Wheeling Gull Isle commune

he knew she had ventured beyond the lion's den.

he did not know how well she had healed. he could only blame himself for that. that he had perhaps neglected her in the wake of such activeness on the isle. above ground.

today he carried lavender as he cut a trail along her scent, wherever she may be.

@a corpse

pardon me, i am insanely rusty <3

like the stone-cut sphinx - body of something beastly, head of something transcended - it laid on the land bridge, facing the opposing shore. 

low tide would reveal it, the moist sand road, at intervals the hook-pulled tissue hadn't cared to figure. whenever it appeared, the corpse found itself near.

so easy to walk away. curl up and rot somewhere there would be no temptation to keep up the mimicry of life. a paw before the other, and the good father's herd would be a ridiculous memory - soon smothered by a rotting mass.

so why not leave? why not do so?

the corpse contemplated the misfirings of its ions, stony and still like thousand-years dead pharaoh.

( what humor it'd be, for its nose to fall off from rot at that very moment. )

he wondered if she planned to leave.

if enough strength of body compelled such a thing. although the way she frequently lounged among the island had him believe she was not strong of mind yet.

without fear he came to stand alongside her. carefully he placed the lavender between them.

do you wish to leave?

he prepared himself to hear riddles or accusations.