WE MUST HAVE CHEWED OUR FINGERNAILS A THOUSAND TIMES OVER WAITING FOR THE SCENT OF YOU, THE BREATH OF YOU, A MOMENT—A RIPPLE SENT SPIRALING THROUGH TIME. AND WE CALLED OUT FOR YOU, ALWAYS, IN A SENSUAL MOVEMENT, A PREDATOR GAZE—A MALE AND DARKLY JUDGMENTAL, PIOUS, DESPERATE, SEARCHING—REACHING GRIMACE MADE OF WIDE, WHITE EYES PUSHED VIOLENT THROUGH THE STONE CEILING AND ITS FACELESS, NAMELESS, SPIRAL-SHAPED AND BLACK, SNARLING SKY.

---

HE DOES NOT KNOW THE NAME FOR STAR AND THE SHADOW OF IT GRACES HIS MEMORIES, LIKE AN UNATTAINABLE DREAM.

THE MOMENT ITS ECHO ENTERS HIS BRAIN—IT LEAVES.

IT'S A GASP OF CAVE STONE ON ANCIENT EARTH-RUBBLE THAT PAINTS HIS PRESENCE, THE VAGUE PASSING OF FEET IN PLACES THAT WHISPER WITH COLD, GNAWING WIND AND IRREDEEMABLE HEAT. THE DRYNESS PARCHES HIM, AND STRIPS THE VOICE IN HIS THROAT TO ASH ON GRAVEL, AND WITH THE SOUND OF A MAN CHOKING ON A ROOMFUL OF BLOOD AND CIGARETTES, HE CURLS INTO A TIGHT, BALL-SHAPED SHADOW AT THE EDGE OF A HOLE.

IT IS VAST, AND SWALLOWS UP HIS STARE, AND LEAVES BEHIND A REEKING CHILL THAT SEPARATES THE HAIRS ON HIS HACKLES WITH A MENACING, INVISIBLE, AND CRAWLING GLARE. HE HAS TWIN BEATS FOR EYES CUT INTO STEEL, A PANTING MOUTH UPTURNED AND PRIED APART WITH LOW, LABORED RASPS. HIS FEET TEMPT THE GORGE'S PALE AND INSISTENT—SMILING—LIP, WHILE HIS GAZE SEARCHES OUT THEIR STONE CEILING . . .

. . . SEARCHES, AS IF WAITING—WEREN'T WE ALL? WAITING? FOR THAT UNATTAINABLE DREAM?

THE MEMORY OF A HEAVEN WE WOULD NEVER, EVER SEE?

THE PATTERN OF A SKY,

A WORLD,

A DREAM.

*yells* your art is so pretty!!

It hurt. Dry blood freckled the open wounds on the surface of their skin where they had lost - nay, been beaten, though they would never admit it - and the ache radiated through them as a constant reminder of their follies. The training between themselves and their Mother was growing more intense, and her temper was shortening with each failure they made. They stumbled and tried to catch themselves, to correct their wrongs, but it was hard when her hawk gaze bore down on them. Unseeing, she instead delved into their soul, setting aside their superficial tweaks and quirks, those signatures of exhaustion, for what she only wanted to see. Strength. Flawlessness. And where they lacked, she was sure to fill in the gaps with consequence. Odyssey would not fail. Odyssey would not be weak.

Yet they were, time and time again. A magic they could not comprehend led spined stems to manifest from their skin, ripping free into the stale air until they twisted and dried up again, falling off as reminders of punishment. More and more wounds were opening beneath their fur, though they tried desperately to hide them, shrug them off as an idle itch where someone might have been looking. Worst of all, Odyssey blocked the feeling from breaching the bond with Iliad, fearful of the molefox learning of their Mother's abuse - not for themselves, but for her. Odyssey loved her so. They would not want their Mother, who only pushed Odyssey to greatness, to suffer for her harsh teachings. Others may have thought differently.

They had spent this time following their most recent lesson cleaning the fresh wounds in their shoulder, ensuring that none of the crimson might bleed through into their fur and speaking little of anybody was to question. Of course, nobody had - and Odyssey was left to groom themselves in silence, until a curious creature had appeared in the maw of Monoceros. They paused for a moment, spying the dark creature from above, and then their curiosity bid them to investigate. The pain in their shoulder would rather they sit back and observe for a moment longer, but Odyssey's nosy wonderment never did allow the youth to sit still for long when a new face appeared in their home.

The hybrid moved along the platforms, ebbing closer to the canine until they loomed from above, sitting upon a ridge that jutted from the wall aside from where the stranger stood. They had moved like a cautious shadow, creamsicle against the dusty rock, until they fell still overlooking the beast. Odyssey's ears twisted forward, arched muzzle craning forward to peer disdainfully at the intruder. "Who are you?" They asked, slow maturing voice crisp and succinct.

@The Good and The Bad

She was entrenched in the palpable ink of dark, empty air, concealed comfortably and furtively above within a shallow crag, overlooking this quietly angst ridden man who tempted the depthful mouth of a deep precipice before him.. Folded hinds lay behind her against rough, arid stone, talon tipped hands caressing the granite beneath as a calm, near hypnotic curiosity lay its trance upon ever still collected senses. He seemed ill, perhaps, some ailment coursing through his constricted veins and displaying a haggard hardship of the mind, body, heart and soul. Babuani the Noble stared, half lidded gaze of viridity regarding her observed subject with deadened, but evident involvement.

For a moment's time she chose to avert her stare to the ceiling, where the cavern stone was blackest, and yet the eerie, enchanting glimmer of deeply embedded minerals could be admired even midst such an endless void. Eloquently patterned bod at last uncoiled itself, carefully maneuvering along the steep carved side of this abyssal tomb with android grace and balance. Her steps were shrouded in a blessed silence; she did not make a sound as she approached. He smelled of something charred, something barren, something thick and perpetually burning as though the core of the earth had once licked him and singed his fur and flesh. It clashed almost violently with her own floral, earthy scent, the purity of nature seeping through her fungal pores now chased away by the aroma of flame and coal.

A fork in an unseen road suddenly presented itself unto her rumination. Perchance she take her chance now and flee, avoid any conflict that would possibly arise from her disturbance of this afflicted canis. Oxygen barren of moisture coated flared nostrils, masking the presence of another, whose voice sounded before her own, and was mildly startling. Suddenly the fragrance of oozing metal and matted blood reached her sensory. “Who are you?” Said the androgynous interloper, and she glanced briefly in their vague direction, choosing not to acknowledge them first, but instead the subject which she ascertained far earlier.

She watched on as his mangy feet tempted the infinite chasm beside him, heart and mind vaguely aflutter. Her instincts begged her to make haste and vanish. And yet her intentions, oft much stronger than any logic that would try to sustain her, continued to coerce her actions to advance further. And so she did. And not only did she drift closer, she spoke, her words tender, ghostly veils to ease whatever torment with which he was stricken. Do be careful, sir...how lamented I would be if you should fall.

Speech.

I am rooted, but I flow.

x

@The Good and The Bad
@Odyssey

THE RICHEST STORIES CAN NOT BE WRITTEN, THEY ARE

CARVED OUT FROM THE BEDROCK OF A WOMAN'S FOUNDATION, HANDPAINTED AND -CRAFTED AND PLUCKED OUT WITH A FATHER'S DRY, WORN HAND, THEY ARE THE NAMES OF SALVATION, THE MURDER OF THOSE FACES RIPPED FROM OUR LIVES, PAINFULLY GATHERED, STITCHED, AND SHREDDED, TWISTED INTO BLEARY CONCOCTION, BREATHLESS AND AGONIZED—THEY ARE THE SOUNDS OF OUR CHILDREN, THE WRITERS OF OUR LIES, THE BLOOD OF OUR FOREFATHERS, THE CRIES OF HER, HIS ACHING EYES.

WHAT MEAGRE WORDS—CAN I MORTALLY ENTOMB? IN THIS MIGHTY AND FRAIL PICTURE OF LIFE, WHITE AND BLACK AND COLORED BRIGHT—LIKE STARS—HOW MUST I TEAR APART THESE LETTERS AND WOUND EACH SCULPTURE INTO EXISTENCE—EACH SYLLABLE TO DESCRIBE THAT WHO TRUSTS IN ME THE VERY PICTURE OF YOU?

---

THEY ARE PLAYING THE PARTS INVESTED IN THEM, AND WHO BREATHED THEM INTO BEING, WHAT LOVE AND MOMENTS EMBEDDED IN EACH MIND GLANCING BACK INTO HIS OWN, ENTER DEEPLY NOW, AND SCREW OPEN HIS SOUL.

THE CAVERNS ECHO WITH STRINGS; A GREAT MILE OF GROTTO FROST HANGS ON MONOCEROS' TEETH, AND HER JAWS, WHICH OPEN UP WITH THE IRON BELLOWS OF AN INVISIBLE AND INFERNAL WIND, CLOSE UPON THEM AS IF THE EARTH COULD TALK, WANT, AND WERE ALIVE.

A FAINT SNAKE OF WARM FURS PEELS BACK HIS BITTER MIRAGE, AND HIS VOICE FALLS LIKE IMMEDIATE POLLUTION AGAINST ALL THAT PALE GOLD, THAT SVELTE IVORY-ORANGE WHO TEMPTS HIM NOW IN ALL ITS YOUNG SPLENDOR. (SOME SPIRITS ARE BORN YOUNG AND GROW OLD, AND SOME AWAKE ANCIENT.)

"Were you waiting for somebody?" THE RESPONSE JIBES.

WAITING? FOR THAT UNATTAINABLE DREAM?

"Not me, perhaps?"

---

---

HE DOES NOT SOUND SAFE, HE DOES NOT SOUND WITHOUT BRUISE, OR AN ELEGANT, VISCERAL GLEAM, WHICH CRAWLS FROM HIM IN A MILITARY, AND GRANDIOSELY BEATEN, GRINDING, CLENCHED—BAITING—TONE.

"Maybe running from another?"

HE LEAVES THE BORZOI WITH QUESTIONS TO FILL POOR THEIR OWN, AND SHIFTS GENTLY BENEATH THEIR GAZE.

THERE IS ANOTHER.

A CAT IN THE ROCK CRADLE CATCHES HIS FRIED SENSES.

SHE IS SONOROUS AND RIPE WITH DECAY. A PETITE AND MARBLE CARICATURE CARVED OUT IN BITS AND PIECES—DELICATE MORSELS OF RUST, A BEAUTIFUL, CANCEROUS OUTLINE OF OCELOT FURS QUEENED IN WHITE-GREY, EARTH VELVET AND DECORATED SILVER, EERILY RIPPLING— THE FLICK OF HER TAIL PLAYS WITH HIS LUNGS, SHE COLORS HIS GRIN, OR THE ECHO OF IT, ANYWAYS, AS IT DRAWS IN A BREATH AGAIN.

HE IMAGINES HER, WITH THAT PRETTY LITTLE FACE, THAT PERT MOUTH LIKE SOFT, WARM WINE, EYES CUT TO STONE DAGGERS AND FLYING DIAMOND HIGH, TWISTED INTO A PICTURESQUE DREAR, AND AN AUDIBLE CHILL (WITH THE AIR OF A WICKED SMILE) RUNS DOWN HIS THROAT AND EXITS THROUGH HIS SPINE.

"Would you cry, I wonder."

THE CHASM GAPES.

Odyssey
Babuani
You are sweet.

Odyssey was torn between the metered patience of their Mother and the anxious brazenness of their youth. Their static nerves begged them to descend the ledge and confront the intruder face to face, to unleash a threat of magic and a display of their skills, but images of Magdalena's cool half-lidded stare had imbibed them with the desire for that same subtle nonchalance. In time they would find it well practiced and inherent, but their impatience swelled in them, scratching at their throat like a cough. Especially so when the creature responded equally as cool, if not more so, and it seemed the question had rolled off their back like water. Odyssey narrowed their eyes, setting their shoulders back while their long, plush tail curled elegantly by their side. "Answer my question." Odyssey clipped in return, eying them.

Meanwhile they rolled over the response in their head; waiting for someone, or running. But neither of those shed any figment of truth on what Odyssey was really doing here. Their presence was hardly so poetic as the stranger suggested. The answer was simply that they lived here, but the hybrid couldn't fight the desire to search deeper into the question. Curiosity dug at the surface of the thought, chipping away at it, unable to allow themselves that satisfaction - another had appeared, somehow escaping Odyssey's attention until then, and the hybrid allowed their lofty image betrayal at the hands of a small frown.

Another observation, and then the canine countered; Odyssey would have been eager to witness a volley of comments between the two juveniles, idly wondering if they knew each other, but the sudden need to protect their pride had arisen in the speculation. "Perhaps you shouldn't be so concerned about a stranger." Odyssey's frown deepened, reassured by the memory that, if need be, they could still call for back up if they had twisted into a threat. Nemesis would arrive on the scene in a matter of minutes, likely with their Mother by her side. But Odyssey didn't want to stoop down to calling for help. Not yet, at least.

@Babuani

She bats her lashes at his mocking response, far from nonplussed, but rather expectant. He is a wily beast, a tainted man of animalistic impulse. He perhaps played with his food before devouring it down a savagely starving gullet, and viciously true to himself he had every right to be. Beneath her own humble judgment she found such facts to be not necessarily reprehensible, but maybe admirable.

How duly he reminded her of fungal growth, for some species were edible, perhaps even nutritious, while others would cease ones very heart to the death. Nature was unforgiving, and unforgettable. Whilst sharp and acute around the edges, he was smooth like curling smoke, fascinatingly deceitful in the spirit of a cunning illusion. He deserved some form of esteem, surely, but he would find no breed of victim within her.

“Would you cry, I wonder.” Came his sultrily delivered prose, words coated in a drooling salivation as his eyes would rove her hungrily. Her own crystalline gaze regarded him stonily, evenly, khol lined lips pursing in what could have been a thin, grimly amused smirk. Death deserves tears in its honor.

The other canis, brilliantly beautiful, whose threads seemed to ravishingly shine through the darkness, provided words not so entertaining of the dog's mad hatter tauntings, nor of her own intrusion. “Perhaps you shouldn't be so concerned about a stranger.” Hooked tongue drew itself along a sharp, pearly cuspid as she considered their brutal honesty with genuine thought. Why then, do you demand his calling? A name is oft naught but the label of the carapace, not what lies beneath.

I am rooted, but I flow.

x

@The Good and The Bad
@Odyssey