✧ — Video knows nightmares like he knew the ears upon his head, the paws that ground him. They're consistent in their goriness -- something that'd long since captivated him, blue-green eyes locked on the blood, the torn flesh, the stillness. It's less kind in context, knowing who'd done it, who the person was.
Video's learned a sort of compassion, he thinks. No longer does he stand alongside his clanmates, wide-eyed and trying not to drink in the sight of it all. Instead, he'd stood over it, tried to honor her, and he'd felt angry. Maybe it's a chilling thing to be so delighted over.
But Video still doesn't regret over Carniviorouscarnival's .. incident. He wouldn't take it back.
He's not sure why. He thinks there's something wrong with him.
Video doesn't dream of kind things. He dreams of blood and gore, cold bodies and torn feathers. Teeth torn from his maw, suffocating in water. Agony. He dreams of losses, and near-misses. It lacks in coherency, ever-shifting, ever-changing.
Video's cheeriness wasn't a lie. It wasn't an act, it wasn't a fake -- what was the point, if you had to force yourself to act it? It was far too complicated, far too risky. But it didn't mean that it was all gone. Not even one such as Video could completely erase the damages done to him -- not with the way the scars encircle his pelt, the ever-present, half-healed wounds.
Video's eyes snap open, unfocused. The night is young. His skin crawls, the phantom sensation of tearing and dripping blood lingering even still. His breathing is unsteady. Familiar scents, a familiar room, a familiar cycle. He re-orients himself -- you're home. Everyone's safe. Nothing is wrong.(You can't prove that from here though, can you?)
He climbs to his paws. There's the slightest tremble to them, even after he shakes out his pelt, stamps his paws. He has a bottle of wine still around, he thinks -- he'd never drank the second one he'd bought from the Cartel. Mostly nabbed them elsewhere for the parties. It wasn't a habit Video got into.
Video opens the bottle. Doesn't grab a glass -- just takes a long swig before he puts it down and turns on his paws, heading for the doorway.
He needs outside. He exits the door, and changes. A golden serval takes his place, perhaps a familiar sight by this point. Another day, another excuse to take this form. No longer was there a reason for him to be something else, months later and with the Ruiners already knowing him. He's not sure for what reason he still refuses to stick with it.
He keeps walking, almost singlemindedly. His head is buzzing, and the world feels far away under the night sky. He keeps going, until he reaches the place where the land meets the sky, where the ground opens up before him. The edges of the island, the never-ending expanse of land just below them, pitch black under the night. He seats himself, blue-green gaze cast out onto the world, stock-still.
He sits there, for a while, a breath barely escaping him.
There's a noise behind him. Video's heart jolts, an echo of panic, somethingswrongsomethingswrongsomethingswrong.He doesn't move.
"How stupid would it be to fly over the edge of this?" He wonders, aloud, tilting his head. If it was, did it really matter? Ultimately, if there became a Video-colored splatter somewhere down there, what did it change? "If you flew high enough, would it be like being closer to the stars?" There's a lack of clear connection between the two statements. His ears fall back, melancholic. ".. I miss flying. Haven't done that in a while," Sometimes, being a dog is like cutting off his own wings. In a way, it was. There's nothing stopping him now, though, sitting there in serval form, besides the awareness of a clanmates' presence.
//sorry this is really weird sdbfhsdFDBSHF i just took the prompt and ran and it . doesnt really resemble it
tl;dr vid had a nightmare and is now sitting at the edge of the island in serval form just. babbling to whoever shows up.
