the good ol' days may not return || exist & leliana

[Canaan]

well, the good ol' days may not return,
and the rocks might melt, and the sea may burn.

  The sun has already begun its descent beyond the hazy horizon, as the once vivid sky gives way to a gradient of auburn and ash as a cluster of thick, feathery clouds loom overhead, rumbling dangerously. His deep, gold-flecked hazel eyes observe the ridges and curves, noting the darkness of its shadows – the atmosphere is heavy and damp, drawing beads of perspiration to the surface of his deep pallid skin. The scent of sulfur envelopes him, and though his head is soon overwhelmed and pounding sorely from the stench, it reassures him that he is amongst the volcanic ash and magma once more. Home, he muses to himself, the faintest uptick of a smile tugging at the corner of his whiskered lips.
 
   It had been too long since he had left, yet not much had changed. The same wavering stalks of dry brush ensnared his lithe legs, and the same dense humidity laid across the slope of his spine as if it were a hefty blanket. The jagged edges of a too-still volcano settled somewhere in the middle; a pillar of force and might tucked away neatly within the center of the isle – a gentle glow of the white-hot, bubbling lava pooling along its perimeter in thin, winding rivulets. 

   The memories return to him, of warm evenings stolen away beneath a starlit sky, of the carefree afternoons spent bathing in the sea – of the many hours wasted away in the presence of two of his closest friends; a squandered youth of which his wild heart often pined for. The long summer days had long since passed, giving way to a smothering autumn and a frigid winter, and eventually, the blistering humidity of summer had returned – but he had not. A year had already passed since he had last seen them – his Exist and Leliana. He wondered if either of them still called Tephra their own; and if not – do they still long for its ash-stained, sultry borders as he does?
 
   A long, wistful sigh emerges from the darkened line of his parted lips, tongue tasting the salty brine of the sea as the golden rim of his eyes search the vacant plain, yearning for simpler times.

Canaan

@[exist] @[leliana]