Don't Give Up Your Ghost
Mephistopheles
10-30-2021, 07:11 PM
thinking "speech" "others" As the fog crept closer, the stench of rotting fruit became overwhelming. Tendrils of thick mist wrapped around his limbs like the delicate trace of a lover's grip, carding through the thin tresses of his fur and leaving a cool dampness in their wake. A shiver tripped up his spine, fur fluffing up in an instinctive attempt to ward off the chill. As those sky blue eyes cut towards the nameless fae with an ever increasing edge of worry, he realized she was lost in the sea of fog. "You still there, doll?" he questioned, lifting a questing paw to feel the familiar warmth of another body and reassure himself. Within scant moments, the same tendrils that had curled over his limbs were raking their icy touch through the fur of his shoulders, hips, and over his entire body. Moving steadily up his neck and face. Those frigid fingers of fog forced their way into his body with the draw of his breath, sliding into his trachea. It felt like he was choking on ice itself, the cloying aroma of decay finding a home in his lungs. His own breaths turned to ragged gasps, desperate to draw in an unhindered lungfull of air. Was this what it felt like to die? Wide eyes flashed instinctively upward, searching for some kind of sign from a God he hadn't been devoted to in years. What did this mean? Dark claws curled inward, gripping the gnarled roots of the tree he stood upon and scoring the bark as they tightened. A reedy whine managed to escape him as thick mist pooling out of his nostrils. |
| Art by Monster |
Current time: 11-24-2024, 11:17 PM
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