Post by CHAOL GANTAR on Jul 30, 2016 16:31:11 GMT -6
go tell the world*
that i'm still alive. i will not take from you and you will not owe. i will protect you from the fire below,,
Chaol was still getting his land legs back, so to speak.
Well, he was still getting his everything back. Being brought back from the confines of the crystal felt like being born again in a way. He’d spent thousands of years not as a physical entity, just as a trapped spirit. Though he was aware of everything happening outside of his prison, which was small enough to be worn around his wife’s neck, he couldn’t do anything about any of it. Now, though, now he had a body again. He was here and fully alive, and for the first few days the sensation had been overwhelming to say the very least. Every movement felt shaky, felt like it wasn’t his own to make. His body felt like a puppet more than anything else, more than it felt like it was actually his.
And magic was a whole different story, another hurdle Chaol had barely attempted to leap. Everything about it had become unstable – the once well-practiced wiccan felt like one of the many students who filtered in and out of the Blackwood Estate like cattle. It was frustrating, the feeling that he had to start over, but that paled in comparison to the persistent urge to make up for lost time. He’d missed all of his children growing into the wiccans they were now, missed the births of grandchildren. It was like being brought back a stranger. He may have been able to hear everything happen from inside the crystal, but he couldn’t participate, just a bystander on the outskirts of all of their lives.
Exhaustion clouded the wiccan’s features as he slowly made his way down to the kitchen of the estate, rubbing his face. Sleep had evaded him since his release, because with sleep came nightmares, nightmares of being trapped again and nightmares of an enemy thought to be long gone. The necromancer who had caused the entire mess all of those years ago still haunted Chaol’s memory, creeping over him in icy little moments that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He couldn’t shake the influence of the man, though Chaol had no idea just how far the influence stretched through him.
He braced his arms on the edge of the counter, gripping the edge tightly as he let out a slow, shaky breath. Lately his mind hadn’t felt his own, not completely, and he feared telling Celeste or any of the other Blackwoods that fact. Chaol had gaps in his memory that sometimes spanned hours of a day, hours blacked out entirely until he woke up in the same spot in the basement, the same spot he took his first breath as a wiccan again. He didn’t know what he did during those moments, what he could have said, who he could have hurt, but lately he’d been waking up with bloody fists and blood dripping down his nose and chin, feeling like he’d fought off an army.
He didn’t want this. Chaol breathed in deeply through his nose, shaking his head as he pushed himself back up. He wanted to be able to enjoy this second chance at life, to spend time with his children, to hold Celeste in his arms without the fear that, maybe, he’d lose himself for even a moment and hurt one of them. So far that hadn’t happened, but Chaol’s trust in himself was wearing thin. He bit down on his lip, glancing around the kitchen before making his way to the cabinet – all this time had gone by and Chaol still had a good idea of where Tate kept his stuff. Even though it was close to 4 a.m., he decided to help himself to a drink, pouring himself some whiskey before he sat himself down at the counter, just hoping he wouldn’t disturb the house that seemed completely engulfed in slumber. After only one sip he felt a cloud come across his mind, one he knew had nothing to do with the alcohol, and he squeezed his eyes shut as if he could will it, shaking his head rapidly.
“Don’t,” he muttered, though he didn’t know who he was addressing. His grip on the glass was so tight that, without realizing what was happening until it was too late, it shattered in his hand, whiskey and blood dripping onto the counter. Chaol slammed his uninjured fist down in frustration. “Fuck!” he cursed under his breath, fumbling rather clumsily for some towels to clean up his mess. The outburst alone seemed to clear his head, at least for now, but Chaol had no idea how long it would last. He needed an anchor, something to keep him glued to reality in case this only got worse. And if it continued to get worse, he knew he’d need to confide in someone. He grimaced as he started wiping up the counter, his hand wrapped in paper towels to slow the bleeding. So much for not waking anyone up.
tagged: @open // lyrics: les friction // notes: ayo xD
Well, he was still getting his everything back. Being brought back from the confines of the crystal felt like being born again in a way. He’d spent thousands of years not as a physical entity, just as a trapped spirit. Though he was aware of everything happening outside of his prison, which was small enough to be worn around his wife’s neck, he couldn’t do anything about any of it. Now, though, now he had a body again. He was here and fully alive, and for the first few days the sensation had been overwhelming to say the very least. Every movement felt shaky, felt like it wasn’t his own to make. His body felt like a puppet more than anything else, more than it felt like it was actually his.
And magic was a whole different story, another hurdle Chaol had barely attempted to leap. Everything about it had become unstable – the once well-practiced wiccan felt like one of the many students who filtered in and out of the Blackwood Estate like cattle. It was frustrating, the feeling that he had to start over, but that paled in comparison to the persistent urge to make up for lost time. He’d missed all of his children growing into the wiccans they were now, missed the births of grandchildren. It was like being brought back a stranger. He may have been able to hear everything happen from inside the crystal, but he couldn’t participate, just a bystander on the outskirts of all of their lives.
Exhaustion clouded the wiccan’s features as he slowly made his way down to the kitchen of the estate, rubbing his face. Sleep had evaded him since his release, because with sleep came nightmares, nightmares of being trapped again and nightmares of an enemy thought to be long gone. The necromancer who had caused the entire mess all of those years ago still haunted Chaol’s memory, creeping over him in icy little moments that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He couldn’t shake the influence of the man, though Chaol had no idea just how far the influence stretched through him.
He braced his arms on the edge of the counter, gripping the edge tightly as he let out a slow, shaky breath. Lately his mind hadn’t felt his own, not completely, and he feared telling Celeste or any of the other Blackwoods that fact. Chaol had gaps in his memory that sometimes spanned hours of a day, hours blacked out entirely until he woke up in the same spot in the basement, the same spot he took his first breath as a wiccan again. He didn’t know what he did during those moments, what he could have said, who he could have hurt, but lately he’d been waking up with bloody fists and blood dripping down his nose and chin, feeling like he’d fought off an army.
He didn’t want this. Chaol breathed in deeply through his nose, shaking his head as he pushed himself back up. He wanted to be able to enjoy this second chance at life, to spend time with his children, to hold Celeste in his arms without the fear that, maybe, he’d lose himself for even a moment and hurt one of them. So far that hadn’t happened, but Chaol’s trust in himself was wearing thin. He bit down on his lip, glancing around the kitchen before making his way to the cabinet – all this time had gone by and Chaol still had a good idea of where Tate kept his stuff. Even though it was close to 4 a.m., he decided to help himself to a drink, pouring himself some whiskey before he sat himself down at the counter, just hoping he wouldn’t disturb the house that seemed completely engulfed in slumber. After only one sip he felt a cloud come across his mind, one he knew had nothing to do with the alcohol, and he squeezed his eyes shut as if he could will it, shaking his head rapidly.
“Don’t,” he muttered, though he didn’t know who he was addressing. His grip on the glass was so tight that, without realizing what was happening until it was too late, it shattered in his hand, whiskey and blood dripping onto the counter. Chaol slammed his uninjured fist down in frustration. “Fuck!” he cursed under his breath, fumbling rather clumsily for some towels to clean up his mess. The outburst alone seemed to clear his head, at least for now, but Chaol had no idea how long it would last. He needed an anchor, something to keep him glued to reality in case this only got worse. And if it continued to get worse, he knew he’d need to confide in someone. He grimaced as he started wiping up the counter, his hand wrapped in paper towels to slow the bleeding. So much for not waking anyone up.
tagged: @open // lyrics: les friction // notes: ayo xD
TEMPLATE BY ELIZA @ SP & ADOXOGRAPHY