bury me in your memory . joining

[j a c k .]

there is a special kind of hell found in the desert. Desperation, dread would hang of his frame if not for the unwavering chill in his bones. unwavering. always at the edge of his attention, as it stands the desert heat means little to the fae that has stood worse climates, who breathes worse still. for the meaning of warmth is only a reminder of the stark chill under his fur. even heat can be combated by simple chill. it is only the dry spell inside his maw that leaves him rather snappish. The air is vacant of any moisture, but his sense can pick up civilization, if the wretched marker means anything. telling the smell is fresh, he assumes as such

petite paws come to rest near a border marker, and there. his whiskers twitch in slight annoyance but his fur remains flat. he can see it on the edges of his vision, a lush jungle, the humidity is something he can almost taste. in comparison to the desert it would be a reprieve, if for nothing else, his powers will lessen from the dull ache in his marrow. he is restless, unapologetic starting to pace back and fro, he is fae, he will live for aons, but he is young and can only be abused out of him by repentance.

under the thrall of a dry mouth, his thoughts are fluid as the wind. the place will do nicely, away from his family and their thrall. even on the edge of society he feels the place settle, a jungle is so far different from the tides of sea, he could hear it now, his brother and sister's calling. still he musn't waver in his decisions. this is an act of finality, a sever from his home, but never his family.

never his family.