Post by vargen forrester; 7m [ɢʀɪғғɪɴ] on Jul 16, 2018 9:28:39 GMT -5
Ghost; a cool silence, adrift – phantasmagoric.
Most don’t pay much attention to his soul unless he demands it through a blasé action: a snap of fingers, a hoarse cough, a bottomless gaze. The limelight creeps away; it is as if Phoenix Sayer can erase any traces of his presence at will, navigating the audience’s optical forces elsewhere, anywhere.
They say it’s an ancestral trait, passed, and rooted down to genetics of this arboreal Sayer bloodline.
He’s just a younger mirage of Crow Sayer,
his father who he can't quite envisage, who’d seamlessly learnt how to disappear and, in the end, achieved the feat. Mr. Sayer vanished, no any parting letters or farewells, when he was eight.
But, it hit no newspapers or whatsoever,
a brusquely muzzled fate; there was no funeral or a search party, just one empty seat at the dinner table, reserved for another ghost the Sayers had coerced themselves to forget.
Phoenix didn’t falter, however, or was sent reeling—for another ten years, he was the same boy, the same ligneous crown on his head embroidered by traditional Sayer-brown threads, the same eyes that’d entrapped a woodland inside their irises.
A quiet boy,
enigmas buoyant around his gravitational field. One who did not inaugurate a conversation, yet could spin his own words so pretentiously if those vocal chords are put to mellifluous usage. Tongue laced with silver, sleeves stocked with tricks – the family’s negotiator, a charmspeaker of sorts.
Beyond the timber fascia of the Sayer household, a darkness simmers, barring light from caressing its hardwood floors. The air is stale, heavy with suffocating incense and the scent of leather tapestry.
Pillars, stone-arched doors, a fireplace—it’s an ornate infrastructure, wrapped in a baroqueness that seems grotesque almost. Herons don’t melodize here, but more often than not, Seven’s most disreputables take advantage of the dark to bring malefactions to fruition, to plan and destroy.
Whenever he has to join the round table, there’s always a stench of burnt tobacco. Lounging besides him, almost every rendezvous, is his mother – the family’s baron, always a cigarette stuck amid her pedicured fingers.
Ghost; no one knows the abundance of illicit affairs he gives attendance to: from gangs marketing their goods, to the planning of street brawls.
The Sayers aren’t categorized, they dabble, trying hands at a variety of trades, testing uncharted waters. Phoenix's job is to negotiate deals, use persuasion where there’s a necessity to, talk the troubles out and charm the wealth in. They’ve always had a way with words, the Sayers.
This history traces back, Sparked by a feud between brothers;
Crow Sayer, his father, who’d never faltered once in the family business, and Robert Sayer, the black-sheep, who’d never upheld the promise of omerta. He deemed this ancestral profession an atrocity, refusing to give participation.
Thus, they exiled the latter, cutting ties, destroying any connections. He’d only been brought back to attention when Raven Sayer, his son, volunteered, playing a red-caped hero, as if he were resilient enough to weather the arena’s flare.
It scorched the boy down.
He would never forget the concluding war, where Phoenix held out a flicker of hope for him but the Sayers weren’t crafted for violence, only to orchestrate it.
Stella Blakesley deftly brought an end to Raven Sayer, and thank Ripred, their reign didn’t disappear there with a glass-boned boy.
Raven perished; this world carries on unapologetically.
Hands knotted to fists, he pockets them in trousers as the shack emerges from a lilac horizon. A capo’s delivered the address, “Robert Sayer lives on the outskirts of Seven.”, and it’s obvious they are plagued by poverty,
a theory drawn from a look at an array of garbage holes, apertures in the exterior, frayed tin roof. Overgrowth’s washed over the house, giving it the emerald facade of a jungle. Seems as if maintenance’s come to a strident halt after the son’s demise.
Tiptoeing past the litter, Phoenix fixes a crinkle on his suit before knuckles bring themselves against the door.
A hollow knock resonates, yet no response follows it. “Hello? Is anybody home?” He moves aside to take a glimpse from the window and realizes there is no glass where it should be, merely a border of soot and dust.
The curious inside him coerces feet to climb over. The house’s empty in its rotten belly also. This was only a property now – not a home, devoid of warmth, merriment.
It’s eerily kindred to his own, except there are tangible rubbles here. Phoenix Sayer’s existence is only palpable, with ghost flesh as its very foundations, a ghost of someone else.
This Sayer house is a dwelling for asleep phantoms, scattered with ruins. A thorough inspection, however, brings him to a girl, perched upon another windowless pane.
Though he knows she’s sensed him, a greeting doesn’t come. So, he inaugurates it through a fond “Hello.”
The word gravitates her gaze towards Phoenix—those brown eyes are emblematic,
she’s another Sayer.
When those rose-colored brims part to speak, melancholy and rage wrestles together in her syllables. “Leave, no one leaves here anymore. If you’re looking for the adults, they moved out for psychology reasons. You don’t look like you’re here to rob.”
“No, I am not here to rob, only to learn. What happened, to your parents?”
“I have none. They emancipated me and left.”
“You. Your family. You’re the Sayers, correct?”
“Yes. Dove Sayer talking.”
“Nice to meet you,” He offers a handshake, which she rejects brashly.
“I am Phoenix Sayer.”
Four words, a twist in the plots; he would never forget the puzzlement smeared across her world-weary features. First, there is confusion – metamorphosed to grief, further blossoming to a foreign joy.
He took her under his wing;
it’s an epiphany to abruptly have a younger sister. But, Dove Sayer rose through the Sayer ranks effortlessly, exhibiting a dangerous knack when it comes to knives and twisting one’s words so poisonously.
They’ve been separable since. He turns a blind eye whenever it’s her time to persuade a rouge.
So, perhaps Phoenix Sayer is less a ghost, more a poltergeist.