|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Tue Nov 05, 2013 4:43 pm
Trigger Warning
This thread contains dark themes not suitable for those who have difficulty dealing with depression or suicidal tenancies. Readers be advised.  Sadness was a crippling emotion, an exhausting sensation that had no foreseeable escape. For every day that Rakitanos was able to pull himself up and search out something new for his hoard, there were two or three where he could not bring himself to move at all. For every new artifact he brought home, he was reminded of the thousands lost in its place. He couldn’t count the amount of times he had thrown these precious gems and countless gold to the floor in a fit of rage, only to spend hours on end putting it all back in order. Each time felt like the scars were getting deeper, the return of things to their proper place as much a bleeding wound as an effort at covering one up. He would never be able to replace what he had lost, or repair what he had damaged. The acceptance of this was as painful as its denial and twice as lonely.
Yet he persevered, if for no other reason than he had promised to do so. He hoped by now he had been forgotten, but in case he had not, he struggled on through each passing moment. A part of him wondered if letting go would truly cause any harm. If by now those two were happy, would his passing even be noticed? Perhaps it was foolish to carry on like this, to suffer like this, when he could have peace at no price. If he was already forgotten, already nothing more than a nightmare on the wind, then would it not be safe to let his promise go and welcome an endless, painless sleep so long yearned for?
Sometimes he considered writing a note. Some days, he even sat down and did so – but in the end he discarded each and every one of them. Notes were things you left behind just in case someone cared. They were final farewells, amends and explanations. Rakitanos had said his goodbyes. He made his amends in making them and there were no further explanations to give. Leaving a note just meant it was intentional. Leaving a note indicated there was a hope that it would be found. The golden dragon didn’t even hold on to that much.
Hatred seethed underneath his skin, a pathological plague that ate at his strength. The hatred wasn’t for anything more tangible than regret, but it was enough to poison his health entirely. The thing he had become was something he could not forgive or outlive. All his memories seemed to focus on the mistakes he had made, the filth of what he had created by trying to keep what was never his to have. Even his new hoard reflected his distaste for theft now – the opulent fabrics that curtained his cave had all been purchased from theaters going out of business as opposed to stolen from castles; the treasure that mounted from the floor to the ceiling all carefully polished to clear away the taint of the sea from which it had been dredged.
No longer did he mount attacks on villages, castles or caravans. He took his treasure from the dead, from places so deep it was easy to wait – to linger, just a moment too long – though the curse of his promise pushed him up in the end. He was no longer feared, for in all the places he had once been known, he was considered as dead as he wished to be. In the places he was known now, he was so subdued and withdrawn that the mere notion of him being frightening was laughable. He didn’t look anyone in the eye – could not bear to face judgement in their faces, or worse, to see something beautiful in their gazes. Just the thought of seeing someone beautiful was enough to make him so sick he would return to his cave for months on end and refuse to leave it, sometimes forsaking even food and water just to overcome the terror and the disgust that would overwhelm him in those times.
It was reaching a point where Rakitanos was once more running out of books to read. His library was as expansive as the hoard itself, but when one refused all company and lived alone, there was little to do beyond polish and read. Winter was coming, which meant he would need to stock up on food as well. With such supplies as books and a well-stocked pantry, he could disappear again, perhaps until the spring, if not later. It took him three days to gather the will to fill up two purses full of gold, and make his way to a village far from his nest. He always travelled well beyond his borders for this sort of thing, because if ever anyone chose to hunt him, Rakitanos knew he would not have the will to fight them. To honor his promise, he simply kept himself hidden instead.
Landing a good distance from the village, Rakitanos walked into town, stopping by the butcher’s first. It was a mark of how ill he was, that he would purchase his own meals rather than hunt them, though he chose not to bother thinking on it. Once his order was made and the butcher was set to preparing it, he stopped by the grocer and ordered the grains he would need. His first purse emptied on four months’ worth of storable food, the golden dragon strode at last to the book shop, his homid form hunched over itself to dissuade anyone from approaching him.
Golden hair once so lustrous and well-kept hung limply around his shoulders, lank and lifeless. His alabaster skin was a sickly pallor that bordered on jaundiced, and his frame was dangerously skeletal. The once powerfully chested, broadly muscled male had lost his regal air entirely. He was little more than a waif, unhealthy being the politest term for the way the bones of his wrists jutted out, or the way skin stretched tight over arms that were barely there at all.
Shrouded in well-kept clothing, there was nothing remarkable about him beyond the fact that a man with purses so heavy was rarely seen so. He could afford medicine, so why was he dying? It was this question that kept people at bay, far more than his posture. To the common folk, he was a noble with some incurable disease they had no wish of catching. For if even his fat purses couldn’t keep him round, then there was no hope for them, surely.
Slipping quietly into the library, Rakitanos kept to himself as he began browsing the shelves, carefully selecting purchasable copies of things he once owned the originals of, as well as the occasional new thing. He overestimated the remains of his strength however, and by the eighth book had to set down the pile and brace his hands on the table. His body was shaking from the exertion, and the passing dizziness reminded him of how long it had been since he had bothered to eat. Shaking his head, Rakitanos urged himself to continue. The sooner he finished his shopping, the sooner he could return to his nest and not have to worry about such things and society and appearances.
“Are you alright?” The softly spoken, painfully polite question made Rakitanos flinch away from the speaker. He caught a glimpse of the male, and swiftly lowered his gaze to the floor before anything could fully register. Fighting down another tremor, Rakitanos managed quietly, “I’m fine. Merely tired. I’ve a few more things to get, and then I’ll be on my way.” Feeling his knees cave, the dragon took a seat as steadily as he could manage, so that it would appear his aim from the start. The last thing he needed was this person touching him. Just the thought – just the idea of another person touching his filthy, tainted flesh was unbearable. “I’m fine,” He insisted, certain that this may need repeating. “Thank you.”
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Nov 05, 2013 5:54 pm
The sun had pulled Chessur from his bed bright and early as it did every morning. He would rise with the sun, make himself breakfast and set about opening up his shop. Chessur had settled into this life quite well, different from all the rest of his boisterous family. His own mother lived with his father in a large city, selling fashion, as he liked to say. His dearest sister was off doing, well he wasn’t exactly sure. She had never been one for the quiet life. Come to think of it, in the entirety of his reaching family there were only two that could be considered as calm as he.
His great grandmother, Kalina, had calmed some in her years. Though she now lived a rather quiet life with her newest love, she had not always been that way. His grandmother Glaive was by far the most active. She was rarely around these days, and when she was she was always lively. She had stopped in a few times, to just crash in his guest bedroom. He never minded her visits, though they often left him feeling drained. Glaive was much too vigorous for her subdued grandson.
Sarin, his aunt, was the other that was much like her. Only where as he was quiet she seemed just lazy; Fluff spoiled her to no end. Still with her much more lax nature it was easy to be around her. She was perhaps the most like a cat out of them all. Her daughters however must have taken after their father because both were quite active. Though it was clear they held the same mischievous streak as their mother. Still he loved his family, deeply, even if his father was sometimes a bit overbearing.
His father’s family was much the same. Though Grandma Frostine was someone he got along with quite well. Her soft spoken, gentle, calm, and otherwise motherly nature was one he found easy to be around. Grandpa Vadimas was perhaps a bit… over the top? That didn’t sound quite right but she was so powerful in personality that it sometimes caused Chessur to shy away.
Despite this, despite how tired his family could make him, it was not this that had driven him to open a quiet little shop well off the beaten path. His family was welcome in his home, and place of business, at any point. What had made Chessur pick this particular life was the sheer joy he found in it. He loved stories; they were his way of having adventures. He was hardly about to strike out on some journey on his own, he wouldn’t even begin to know how to survive such a thing. Though he had a great wonder lust, it was often times sated with other people’s stories.
His only adventures were to the two different wonderlands, but he didn’t much count those. They were business ventures, to gather things for his shop to sell. His store, library, home, for it was all these things, was sort of eclectic that way. He lived behind the shop/library part of the building. Allowing him to always be close to his passion and work; it offered him a quiet sort of life.
He was used to people coming and going from his home. So when the door opened to admit a customer he didn’t pay much attention other than to call a soft hello from his current position amongst books. Everyone was friendly in this town, and Chessur didn’t completely abide by the rule that a library should be a silent place. While he asked those that came and went to keep the noise to a dull drone, conversation was encouraged. Open and friendly welcomes, hellos, and other such small pleasantries were offered freely here. They had even gone so far as to have a birthday party there one year.
However Chessur was always completely aware of what was going on in his lair. Be it because he was just that in tune with the tomes around him. Or because Rabbit and Butter kept watch over the building for him was anyone’s guess. The small, yet bright, male had just poked his head around a shelf to see if he could be of assistance when the sickly looking male started having trouble.
Rainbow colored eyes went wide as Chessur pulled his glasses off his head and stepped lightly over. He was shorter than Kita, by quite a bit but that seemed to matter little. Chessur was full in the face, a healthy weight, if perhaps a bit on the plump side. Not that he appeared vastly over weight but he was far from skin and bone. His features were pale, his hair a funny meshing of black and rainbow. He had stepped forward in such a rush that the scarf that had been tightly cinched near his throat had fallen open. His tail, which was normally pristine, was puffed slightly in worry, the sleek fur there seeming to quiver in an unfelt breeze.
Rabbit and Butter had fluttered over at some point. Landing on the table beside the male as he set, slowly Rabbit, the more adventurous of the two, skittered forward towards his hand. Butter hung back on the pile of books Kita had sat down. Chessur waffled for a moment before gently laying a hand on Kita’s shoulder, though it was gone as quickly as it had been placed down. “Hey, it’s as plain as the sun in the sky that you are not alright.” He whispered so softly, as he took a seat beside the other. The concern, and gentle worry etched not only in his features but prevalent in his voice. “Are you sick, you look deathly pale?” He eyed the male’s weight but said nothing on it for the moment. Had Kita bothered to look up he would have been met with such gentle, genuine, concern and worry in the other male’s gaze it would have been flooring. As it was all his movements were slow, careful, using his body language in the best way he could think to indicate he wasn’t a threat. He could feel the tension in the air, but it wasn’t enough to send him skittering. The male seemed to refuse to look him in the eyes. So instead he relied on his voice, and gentle motions. This was what he would use when dealing with an upset child or a frightened animal; always slow, careful and aware of the other’s feelings and emotions. 
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Nov 07, 2013 8:42 pm
Fluttering movement caught the dragon’s eye, causing him to glance over as Rabbit and Butter settled down near him. One nestled down on his pile of books, while another began crawling toward him. Careful to keep his breaths shallow so as not to disturb the small thing, Rakitanos kept his hand still, uncertain of the nature of the small butterfly-like creature. He understood that to most insect-like things, he was nothing more than a giant, safe warm perch in a big, cold and frightening world. He saw no reason not to offer such a kindness, when he owed the world so much in karmic debt, so he allowed the small creature to approach and sense that he was, indeed, a safe warm perch.
Had he not been so focused on keeping still for the little creature, he may well have jumped away from Chessur’s touch. As it was, the most he did was stiffen up sharply, before it was already gone and the other male was taking a seat nearby. The soft observation was met with shoulders that lowered and pulled forward, like a man seeking to wrap something about himself only to discover he had no blanket after all. He didn’t answer, for there was nothing that he felt needed to be said. He wasn’t healthy, but he also wasn’t about to spread his woes on another. Instead he simply inched a finger forward, the slightest bit, to invite the wee thing crawling about near his hand to take a seat if it wished.
He could sense the careful way the other moved, the concern in his voice a searing brand that was almost too scorching to bear. He deserved none of it. Jaw working as he finally forced himself to look over, the sight of the concern itself was enough to make golden eyes glaze with a misty sheen that hardened far too quickly as the dragon tore them away again.
“You needn’t concern yourself,” He stated quietly, careful to angle his head so that his words would not disturb the air around the butterfly’s wings. “I am naturally pale.” Not entirely a lie. “I’ve been sickly all my life. It is simply a matter of waiting and continuing onward. It troubles me when people fuss.” A mixture of lies and painful truth, curbed into a warning, both gently and firmly trying to keep the other at bay.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
