imma backdate this an indeterminate date in early july
Life had grown quiet after the initial fright of her joining — it seemed, contrary to her initial observations, that this was a quiet bunch. Kitsch walked and stalked about, ate as she pleased, and came across no one. The stability of having a pack once more encouraged the kitten to rest and fill out, encouraged her mind to rest and not think about West or Libeccio or the feeble Neverwinter clan who had come into her life so quickly — and left even quicker.
What had not grown quiet, however, was her body’s voracious appetite for the herb that brought her so much pleasure — poppy, of course — but her inability to find the bright, small blooms constantly vexed her. It had been a bigger issue upon her first few weeks amongst the Blackfeather Wolves, when her body and prominent showed her displeasure through purging and constant, interminable shivers. At that time, she had been thankful for the wolves’ relative anonymity. She needed her space and they seemed all too willing to give it to her.
But that was in the past and what was left was a constant hunger for the high, the divine lightness that came with the consumption of scepter-like plant. She was alone so much, and the girl had a hard time being alone with herself — poppy was usually there to provide that buffer between Kitsch and the reality of her existence, but not now. When secluded, hateful thoughts aroused themselves in her mind — he came to visit her, even if it was just to beguile her in her sleep — her mind became her enemy. So, Kitsch didn’t sleep very often.
As such, Kitsch stalked about the forest during the dark hours of night. Her small, white form floated between the misted trees as would an eidolon — soundlessly, thoughtlessly drifting with no real direction or goal.
What had not grown quiet, however, was her body’s voracious appetite for the herb that brought her so much pleasure — poppy, of course — but her inability to find the bright, small blooms constantly vexed her. It had been a bigger issue upon her first few weeks amongst the Blackfeather Wolves, when her body and prominent showed her displeasure through purging and constant, interminable shivers. At that time, she had been thankful for the wolves’ relative anonymity. She needed her space and they seemed all too willing to give it to her.
But that was in the past and what was left was a constant hunger for the high, the divine lightness that came with the consumption of scepter-like plant. She was alone so much, and the girl had a hard time being alone with herself — poppy was usually there to provide that buffer between Kitsch and the reality of her existence, but not now. When secluded, hateful thoughts aroused themselves in her mind — he came to visit her, even if it was just to beguile her in her sleep — her mind became her enemy. So, Kitsch didn’t sleep very often.
As such, Kitsch stalked about the forest during the dark hours of night. Her small, white form floated between the misted trees as would an eidolon — soundlessly, thoughtlessly drifting with no real direction or goal.
smells just like vanilla
kiss is sugary sweet
skins warm like an oven
& tastes like buttercream
kiss is sugary sweet
skins warm like an oven
& tastes like buttercream
July 28, 2017, 02:39 PM
[narrow]One, two-three, one, two-three.
One step after the other, The Jester performed his dance. Under his breath, he sang in soft tones — La-dee-da, do-dee-do — and imagined himself strutting across the stage for his leaders. In his mind, the moon had lifted itself directly atop his shoulders, as if to illuminate his grace with her white light. The birds watched him and the critters on the ground stopped in their steps to watch him dance. Strangers peered from where they hid in the shadows to admire his regal gait, and The Jester loved it.
In reality, he moved like an awkward child who was just beginning to catch its footing. His song wasn't a low ditty, but a screech of varying volumes. He looked like the physical embodiment of insanity; fur thin, teeth rotten, scars littering his frame. Bald spots were evident and made up for most of his coat, though none of this mattered. The Jester felt invincible, and there was nothing that could have changed that.[/narow]
One step after the other, The Jester performed his dance. Under his breath, he sang in soft tones — La-dee-da, do-dee-do — and imagined himself strutting across the stage for his leaders. In his mind, the moon had lifted itself directly atop his shoulders, as if to illuminate his grace with her white light. The birds watched him and the critters on the ground stopped in their steps to watch him dance. Strangers peered from where they hid in the shadows to admire his regal gait, and The Jester loved it.
In reality, he moved like an awkward child who was just beginning to catch its footing. His song wasn't a low ditty, but a screech of varying volumes. He looked like the physical embodiment of insanity; fur thin, teeth rotten, scars littering his frame. Bald spots were evident and made up for most of his coat, though none of this mattered. The Jester felt invincible, and there was nothing that could have changed that.[/narow]
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