#Ichoriel you dumb ded silly

[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Ichoriel

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - My Oc ! Definitely not from Minecraft

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↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

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"I am waking up now",Ichoriel told himself, his wide smile on his face. Big eyes blinking in the half lit room like a kid opening his eyes on his birthday to a surprise he'd already overheard the secret of. Like the feeling of delight in a good surprise, one already known.

His boney hands pressed into the easily giving mattress under him, the blanket he slept on top of shuffling against his coarse wings' skin and the thin layer of ash that covered everything; it sifted to the side with the movements.

He was awake now, or, that's what he told himself.

Because Proper People wake up, because Proper People had been asleep. And Ichoriel was nothing if not a Proper People type of person, the thought making his thin boney tail swish a little with happiness, the star shaped barbs on the end cutting through the air.

Ichorial stretched, his gangly limbs above his head and arching back a bit in a curve, always messy ivory hair sticking out everywhere like a sleepy angels halo and brushing his soft cold skin. His bones popped satisfyingly, like a gentle pinch under his slightly gray and purple skin. His spine deep in him resounded like a dozen tiny church bells echoing through the empty ceiling that was his hollow chest, his ribs clacking together a bit where they rested over his tunic like birds waking up in the rafters and taking off in a cacophony, and his wings and tail straight out like weathervanes and lighting poles. Ichoriel gave a laugh that didn't sound like clicks or chattering at all, Proper People laughed like hearty wind instruments rapidly played. Ichorial was a Proper People type of person, not an old church building, and so the thought made him laugh, just like the wood wind laughs he knew.

Ichorial smiled as he stood up on long legs covered in a tan tunic he had found.

Because Proper People stand up, Proper People stand and walk and sit and run, Proper People dream of floating and flying cause they cannot, and as a Proper People type person, neither can Ichoriel.

"I am going outside!" Ichorial said happily, voice chipper and not at all chirpy. Bugs chirp, Proper People do not. Snagging his long almost cloak-like scarf off its fire darkened hook by the door that creaked under its own, fragile and charred straining, Ichoriel's tail swished a bit out of the way so that the sharp almost barb like hooks at the boney end don't hook on the fabric like a fishing lure and tear it. The tattered holes at the end of Ichoriel's cloak tell of what happens in those situations.

It is a foggy evening, the dampness sticking to the air like a sweet sap on bread. Ichorial purrs- HUMS at the thought, remembering the sweet sticky treat he'd have on a good morning way back when.

The memory is foggy tho, like curling smoke, all the ones from before everything smelled like burnt wood and charred fibers are that way.

Ichorial still smiled, that was a good smell, tho. That smelled like home!

Ichorial walked down his steps, as proper people do, and started his 'morning' stroll through town. It is quiet, save for the friendly greeting chirps of bugs, the great rumbling croaks of the frogs and toads, and the cautious shifting of an animal testing the perimeters of the forestry town. Ichorials' steps treaded a little , , ,lighter, maybe just above the ground, so as to not scare off the wildlife. It had been awhile since they ventured into these parts, at least the larger creatures, that is, the fuzzy skittish ones and the big rude behemoths. They smelt very well, Ichorial thought, and for some reason, they did not like the smell of Home the same way Ichoriel did.

A shame really.

Home was so nice! Always calm and peaceful, lively and excited when Ichorial wanted it to be. Ichorial's home was really whatever he wanted it to be.

Change came easily when you were the only factor, Ichoriel thought to himself with an easy smile as he strode on the oaths between the stunted jutting poles that had long ago stopped smoking or holding up anything.

The ash on the ground had shifted and changed, Ichorial liked to think that the shifting of the wind is why he never could track his footsteps. Because proper people leave footprints, proper people walk on the ground. So of course the occasional weak forest breeze, that would disturb the familiar scent of ash with its earthy wetness, changing Ichoriel little world without his permission, would sift over his footprints and cover them back up before dying down to the regular charred scent. Ichoriel nodded once to himself, assuredly with an easy smile, bright eyes taking in the sight of a yellow frog atop the charred storage chest in a nearby house's shell, smiling at his guest.

Ichorial took his 'walk' through the town at a leisurely pace, slowly winding through the small charred rib cages of old houses. Sometimes he'd guess at what an old blackened lump of wood used to do, or what a melted glob of metal had kept closed. He distantly recognized the same thing he always did, they all had been made mostly of wood.

Wood likes to be bright, to shine and be bright in the way that goirges itself ferociously and loudly and hungrily, eating up everything in its path. Wood really liked that kind of light. What a silly thing to make a home from, Ichorial thought, to make it out of something so hungry to be eaten. Ichoriels' home was not like that, it was cold and hard stone. Maybe a bit burnt along the outside, but Ichoriel thought that it would be hard not to be. It had been in the center after all, an important building if the tall tower was anything to judge by, tho Ichoriel had nothing to compare it to. It was the only one standing after all. Stone was reliable like that.

It was his favorite house in his entire Home, Ichorial's house was. Not to say he hadn't tried the others, he definitely has, Ichoriel was a very fair person. Not all Proper People are, but all ought to, Ichoriel thought with a decided nod, and so he tried all of the houses before he settled on which one would be his home inside of his Home.

Ichoriel had come to the conclusion he just liked stone things better in most cases. The stone home was his favorite, and the stone paths, the stone well and the stone support beams.

Stone stayed the same, not as starved to eat and be eaten by brightness, like wood. No, stone may reflect brightness occasionally, but it had its fill of Brightness' hunger.

Ichorial could relate to that. Brightness and Ichoriel did not get along, the tender spots on his wings, his back and his arms reminded him of that old grudge. Ichoriel thought that the brightness was too hungry, and it got greedy when it came to what it could feast and gorge its burning center with, what it could feed on, often taking what was not its. A bandit of sorts.

Ichoriel hadn't met a bandit in his Home, but he had a pretty good idea of them, and what they did. In fact, he knew quite a lot about bandits and what they did, details and tricks and necessary capabilities.

Ichoriel told himself he must just be very clever to notice these things. Ichoriel was not like the brightness, he was no bandit, and he did not take what was not his. Not very difficult though, as everything in Home was his. In fact he'd be more hard pressed to find someone else to take things from!

Not that Ichoriel planned to leave. No, Ichoriel was content to stay here, amongst the charred exposed ribs of Home that always smelt like what was left of the Brightness' hunger. Ichoriel thinks his home is like him, in a lot of ways. His exposed ribs click as he walks a bit, a familiar soundtrack to his movements.

Proper People make sounds as they move, don't they? Ichoriel wonders absentmindedly, his tail flickering back and forth behind him.

Nevermind that tho, Ichoriel was coming to the edge of his little town, and this is where his trail ended. Two stoney structures stood on either side of the opening, like kids guarding a clubhouse. Ichoriel smiled and strode up to either, waving in a friendly way at the two stone structures.

"It is a good morning, Hedge and Wedge! The rain walks with me, all foggy on the ground as it is !" Ichoriel greets the two stone guardians cheerily, big eyes bright like stars. Neither answer, though that was to be expected, Ichoriel smiled anyway. Ichoriel flitted up, as best he could on his boney half webbed wings, to sit lightly on top of Hedges head, crossing his twiggy legs and his tail curling up into his lap. It swished there, never staying still.

Hedge and Wedge are made of stone, Ichoriel thinks as he sits quietly, tail unfurling after a moment to swish behind him, reaching to the ground below. It is good they are made of stone, Hedge and Wedge that is, Ichoriel also bemused, because Ichoriel likes having friends, even if they are quiet, and stone stays. And since Ichoriel's friends are stone, they will stay as Ichoriel's silent cold friends.

Ichoriel's tail catches on something on the ground as it swishes. Ichoriel blinks, and does not let out a curious chirp as he curls it up to check what was stuck in its star shaped barbs. The star shaped barbs caught things rather easily.

What had caught on his tail was bright and it was red. Red on his sharp barbed tail that he held in his fist, familiar. Like a dagger.

And it made Ichoriel freeze cold and still. Like his favorite stones.

It was sharp, and red, like a dagger in his hand.

Sharp and red in his hands. Sharp and red. Sharp and red. Sharp and red. Sharp and red, sharp and red and sharp and red and sharp-

It was a poppy flower. The perky happy flowers that surrounded the base of either of the paths' silent stone guardians in a delicate carpet of color and forgotten please for remembrance. Ichorial plucked it off of his tail, and let it flutter to the ground, torn up and lying among its still growing kin. Ichoriel's tail hung behind him like a strip of cloth torn and dangling from a dress. It did not move. It was clean and not red and not in his hand. Proper People keep themselves tidy.

They do not have red on their hands or anything in their hands. So Ichoriel will not have red on his hands, Ichoriel is a Proper People type of, , ,person after all.

Ichoriel carefully climbs off the head of his stone friend Hedge. It's a difficult descent due to the sharp and square stones edges but Ichoriel manages, Proper People have to climb after all, they can't just flit up and down off of things. Proper People don't have wings after all.

Ichoriel doesn't look as he steps through the red red flowers. Instead he looks up. The canopy of trees around him has a hole in it, charred and long dead branches around its perimeter like a gothic picture frame one could buy at a Hollow-Day Fest celebration in the fall.

The stars shine above Ichoriel making him smile.

Ichoriel liked stars.

They were like the Brightness, but they did not burn. At least, not in that hungry consuming way that the Brightness did. No, stars were like stones. They hardly would change where they hung in the air, where cold and did not hunger with that harsh appetite of the Brightness, they shine cold and unmoving, only fading when the Brightness returned cruelly. Ichoriel liked stars.

Ichoriel thinks that he used to like the Brightness. Before everything smelt like Home and before he was here. Ichoriel used to burn like the Brightness did, hungry and fast and chasing whatever would fuel him, hissing popping raucous and bright, setting other things alight with little Brightness' too, to serve a purpose in satisfying his hunger or to let others burn like him.

Ichoriel thinks he got too greedy though. Greedy as is the nature of that Brightness. He got too close to something he wanted, too close to the Brightness, and it taught him a truth colder and more still and silent than Ichoriel could hardly believe it capable of. The Brightness' voracious consumption is only fun when you are the one consuming. Being consumed that is something else, something cold and silent and dark and everything that is NOT the Brightness.

Ichoriel likes the stars and the stones and the smell of Home. Home smelt like what happens when The Brightness leaves, and the stones are cold and unmoving, and the stars shine to keep away the Not Brightness and yet are not The Brightness.

Ichoriel likes Home, and he doesn't wish to change it.

No matter what the embers in his chest say in its flickering way of speach.