[ He wakes up in a field of silver grass, and understands immediately.
The world is cast in a vague and peaceful twilight. It is not that everything feels unreal, but it feels less, as though all emotion has been gentled down to a quiet hum. The strange deer-creature looks like a Grimm, with its black body and the white mask of its face, but it sparks no fear in him. It gazes at him and Ozpin, feeling strangely laid bare, strangely small, looks back.
It is all familiar, in a way that wells up a sweet ache within his chest. The fields and the sky may be foreign to him, but this sense of peace... it is very much like a place he visited, once. A very long time ago.
He never thought he would feel it again.
The deer-creature tilts its head at him, and its antlers are not quite like His antlers. This sense of calm is not like that sense of awe. It does not speak in a resonant voice; it does not speak at all. Instead, it merely holds out a long-fingered hand to him, and in its indistinct palm is an apple. Against the shades of silver, it is red as hot spilled blood.
The moment hangs long and heavy. In the peace of this place, Ozpin feels almost as though he is floating; there is something softly buoyant about it. Comforting. The deer-creature makes no other move: it simply sits and awaits his choice, apple in hand.
It is the same choice he's regretted a thousand times before. It is not a choice he's ever been offered since.
Ozpin shuts his eyes. ]
I think... I would like to rest a while, first.
[ Deerington's God of Death closes its fingers around the apple, and inclines its head. In the quiet twilight, Ozpin goes to sit beneath the tree.
He can watch the stars from here. The moon is bright, and sweet, and full. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
feb 18th. not here. cw: death, background suicidality.
The world is cast in a vague and peaceful twilight. It is not that everything feels unreal, but it feels less, as though all emotion has been gentled down to a quiet hum. The strange deer-creature looks like a Grimm, with its black body and the white mask of its face, but it sparks no fear in him. It gazes at him and Ozpin, feeling strangely laid bare, strangely small, looks back.
It is all familiar, in a way that wells up a sweet ache within his chest. The fields and the sky may be foreign to him, but this sense of peace... it is very much like a place he visited, once. A very long time ago.
He never thought he would feel it again.
The deer-creature tilts its head at him, and its antlers are not quite like His antlers. This sense of calm is not like that sense of awe. It does not speak in a resonant voice; it does not speak at all. Instead, it merely holds out a long-fingered hand to him, and in its indistinct palm is an apple. Against the shades of silver, it is red as hot spilled blood.
The moment hangs long and heavy. In the peace of this place, Ozpin feels almost as though he is floating; there is something softly buoyant about it. Comforting. The deer-creature makes no other move: it simply sits and awaits his choice, apple in hand.
It is the same choice he's regretted a thousand times before. It is not a choice he's ever been offered since.
Ozpin shuts his eyes. ]
I think... I would like to rest a while, first.
[ Deerington's God of Death closes its fingers around the apple, and inclines its head. In the quiet twilight, Ozpin goes to sit beneath the tree.
He can watch the stars from here. The moon is bright, and sweet, and full. ]