[fancypost bgcolor=;border:0px;font-size:10.5px;text-align:justify;width;360px;line-height:130%;][ooc] it seemed fitting to use a darker approach to these kinds of aus and hopefully it will help me get used to and obtain some muse for bliss like this, not sure if it has become canon or not but using the legend that phantump are possessed by the spirits of children who died lost in the woods since it is one of my favourite stories tied to the ghosts
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What was their name? They had one, once the knowledge had been clear, written across the tumbled mass of unclear thoughts, gentle and subdued amongst the clamour yet familiar, theirs if nothing else was. Time is a fickle thing, just as memory can prove to be, left to their own devices for so long – how long had it been, surely years if what remained was but bones – all faded, falling apart as they tried to hold it. Faces blurred and became ghosts, pushed back where they might not retrieve them, a life once theirs left to decay as time ate at it. Little more than a few spare scraps remained, murmured words of endearment bound in love, shaky beneath the presence of tears, cries heard in the night when they had been found missing, gone for all too long.
Strange had it been in those first few months, to find themself suspended above their own body, desperately reaching for it as the cries bubbled and broke from them, the wood scraping along deadened flesh, hands merely sinking in, going through it. Distraught and oh so alone they had struggled with it, a storm of grief pushing them to try and embrace what they had once been – it was all they might do, the only act that briefly gave their quivering form peace. Acceptance had been all the harder to obtain over those small moments of peace, clarity not enough to give it, only lending to them the anger of a child – heady and yet weak, bound in a sense of panic they could not outrun.
Tiny pebbles of memory had been hard to claim but they had proven the path back home, to the place where they were once known but something kept them from going, even as time accumulated and grew longer, days ticking away into months only to become years. It was all useless now, no sense of time was needed for the lonesome spirit and yet they continued to cling to it, those few things they might hold, watching day burn away the night. Beneath those first faded touches of light they came to sit, piercing the smoky frame rather than bending about it, lightening the shades of grey, focus turned to the skeletal figure by its side. Eaten away by time and creature it was left, scarred where claws and teeth scoured bone, not even a few scraps of fabric were left, nothing to speak of the child they had once been
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