are the dead really silent?
It had been a while. Most of a season, in fact. And I had kept to my word, I did not follow her. The woman I had met, the one who had greeted me with a growl. Her scent had floated around here and there in the common lands, growing stronger in the direction of the plains. Just as the scent had grown stronger, so had the wails of those who could no longer speak. On the eve of the spring the veil had begun to once again thicken as the sun started to bring back life to the world. Though the voices of the dead had started to lessen, their borrowed time in this realm running out, the volume of many of the voices started to grow.
Innocent cries of those who would never live again deafened my ears. Whether it was a nightmare or not, it was real to the eyes that saw and the ears that listened. With each I try to listen to their words, hear their pain, but the scraped at me. Their words were hard to make out but grew stronger in their shouts of injustice when I drew closer to the home of the woman I promised I would not follow.
Months later, no one could claim I had followed. It did not stop me from lingering on the edge of this packland she seemed to call home. The scent of others filled my nose. There was a scent of other, a scent of strange. Unbalance lingered and the screams became strangely quiet as I drew near. It created a strange, uneasy calm. A calm I could not deny.
Eyes blazing I pace the border of the packland. This land crawls with something unnatural but alluring. Sniffing the ground, I look over the plains. I did not follow her here. Time passed. I had stalked her here.
lord; 4 falls; 41in/190lbs; fatelessXheartless; wandering ghost |