Desreal: The sound of a crescendo;

It’s so silent. The silence is uncomfortable to him; normally, he’s an extension of the silence, a silky-black twilight-phantom, but now it stirs up an itch deep inside of him that agitates him, propels him restlessly through the twilit woods.

Methodical thinking clashes with frenetic bursts of penetrating Lightning in his mind.

There is something here, something uncomfortably wet and heavy and dead, which coats his consciousness with a loathsome muck. It suppresses the omnipresent static which surrounds him. It drives him onward. The reckless hunger building inside of him is an ancient dragon, the deepest essence of my paradoxical nightmare. He is not equine in this sense. This appearance is a ruse, a semblance crafted for the mundane mortality of Legend and will be shed in due time – now, he is reptilian, and he feels that he has been silent for too long.

Her Earth draws him to her. His Lightning, rather than quailing from it as it should, is both repulsed and fascinated in his desperate, maniacal state.

Her question resonates out into the emptiness, and he materializes in that void, black and pale-eyed.

He halts, messily, shifting his weight and catching himself sideways upon impossibly long, slender dark legs. The forest feels as if it moves around him. He regards her with white eyes that alone do not move. “Many times the spirit finds itself bound to something which it knows it would be better off without.” his voice is calm, solemn – there are only vague traces of the frenetic, chaotic element which rages inside of him now like a distant summer storm. “I do not believe that you will ever leave.”

He says it and then he is silent.

Silent, but not still – his Lightning wants to leap for her, swallow the Earth and triumph over the sickening advantage of that Element.

But he doesn’t. Not now. Now, he only watches, plays with Time which is his and always his.