The snow came with its own sound.
Now, most would call him crazy for that, but it couldn't be any more true. When everything else was still and silent, the snow had a voice - and Molotov loved listening to it. He lay at the back of his cabin, haunches buried in the snow, front paws tucked beneath him, and listened. Flurries brushed his closed eyes, landed like petals on his nose. Soft fingers of wind combed the air, and his head tilted, listening to its song. He was content here, alone, left to care for those who could no longer care for themselves. He'd risen a few hours ago from his nightly slumber and, as he did usually, came out here for a few quiet moments to himself after a tumultuous night.
Sleep, for Molotov, was less a respite and more a portal. Each night, he crossed the threshold, leaving the quiet solitude of his waking hours behind. He navigated the nebulous realms of dreams, where the whispers of the dead grew louder, their pleas more urgent. He was their guide, their shepherd, helping them find solace and closure before moving on. Or so he tried.
His ear rotated, drawn to the sound of snow crunching on the other side of the structure. A quiet sigh wound its way up his throat, and he savored a few extra seconds to himself before moving to rise. Snow fell in clumps from his form as he stood, enjoying a nice stretch. Molotov wasn't worried; it wasn't uncommon for there to be visitors, whether they be in the form of daily wildlife or other reoseans. He took care to do his hunting far from this place; as a result, those that would normally be prey felt safe here, and it was a daily occurrence to see deer lingering between the headstones, or rabbits resting in their shade. He preferred it that way; quiet company that reminded him he wasn't a ghost himself.
Nothing seemed to have changed in the small, tree sheltered landscape as he made his way around his small cabin. Fresh snow had fallen in the night, he would need to sweep off the tops of the stones and the paths that wound amongst them. Black eyes scanned the graveyard he called home-- very nearly skipping over the snow laden form curled a mere twenty feet from his front door. Heavy brows rose, and Molotov cocked his head, stepping towards the form. Once more, not unusual - some people sought temples or churches for shelter, some people sought places like his. He'd come to learn that troubled souls did troubled things.
He sat down a few feet away, the snow cushioning his haunches. He made a bit of extra noise as he did so, a clear warning of his approach. A sense of connection bloomed in Molotov's chest, as sudden and undeniable as the first snowfall. He knew, somehow, that this wasn't his usual visitor seeking solace among the deceased. This was a story waiting to be heard, a journey waiting to be shared. And as the snow continued its gentle song, Molotov opened his mouth in greeting, ready to listen.
Eternityspool Staff Member
The snow came with its own sound. Now, most would call him crazy for that, but it couldn't be any more true. When everything else was still and silent, the snow had a voice - and Molotov loved listening to it. He lay at the back of his cabin, haunches buried in the snow, front paws tucked beneath him, and listened. Flurries brushed his closed eyes, landed like petals on his nose. Soft fingers of wind combed the air, and his head tilted, listening to its song. He was content here, alone, left to care for those who could no longer care for themselves. He'd risen a few hours ago from his nightly slumber and, as he did usually, came out here for a few quiet moments to himself after a tumultuous night. Sleep, for Molotov, was less a respite and more a portal. Each night, he crossed the threshold, leaving the quiet solitude of his waking hours behind. He navigated the nebulous realms of dreams, where the whispers of the dead grew louder, their pleas more urgent. He was their guide, their shepherd, helping them find solace and closure before moving on. Or so he tried. His ear rotated, drawn to the sound of snow crunching on the other side of the structure. A quiet sigh wound its way up his throat, and he savored a few extra seconds to himself before moving to rise. Snow fell in clumps from his form as he stood, enjoying a nice stretch. Molotov wasn't worried; it wasn't uncommon for there to be visitors, whether they be in the form of daily wildlife or other reoseans. He took care to do his hunting far from this place; as a result, those that would normally be prey felt safe here, and it was a daily occurrence to see deer lingering between the headstones, or rabbits resting in their shade. He preferred it that way; quiet company that reminded him he wasn't a ghost himself. Nothing seemed to have changed in the small, tree sheltered landscape as he made his way around his small cabin. Fresh snow had fallen in the night, he would need to sweep off the tops of the stones and the paths that wound amongst them. Black eyes scanned the graveyard he called home-- very nearly skipping over the snow laden form curled a mere twenty feet from his front door. Heavy brows rose, and Molotov cocked his head, stepping towards the form. Once more, not unusual - some people sought temples or churches for shelter, some people sought places like his. He'd come to learn that troubled souls did troubled things. He sat down a few feet away, the snow cushioning his haunches. He made a bit of extra noise as he did so, a clear warning of his approach. A sense of connection bloomed in Molotov's chest, as sudden and undeniable as the first snowfall. He knew, somehow, that this wasn't his usual visitor seeking solace among the deceased. This was a story waiting to be heard, a journey waiting to be shared. And as the snow continued its gentle song, Molotov opened his mouth in greeting, ready to listen.
2024-02-13 14:37:54 (Edited 2024-02-13 14:44:04)
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