Schattenfeuer » Hibernal Den » Dali

Dali

(#48402990)

Run, boy, run, break out from society.

Familiar

Wave Sweeper

Energy: 50/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

4.14 m

Wingspan

6.2 m

Weight

467.74 kg

Genetics

Flaxen
Jaguar

Fern
Bee

Crocodile
Capsule

Hatchday

Jan 08, 2019
(5 years)

Breed

Adult
Wildclaw

Eye Type

Water
Unusual

Level 25 Wildclaw

Max Level

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

none

Offspring

none

Biography

__._

Dali.
↠ A discovery of one's self

"Tomorrow is another day, hey; And you won't have to hide away. You'll be a man, boy! But for now it's time to run, It's time to run!"

What are colors?

Little boy, quick and nimble, run. Run as fast as you can. Because it is the only thing you can do. To run and to climb, over cobblestone and through winding back alleys. In the end, the reward would be worth it. It had to be, because at home, there was a sick mother, a tired father and an empty pantry waiting to be filled.

Mother, what are they talking about? I don’t understand.

Why were his eyes so important? He had hands to touch, to reach out, he had sensitive ears to hear it all, a sharp tongue for sounds and words, he could rival the hounds with his sense of smell. Why were they going on and on about his eyes? pampered, reeking people with unnatural firmness to their flesh, with too loud voices and poison coating their tongues.

He shook his head and he kept on running, in darkness of eternal night and the warmth of never ending day, in his bag letters and packages, fragile, heavy, light, all of them important. He knew his way and he was trustworthy, never once did he open a single letter, even if curiosity was plaguing his mind.

I don’t like You. You reek and are obnoxious in your screeching. Ne’er have I met someone more ugly, more distasteful.

Lord Matiush was the worst of all. He hated working for him the most, yet the man got the most letters. Mainly ones of condolences as he learnt later, over gossip and the grapevine of the streets. The man was a widower, filthy rich now and all alone in the too large home. And like all nobles, he was too loud, too obnoxious.

There was sadness in the Lord’s voice, there was worry in his grip as he reached for letters and packages. Sadness, worry, grief, sorrow, why did he gave so much on the words of a simple courier?

Am I not beautiful enough for you?
No, you are not, never will be, not like this.
Is that why you never met my eye?

Why was it so important to him? What use did he have from this? He spat out ugly truths and the Lord fell to his knees, begging, pleading. Scared. Of what? The little runner boy was merely one of many, why was his opinion so important? Confusion set into his bones, his heart, his mind and he found himself reaching out, because the Lord cried bitter tears and spat words tinged with old hurt.

Why do you want to be like them, ugly, hard, poisonous and loud?
Because they are beauty and they are wealth.

Ridiculous, where was beauty in this? Where was the softness, the gentleness he defined beauty with? Why did Lord Matiush insist on fitting into a frame he clearly was not shaped out to be? To help was more to his own pleasure as it made it easier. To talk to, to be in the Lord’s presence. The clash of soap and perfume, of too much and too strange, needed to be changed, so he was let into the Lord’s vanity, stumbling over unfamiliar marble and sorting delicate bottles next to clumps of scent given shape.

Lord Matiush was grateful, he really was, paid plenty and the reward was enough to fill the pantry for weeks. Was even enough to pay for mother’s medicine and allow father to rest for some days. Returning, he first thought of the money alone. The man had little company it seemed and he was starving for interaction that was not laced with lies, but was he really the best companion for this? He was a simple runner after all. And this is what he did.

Breezing past hands outstretched and down streets that were supposed to be empty - until they weren’t anymore and he was left stumbling, over his own feet, over things that were placed in his path, hitting his knees and scraping his palms, disorientated by noise and scent and the rush of his own jamming heartbeat

Give me your hand, it is going to be alright.
I hate it. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

As so many things. And yet, here he was yet again, in a home large enough to house his whole family and then some, yet only inhabited by one man. On a bed softer than a cloud he sat, hands on his thighs, palms turned up and bandaged already, clumsily and a bit off, yet so caring. And he couldn’t help but notice.

You are soft. Like aged paper. I like old things, they are the most beautiful things in the world.

Soft palms and short nails, the whisper of long hair and kindness. He could sense the other’s gaze on him, it was like being tickled with a feather, endlessly and sweeter, gentler than others. He was looking, he was sure Matiush was. Not staring, blatantly and obnoxious but rather observing. Gentler, softer. And before words could fall out of the Lord’s mouth, he did something rather bold.

Bandaged hands in long hair, he tugged and he claimed, surprised by the shape of the Lord’s body underneath his own. Soft and warm, like a worn in blanket, filling in the hard corners and sharp edges of his own shape nicely. Tasting of faint sweetness and expensive tea and older sadness, he found the other to be pleasant, to be good.

So this is why you never looked at me.
What do you mean?

Little runner boy, lonely Lord, they made a strange duo, bold and soft, hard and gentle. He could hear the wagging tongues weaving vile rumors not too long after. That he did it only for the money, what even does a young man like him want with an old man like Matiush. And he finally understood.

Are you ashamed of being with me?
No, only scared.
Of what?
Of not being enough
Why are you going against your own words? Did you not tell me to not listen to their words?

Here he was, abandoning his own advice, his own words spoken so boldly when he first met the Lord, insecure and shaken by grief and fear. And yet, he understood now, in a moment of calmness, how easy it was to fall into the grasps of wanting to be what never could be archived.

Looks like I have been blind my whole life.
In more ways than one?
Yes.

Matiush
He is like old things. Soft and warm,
worn in and gentle on the senses, rich
with impressions past and experiences
that needed to be shared. The end of
a journey to discovering one's self,
that and so much more is he, the
sun to chase after and the embrace
of hope, every day anew.

___

code & assets by archaic #19153

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Exalting Dali to the service of the Flamecaller will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.

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