wood and shutting those eyes. The organ inside his chest beat with fervor, and his arms stretched across the wood as if he were his own canvas to pain with the ink of introspection. Liquid crystals seeped from tightly shut eyes.
If none suffer, does it make of me a creep to partake for comfort?
A malady, with no remedy.
The gods have forsaken me, and yet...
I try...