09-04-2018, 12:16 AM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Like Feyre, Winterwolf likes to say that he hadn't had a childhood. Whatever memories he'd had were burned at the edges like a photo album that someone wanted gone, reminders that nobody wanted to cling to. In truth, he has no idea where he came from. There are a few hazy memories of his early life, but the earliest image — chains. Then being taught. His entire life had been... not easy, but simple. Never glitter and gold, just cold steel and a guiding touch. He understood the terror that the wolf felt. Freedom was suffocating and overwhelming, being dropped into the ocean when you had been content in a swimming pool. (There was a difference between content and unaware, but finding something you hadn't asked for made things ache.) Then again, none of them had asked for any of this — Danyla for his servitude, Feyre for her volatile nature, Winterwolf for his history. Want it or not, they would still carry it forward.
He had long since accepted the futility of wishing to forget or move on. He was one of the unfortunate souls left at the shore, time and time again. (His bones had never been buried, perhaps it was fitting.) As the lion approaches the pair, heavy paws disturbingly quiet, he is harshly reminded of this fact. The literature that Danyla recites is familiar in the way that gold was familiar, and the way words fall off his tongue. Quietly, quietly, he murmurs, "But the dismal boatman accepts now these, now those, but driving others away, keeps them far from the sand." There's a quiet pause where Winter glances at the gold-swirled water, wondering if this is what the blood of gods would look like. "You know Virgil." Of course he does. Winter knows what the gold is for. He glances down at the feline, which he could easily seem to be a mountain next to. The smile he offers her is only a tinge warmer than it was glassy and distant. Even then, a twitch of his mouth was hardly memorable. "Where did you learn to understand it?"
He had long since accepted the futility of wishing to forget or move on. He was one of the unfortunate souls left at the shore, time and time again. (His bones had never been buried, perhaps it was fitting.) As the lion approaches the pair, heavy paws disturbingly quiet, he is harshly reminded of this fact. The literature that Danyla recites is familiar in the way that gold was familiar, and the way words fall off his tongue. Quietly, quietly, he murmurs, "But the dismal boatman accepts now these, now those, but driving others away, keeps them far from the sand." There's a quiet pause where Winter glances at the gold-swirled water, wondering if this is what the blood of gods would look like. "You know Virgil." Of course he does. Winter knows what the gold is for. He glances down at the feline, which he could easily seem to be a mountain next to. The smile he offers her is only a tinge warmer than it was glassy and distant. Even then, a twitch of his mouth was hardly memorable. "Where did you learn to understand it?"
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｢ I KNEW THAT SOMETHING WOULD ALWAYS RULE ME. ｣