TWILIGHT ENDEAVORS // beck

[Crow Roux]

[align=center]action — "speech" — thoughts

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Nothing short of a public appearance had been made by the feline since the weighted burden of general had befallen on his attenuated shoulders. The sun had made its journey once and a little more around the sphere they called home, and a nose belonging to the likes of Crow emerged from a secluded cave near the sea as the sky began its transition to dusk. His starry eyes observed with melancholy the vermillion hues that danced across the plane as if to taunt him with its gleeful tones. Was it that the sky was more vivid tonight?
A raspy sigh escaped his lips, and he retreated back into the security of the cavern. It was useless to wonder. Crow didn’t believe in fate or karma; it was not a sign nor an omen nor the universe spitting into his eyes one more time for his misfortune, and as much it seemed that way, it was mere coincidence. He had control over his own actions and destination, and that ideal kept the tabby sane. He could and would get better, be better.

It would just take time

-----

A conversation held with Morgan in the previous had been bothering him, stuck to the back of his brain. During a time before Crow’s arrival to Tanglewood, on the full moon there was a squabble in the graveyard and those who succeeded were granted masks, and he wanted to know more. The rest was a history lesson he paid vague attention to. Names flew by his head and did not stick around long before they were lost. He knew it was important, though, something he felt to be preserved as long as he had some say over it.
Convenient that he did have a say over it. What better a person to go to than Beck, presumably the last Tangler in possession of one, for his answers, so he broke free from his slump, just for this night, to head out into the bog. It was dark, but his steps were guided by the faintest glimmer that penetrated from above the canopy.
He did not intend to intrude, but when his wary glances concluded Audrey was in no means of obstructing his path, the feline marched right up to the isolated poltergeist’s front door, where his keen voice spoke above the twilight cacophony of the swamp.

"I want a mask, Beck."

- ★ -

[beck.]

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    Time crawled by so painfully slow when he was alone. Despite his affinity towards the dark and all the quiet that it carried, Beck grew to despise the night. He couldn't sleep -- that would defy the essence of a restless spirit, after all. The little feline sought to make the most out of his insomniac curse, however, spending his hours working. His work varied from organizing his collection of classic films alphabetically then by release date then by the color of their cases, or his most recent taxidermy project, or staring at medical books until their paragraphs and diagrams were ingrained into his blurred vision, or cuddling with Audrey, or sharpening his knives... his nightwork hardly varied from his erratic daytime schedule, minus the time slots designated for pestering the locals.

    But tonight, all he had the motivation to do was lie on his wounded back and close his eyes in an effort to relax for once. It would be a feat if he could manage the assumedly simple task. And yet his ears still swiveled in annoyance at the sounds of his loyal flytrap gnawing away at its leftover dinner, and the crickets outside, and the soft splashes outside from creatures lurking beneath the swamp's waters. Eventually, he lulled himself into a near-stupor. His chest heaved one shallow wheeze before he shut off his unneeded breathing entirely, and his apparition faded as less energy was focused on maintaining it. His weakened state wasn't sleeping, but it was something.

    A voice from outside alerted him and the exhausted ghost jolted upright, although his mind was too shrouded by haze to piece together what had been said. Who would dare wander out to his lousy boat in the middle of the night? Wobbling as he stood, Beck limped from his accumulated nest of blankets to the door. He warily pushed it open with his ears flattened. Only to be greeted by the taller form of the general. Still fairly dazed, the poltergeist leaned on the rotten doorframe, glossy eyes a dim source of light as he studied Crow. "Don'tcha know how to knock?" he finally said after sucking in a breath. Beck slumped, almost defeatedly, and his apparition flickered before he added, "What d'ya want?"