#fiirus

As every day when he eventually drifted too close to one wall the touch on his wingtips shocked him awake. Not beign able to sleep properly was one of the greatest challenges of faced on this earth, so common yet he still simply could not become used to it. Though at this point it was less shock and more furious yet sleep-heavy groan as he unfurled and dropped to land on the carpet.

Unlike other days today his foot, instead of went right into a deep well of water.

The star shrieked, a terrible squawk of a noise enough to wake the dead, and immediately heaved his wings twice in an instinctive escape. One too many flaps for a small enclosed house, the smacked his head onto the ceiling and hissed again. The bucket was sent sprawling, spilling water all over his carpet with that familiar wet sound that set his teeth on edge and conjured up all sorts of nasty things in his mind only now beginning to wrestle itself away from sleep.

... “What in the name or Marama-” He hissed with all the venom of adrenaline pumping through his body, rubbing the sharp pain out of his head. Some idiot had put water in his house! And yes, now he heard the soft sounds that meant Amon had been woken by the commotion. 

@fiirus

It was an annoying kind of rain - little pinpricks of ice against her skin. It hit her umbrella tunelessly, only drowned out for a moment when a car drove by. It was nearing eleven at night, the street lamps tinting everything orange, and Harley was on her way back from a gallery that she had been selling her work at. 

She existed in the art community under an alias - wore a bobbed black wig and signed her paintings HDK. People didn’t know that she was the artist of her own work - she called herself a dealer. When asked about her ‘client,’ she said they wanted to remain unknown. Artists and art enthusiasts loved anonymity, which she supposed was good for her. 

She’d just sold three paintings and four prints, which she was rather proud of. They’d been collecting dust in her art room for such a long time...

The walk was long and cold; only broken up by passing conversations of people stood under the awnings of pubs and restaurants. Little fragments of conversation, giving her flashes of other peoples’ lives. 

Not for the first time, Harley was aware of the people around her. Of the fact that everyone had a story, a life, a house. Dreams, hopes, fears - that she herself was simply a passerby to some of them, never to be seen again. It was an odd kind of feeling - when she’d googled it, she’d been given the word sonder. It didn’t sum it up though, not really. It felt lacking. 

She was contemplating the life of a middle aged man she had passed a few minutes ago, when movement in the shadows of an alleyway caught her eye. Her footsteps slowed to a halt, bony fingers clutching the umbrella tightly. 

There was a (big) part of her that knew that she probably ought to keep walking, but she didn’t. She could make out a figure, and she grew curious. Perhaps living with Bandit had desensitised her. Perhaps she was over confident. 

                                             ‘Well aren’t you an interesting one....’ 

             He pauses for a moment, watching the woman carefully with deep black eyes.