[ AW ] • dark, crossing over

Kazgut

I will come to be — I will submerge myself in the body of the earth, sink my teeth into its flesh; and rise in my own skin.

The burial plots were cast in sharp relief to the retreating sun. Jagged edges measured roughly two paces wide and six feet deep. Kazgut judged the width by the breadth of his shoulders as paws set to their work. Claws cut stripes into the earth, parting tender soil. Legs moved autonomously. His mouth parted with gentle breaths, fog cut by teeth leaking through his maw. The gravedigger continued. He did not mind the repetitive, argenous task that was the digging. His body was strong; frame well-muscled and lean. Neither did he mind the lack of living company. The silence of the burial plots and mounds were quiet. Rarely did he speak. When he arrived he was directed by a stoic wolf with pious temperament - Kazgut did as he was bid.

Those of Perth were distrusting of outsiders. This bothered him none. If his being from the outlands gave the natives more of a reason to avoid him? -- the black shuck took heart in it. They knew him as Outlander and the rest would do him no favors (so he kept it to himself). Day after day he labored, without complaint. He would participate in their society, on their terms. "With hope they shall leave us in peace." Said aloud without meaning to do such; voice low and rough. It was a trade that had gone ignored in places before.

The only aspect that bothered the grim was the distance between himself and his love. He did not revel in being away from Vyette. Often, his eyes sought her figure; as though she would appear, drifting between the cairn stones and graves. Ears constantly picked up a thousand smallest sounds; hoping never to hear her call for him. When the work was though (and often the sun had faded from the sky) he would pace the distance back to the cottage without faltering.

In the moment, Kazgut lost himself in thoughts of her. As great paws churched fresh soil and the space for one was prepared for departed, he drifted. Nose led the way deeper, deeper. Paws, claws - cut through root and shoved aside rock. Black fur soon filthied and lost its luster. The sun continued its descent.

---

@n/a

"With hope they shall leave us in peace." His hope was a gentle and guttural mummer, deep and rhythmic as if the words were crafted by his cutting claws: dig, dig, dig, dig-- leave, us, in, peace. Thea sat in the long shadows cast by the dying sun, watching the gravedigger in silence. She'd never seen a gravedigger. She'd never seen a grave. Though she often felt as if she was standing with one paw in the other realm, half alive and half... not-- she'd never truly seen death in the literal sense. Had she? The girl reached back through her brain, wondering if she had but had forgotten. Her true father was... alive, as far as she knew. None of her siblings had died (that she knew of), grandparents were already dead before she was born. Step-father was alive and well, and some of his extended family as well. No, so far as she was aware, Thea had lived quite a sheltered and comfy, death-free life. She wasn't sure why it didn't feel that way. Once, her mother asked her a curious question. Thea had been recounting a particularly dark vivid dream she'd had, all the stark details -- and her mother wondered aloud, "Where does this darkness in you come from?" , as if Thea could answer that or know. As if Lye didn't know better than she did. But it was then that she realized that she was separate... somehow. So seeing someone tending to physical death was... intriguing. The steady strokes of his paws had her mesmerized; the show of his muscle beneath his dark, dark fur enraptured her. How many bodies had he seen? Who was he digging for now? Dig, dig, dig, dig. “Do they often leave us... not in peace?” she wondered then aloud, her voice high and rasping like dying bells, calling quiet attention to her presence.

ART ➤Alaiaorax CODE ➤ twisty

Kazgut

I will come to be — I will submerge myself in the body of the earth, sink my teeth into its flesh; and rise in my own skin.

Earthen walls smelled of small, earthen creatures wriggling unseen. Nose lured own body deeper - in pursuit of a place befitting a feast for worms. Kazgut continued to dig. It was not until head cleared sea level that the grim began to measure where to stop. Six feet deep. A discouragement for scavengers. Pausing for a ragged breath - he heard a voice from on high. Distance dimmed it to faint, leaving it to lilt on the wind. It was little more than a sigh. And yet he had heard it clearly. Bell tolls, he thought to himself passively. How own words (, the realization of them having been spoken aloud,) reflected back at him. The tone was twisted with curiosity.

Kazgut remained; frozen in place. Thoughts quieted. Mind hushed. Then, sparing a look to his work, Kazgut knew the hole was deep enough and now other matters awaited. Curiosity turned upon him, trapping him in its teeth. Deliberately, the gravedigger pulled himself from the grave (as if he had done it hundreds, hundreds of times). Pulling self back up onto the cemetery grounds, moonstone eyes sought the stranger. And found.

An image of stark contrast, her colorless fur nearly shimmered in the oncoming night. Here, there, it muddled into silverline but gave no less the appearance of apparition. Dark ringed pale eyes. She smelled of petrichor. Rain. Although sharp with brightness, her fur looked soft - clean. Standing opposite, it was a strange picture that was painted. Kazgut did not move. Features remained still, motionless before the paleness of her visage.

”They do,” the gravedigger answered her with flat honesty, voice held beneath breath - baritone figures falling individually. There was nothing to give other than the truth. The words had been from own maw and to deny her of them would be foolish. Foolhardy. Lying did not suit him. And then, once own words had settled into the earth between them - he moved.

Placing one paw in front of the other, Kazgut moved to the corpse that lay a pace (at most) to the side of its final resting place. At first appearance, it looked as though in a deep sleep. Yet no smell of heat, of rushing blood and temp of heart - became it. Too soon was it yet for the little carrion eaters to find refuge. There were to be no onlookers, no mourners, no family. No blood matted fur. No emaciation touched form.

Kazgut shifted gaze from the stranger dead upon the ground - unknown unto he until a few hours ago, unbeknownst to this place but for a few days - to the stranger that stood like ghosts wolves expected to haunt him for his work. Then, he leaned down to hoist the corpse onto his great shoulders.

---

@Thea

He worked. She thought it was good work – though she supposed she wouldn’t know any better if it were good work or bad work. But as far as graves went, for the little she knew about graves, it looked like a good one. Did the dead know how good or bad their final homes were? Did they judge them? She wondered if he knew the answer, or if he cared– but if she had to guess, she’d guess that he did care, regardless of the answer. Based on his work, on his apparent diligence to the craft. She spoke and he seemed to tense and freeze, ensured his work was proper, and then emerged from the earth like a titan crawling from the depths of earthly bonds. Small bits of soil crumbled from his body and flecks of ember light from the sunset silhouetted his dark, dark figure-- lining it with fire-- an earthly beast who performed unearthly tasks. Colorless eyes searched around and cast her in moon-hued lamplight. She did not often feel pinned beneath one’s gaze, but she did in that moment – and she wondered if her stare sometimes made others feel that way as well. It was unsettling – but she liked it. “They do,” he replied, the ultimate answer. A trill ran up her spine. His voice still felt like not a voice at all, but a movement of the earth and as such, an extension of his body. She took what he said at face value, as truth spoken from the other realm and the earth itself– for who would know better? His voice not from chords, but from essence. “Are your closest friends ghosts?” she asked with faint breathlessness, curiosity plain and wanting.

ART ➤Alaiaorax CODE ➤ twisty

Kazgut

I will come to be — I will submerge myself in the body of the earth, sink my teeth into its flesh; and rise in my own skin.

The gravedigger saw the telltale shiver. The stranger was bathed in light (thin of frame) - her very breath shuddered her. Shiver. Kazgut could not identify it. For why did she shudder? Pale eyes looked at the unholy visage of the churchyard grim with a corpse upon shoulders. Did she shy away from the sight? No. Her eyes were not averted. She did not shrink away from the sight. No ... Curiosity? Where in the lands did one encounter the undertaker seeing to his duties so close to the folk. (How oft did this soft being of light happen upon such a scene?)

Again it was the somber chime of her voice that redirected straying attention. Asking of ghosts. Are your closest friends ghosts? At this, Kazgut smiled (a subdued reaction, but one keen eyes might catch). For a moment, the silence settled between them. Then, he replied. "Of course."

As though this, too, was natural. No lie. For the love he shared his life with was the ghost of his heart. And when the fog rolled through the cemetery gates, who could not see the dead walk again?

"Aren't yours?" Kazgut asked the stranger in return. She wore her sadness like a veil. Turning, the corpse heavy upon his shoulders, the grim descended into the grave.

---

@Thea

Notes: Kazgut notices the shudder and buys-into ghosts.

Emphasis.
Thinking.
"Talking."

A ghost of a smile passed his dark, dark lips. Her inward voice laughed at the ironic phrasing. Silence passed again between them, but it did not fill empty. No, the space between them seemed quite warm-- even amidst the cold of death of those he was digging for, or the bodiless beings that claimed his friendship. "Aren't yours?" he said, as if it was given. He turned to continue his work. He had the body, and he took it into it's pit. She wondered briefly how the wolf died, or what kind of life they had lived or didn't' live-- though, she supposed it didn't matter now. Truly, it didn't matter. It was then that her lips involuntarily tightened. "No, I'm afraid I'm quite alone." she answered finally, quite honestly, speaking to the shadow who had disappeared back into the earth. No ghosts haunted the corners of her vision, though she remembered when she'd been young she thought she always something just around the corner. Like she was just on the verge... always on the edge... But now? Now she felt the echoing of the empty stone halls quite loudly. They were cavernous. "My brother is my closest friend," she said, perhaps jarringly. It was like it was a voice of impulse-- she had to say it (because it was true). It was true. Elias was really... her only one. It was everyone else who seemed like a ghost. And it was her turn to pass a faint smile -- for the irony, again, was amusing. "It's the rest of them that feel like ghosts," she voiced, for again, she felt she had to. She wondered if he possessed some unearthly power to pull blatant truth from lips -- not that she would have denied anything she said, but she was not usually quite so... forthcoming. She liked that she could share this with him, this stranger of the earth, this gravedigger.

ART ➤Alaiaorax CODE ➤ twisty

“my sin, my soul.” A life spent in the service of corpses taught the wolf to romanticize. Ghosts haunted behind his very eyes - beings of memory conjured by the bodies that he tended. (Perhaps a storyteller in a different life.) Perth was swathed in phantom dealings - be it from churchyard services or by some darker mischief, the gravedigger did not know. Tricks of light prevailed in the gloaming. Silhouettes were caught between the mists. A gentle breath of cold breathed across the ivies that grew upon the stones. Never alone. Yet she? ”No, I’m afraid I’m quite alone.” Solitude draped about her shoulders like a fine spun shawl. Despite the small distance between them (he, in the hole - her, on hallowed ground) - she sounded distant, far flung from here and this talk of ghosts. ”My brother is my closest friend.”The stranger seemed to interrupt herself and for the moment, Kazgut paused. (Maybe taken aback by the suddenness of that proclamation.) ”It’s the rest of them that feel like ghosts.” This felt fitting, then - like the weave of a fabric first stretched taut and then allowed to relax; the stitches settling as they should. Resuming his work, the grim contemplated these words as muzzle nudged body into comfortable position (for one should be well placed for their eternal sleep). Her words resonated, echoing in mind. Claws found purchase at the sides of the grave and Kazgut hauled himself free once more. Breathing slightly labored, he exhaled mist. Moonstone eyes then found the stranger and watched her for a brief moment before sorting his words. "Others are barred from us by circumstance." Kazgut told her, honestly - for he wore honesty as a sword and a shield. ”It is asking fog to commune with fire or light to banish the shadows.” Often the black shuck felt as though there were fundamental differences between himself and others that made communication impossible. He was gravedigger, Outlander, stranger in a strange land - these things defined him before mouth was even opened. (A hulking, silent, dark presence.) The Highlanders of Perth were ghosts to he, too - for he was as able to commune with them as with the spirits that filled his every waking night and day. Perhaps that is why she felt alone, too. Perhaps this stranger of sadness, smoke, and rain was set apart by all the things she was, was not, could be, should be. All seen through someone else’s eyes. ”Surrounded by ghosts or a ghost in of oneself?” @Thea

ART +CODE ➤amphi STOCK ➤ LinaT - Dawnthieves