𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 … CLOSED
* ◟ : 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.
night occults day, and the moon eclipses the living sun. and unlike mundie myth, his bones do not break the skin, splinter and mold so his black maw can point to the moon as it waxes. ribbons of moonlight cut across his chest, veins of light illuminating the pitched amber of his eyes; there is a gleam to them in the dark, belonging more to a wolf than a man. in the homelands, he used to claw out of sleep. body poised like a knife even during rest, he was a beast that must keep meat inside his stomach to survive the winter. in the new world, sleep hadn't truly shown its full body in centuries, and he lingered in limbo and the blackness of exhaustion — now only listening to the distant refrain of his woodland wolves, watching one of his farm cat's ears prick at the noise.
once again, it is an eve where he has been met with the stench of blood ( the slaughter of a girl ). and he holds rigid — back straight and jawbone taut, ready to be made capable. the bruises beneath his eyes contrast heavy lashes, only casting additional shadows on an already tired stare. he is warring with his fatigue: all leaden muscle and mussed hair, and his entire presence here is static, mechanical and trained. time, ever his adversary, has let him become well acquainted with the animal growling at the back of the cage.
as he approaches the porch, a stream of nicotine flows up steadily from his cigarette, passing between parted lips, smoke curling its way around his jaw like mist ( doing all he can to distract his body from its sharpened senses — lance’s scent, like so many others, accosts and suffocates like the smog of fire ). the most familiar to him is loneliness. it’s the strongest emotion he’s ever known, so his subconscious tells him it’s his destiny. and it isn’t often someone breaches that loneliness. not without consequence. lance idles just outside the entry, as awake as he is — or can be — at an hour where gods abandon mortals. and wolf cannot place a reason for it: why prey is expectant of predator. as prolonged as lance’s stay had been, wolf had long since abandoned digging up the skeleton of hard resolve when stepping across the threshold of his den, his fabletown persona that fit along his limbs like armour exchanged for the frankness of wearied nature.
the silence stretches until his voice, gruff and roughened by lack of sleep, speaks his awareness into being. ‶ you should be asleep, lance. ″ / ft. lancelot
