The Disciple calls her crazy and he actually laughs. "Only a little crazy?" He snickers.
He settles down in place, legs folding again, and he beholds a memory.
He finds those silhouettes. They could be anyone, truly. This could just be shadows. He doesn't think the are. His finger tips hover over one what all he's already guessed. He wants to mark there, but this, this particular part of this particular motherfucking time, ain't for his sinner's hands to touch.
They pass over the homes, just a regular hivecluster, something he's passed on mission countless times. He doesn't draw the look of nothing there. He draws the feel. In the background bursts off each little hive, he paints waves and swirls, growing off and out from the buildings in intricate pattern. Light blue there, orange there-- all the little textures and layers of fear felt and passed by.
He paints anxiety, he paints worry for a quadrant, he paints that long stretch where one feels like they're holding their breath in wait of something, he paints a scream, he paints a rush of adrenaline. The swirls and colors in such a close hive cluster interlock and tangle in the backgrounds.
He paints tree roots at the furthest edge like fingers dug into the earth, spreading upward into an arm of stars and midnight. The darkness and stars dotted within make an indistinct form of some great being. A crescent pink moon make the lashes of a closed eye and a half-full green moon make an opening one. He smears a mark of red blocked out mouth, but from it, he makes more pattern, like the way the fears were patterned but different too. They start in lime and bleed slowly into teal then blues and eventually his own indigo. Like the figure above is whispering, breathing a sacred fire, but one what all would cast a blanket down on the other half of un-star-marked sky, pooling down to flat indigo before it can meet the other side. From that indigo, another star made hand, cradling the world made there as it digs into the other side.
Up above, between the eyes of the figure, he paints yet another star, the light of it so bright its beams divide the face in two. The star is made of blue and gold.
He is drawn back again to the four figures and his lack of knowing what to do there. He puts the lime whisperings in the dark behind them. Unable to help himself, he marks gold on one silhouette's heart and hands.
no subject
He settles down in place, legs folding again, and he beholds a memory.
He finds those silhouettes. They could be anyone, truly. This could just be shadows. He doesn't think the are. His finger tips hover over one what all he's already guessed. He wants to mark there, but this, this particular part of this particular motherfucking time, ain't for his sinner's hands to touch.
They pass over the homes, just a regular hivecluster, something he's passed on mission countless times. He doesn't draw the look of nothing there. He draws the feel. In the background bursts off each little hive, he paints waves and swirls, growing off and out from the buildings in intricate pattern. Light blue there, orange there-- all the little textures and layers of fear felt and passed by.
He paints anxiety, he paints worry for a quadrant, he paints that long stretch where one feels like they're holding their breath in wait of something, he paints a scream, he paints a rush of adrenaline. The swirls and colors in such a close hive cluster interlock and tangle in the backgrounds.
He paints tree roots at the furthest edge like fingers dug into the earth, spreading upward into an arm of stars and midnight. The darkness and stars dotted within make an indistinct form of some great being. A crescent pink moon make the lashes of a closed eye and a half-full green moon make an opening one. He smears a mark of red blocked out mouth, but from it, he makes more pattern, like the way the fears were patterned but different too. They start in lime and bleed slowly into teal then blues and eventually his own indigo. Like the figure above is whispering, breathing a sacred fire, but one what all would cast a blanket down on the other half of un-star-marked sky, pooling down to flat indigo before it can meet the other side. From that indigo, another star made hand, cradling the world made there as it digs into the other side.
Up above, between the eyes of the figure, he paints yet another star, the light of it so bright its beams divide the face in two. The star is made of blue and gold.
He is drawn back again to the four figures and his lack of knowing what to do there. He puts the lime whisperings in the dark behind them. Unable to help himself, he marks gold on one silhouette's heart and hands.