Linger

Somewhere far from this place is another city of white. It overlooks empty fields, which once grew flowers but never will again. It was built by those now dead, and within its bounds, behind its walls and down its streets, walk only ghosts. That white city is the white of bone. Is the silence of memory. Is the peace of the dead. Seiji has only visited once. He recalls the name but would not speak it even if he could. He remembers that place as he walks between the spires of Halyven. Not quite the same: he thinks Halyven was never meant for ghosts. But it dreams of them. It is a story of ruin and loss, a place which aches with memory. And he wishes he knew: who lived here. Their names. Their histories. If Kiada's group had asked him when they chose this place to meet, he would have counseled them to choose another. But Kiada's group is scarce if it truly exists. Seiji's hooves ring like cymbols as he walks, the only sound (it seems) for miles. He is alone today. He is looking for others, as he always looks, but the Rift is a strange place and none of its inhabitants live in social groups. Only the barest traces of memory accompany him. Halyven’s: crumbling stone, wind on the rocks. Maybe a sweet voice crying. His own: laughing as he descends stone steps, blood flecking his chest. Seiji jigs down an uneven path, half eroded by wind or rain. The sky threatens more of both: dark clouds scudding by in clumps. It would be dark, so dark, if not for the lingering glow of Solanis clinging golden to his edges. But — dry. The blood back then had been dry. And he is clean now, and there are no birds. Just the Rift, empty. His own patience, wearing thin. He stops and stares at the sky, frustration invisible in the depths of his gaze. He might be stargazing; he might be praying. He can’t correct anyone’s guess, after all.

img by Tildae @ flickr

ooc // @Vynter and anyone else welcome!