08-31-2018, 02:28 PM
If there is one thing of his past he will never retreat from, it is Nerine.
Wasn’t it just yesterday when he was frolicking in the shallow waves, too afraid to fly? Mother was there, standing as sentinel over both him and the kingdom as any Queen should. Her heart – tough as iron though it was – thrived on her love for the kingdom, but it grew larger upon developing a family. First it was Lior, then Castile, then Isobell. The fist she ruled with was substantial at first, intimidating even, but Castile paid no heed to the politics. Family and love was instilled in him. Friendship – he remembers Ivar, especially, and the other foals that congregated at the shoreline – had come easily enough as a young prince. This place, this rocky coastline, is where Castile knew true happiness and adoration. It’s only right that he visits again when his world suddenly seems so dark and lonely.
Being in the meadow, on the opposite edge of their small world, Castile harnessed his own power and shifted fluidly. There is no pain this time, no fear or regret.
He has been learning and practicing.
For himself.
For them – his children and women.
With a growl that trembles the ground underfoot, Castile takes flight. The earth is gored and wounded from his talons as he pushes off, his titanic wings beating heavily to lift him to the sky.
What would have typically taken days only takes hours as he casually soars high above where the clouds glitter his scales with dew. Being in no immediate rush, he seizes the opportunity to practice his agility with rolls, dives, and hovers. Although alone, he enjoys the time he has until Nerine looms at the edge of his vision. Butterflies sprout from deep in his stomach and spread across him, tingling even his toes and wingtips. Home, is the word that comes to mind. It hasn’t been for quite some time, and yet this is the only place he can affiliate himself. Loess nor Hyaline captured him the way the cliffs did.
A great majority of the population is likely deep in the bosom of Nerine, occupying themselves with conversations and food. While his heart pulls him to the cliff, Castile neutralizes the urge and instead banks then eventually lands at the southern border where he can be appropriately greeted. With a thunderous clap, his claws alight and rip the ground underneath. He immediately shifts however, exhaling a mere plume of black smoke.
What’s left is a horse standing amid titanic marks in the dirt.
Wasn’t it just yesterday when he was frolicking in the shallow waves, too afraid to fly? Mother was there, standing as sentinel over both him and the kingdom as any Queen should. Her heart – tough as iron though it was – thrived on her love for the kingdom, but it grew larger upon developing a family. First it was Lior, then Castile, then Isobell. The fist she ruled with was substantial at first, intimidating even, but Castile paid no heed to the politics. Family and love was instilled in him. Friendship – he remembers Ivar, especially, and the other foals that congregated at the shoreline – had come easily enough as a young prince. This place, this rocky coastline, is where Castile knew true happiness and adoration. It’s only right that he visits again when his world suddenly seems so dark and lonely.
Being in the meadow, on the opposite edge of their small world, Castile harnessed his own power and shifted fluidly. There is no pain this time, no fear or regret.
He has been learning and practicing.
For himself.
For them – his children and women.
With a growl that trembles the ground underfoot, Castile takes flight. The earth is gored and wounded from his talons as he pushes off, his titanic wings beating heavily to lift him to the sky.
What would have typically taken days only takes hours as he casually soars high above where the clouds glitter his scales with dew. Being in no immediate rush, he seizes the opportunity to practice his agility with rolls, dives, and hovers. Although alone, he enjoys the time he has until Nerine looms at the edge of his vision. Butterflies sprout from deep in his stomach and spread across him, tingling even his toes and wingtips. Home, is the word that comes to mind. It hasn’t been for quite some time, and yet this is the only place he can affiliate himself. Loess nor Hyaline captured him the way the cliffs did.
A great majority of the population is likely deep in the bosom of Nerine, occupying themselves with conversations and food. While his heart pulls him to the cliff, Castile neutralizes the urge and instead banks then eventually lands at the southern border where he can be appropriately greeted. With a thunderous clap, his claws alight and rip the ground underneath. He immediately shifts however, exhaling a mere plume of black smoke.
What’s left is a horse standing amid titanic marks in the dirt.