Kildeer Rest when you press it with your sharp red mouth

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Kalahari is hiraeth and he realizes it as he comes across the quiet, sweeping grass field as dawn creates a severance between night and morning light. The myriad of pastel candescence rises behind his back as he moves west. The wraith harbors no true destination though. He desires the anarchy of The Pit because it is all he has ever known. It does not slip from his consideration that instead of cowardice and exile he should have chosen death but the idea of being split from his wretched life too early is as unappealing to the unholy phantom as being exiled from the only home he has ever known. In the end, self perseverance made his decision for him. Civilization needed it’s monsters, he thinks with a soft leer accented by a softer snort — a small, near inaudible push of air from black, leathery nostrils. If death was meant to take him it would have siphoned his life force the moment he became something more within Atacoma’s womb planted there by her brother’s own seed. It was only into the cusp of his adulthood that Kalahari began to understand the things whispered about his nightmarish parents: that the lines of mother, aunt, father and uncle are blurry and irrevocably twisted and twined together. Candescent moonbeam eyes roll as he pushes forth towards the heart of the territory. Pining for where he can never return is foolish. He has only one choice, the only choice he has ever had in life: keep moving forward.

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