05-30-2017, 02:17 PM
something has been taken from deep inside of me;
the secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see.
the secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see.
The flickering ember burning inside of him is a constant reminder of what he has lost, emotionally, physically – he longs for the harsh winter, for its frigid and shaky grasp across his rigid spine and across his terse cheek – and he longs for the frost to unfurl once more from inside of him, to encase him in its icy reprieve.
He has been dealt a cruel hand, however, and where ice once thrived inside of him, the fire now burns – and where snow and ice had once clung to the marred surface of his flesh, now humidity lingers, draped across him like a lead-laden covering – leaving him drenched in sweat. Everything he had known had been stripped away from him, and the glacial tundra he had called his own was no more, swallowed up and drifting somewhere to the bottom of the churning, ravenous sea.
As much as he tried to avoid the alluring clutches of sleep, even he is prone to becoming weakened to its soothing siren’s call, and though he is all too aware of the nightmares that would plague him upon slumber’s descent, he is powerless to ward it off for more than a few days at a time. He is tucked beneath a broad, yet wiry and unusual tree, the girth of his form pressed up against its scratching bark – drifting in and out of consciousness as fatigue has begun to settle in.
Each moment stolen away by his nightmares (which, in truth, were not nightmares at all – but rather, a replay of memories of a time spent in another world, wrought with terror and violence) further agitates him, and when he is stirred and startled from his rest by a loud call of his name, he is further from contentment than he has ever been.
With a grunt of disdain and a gentle shake of his large neck, his dark, tangled tresses fall over his vivid, red eyes, as he lumbers forth languidly. The warmth of the sun is unkind to him, resting heavily upon the slope of his spine as its heat settles into his scarred skin, but he grows more and more numb to it by the day as the pyrokinesis that lay dormant within him becomes stronger.
It is not long until the two distant figures come into view – equally as stark and inky black as he himself is, and both familiar to him (though one he is much more acquainted with than the other). The irritation of the interruption soon wanes, and his expression is less terse and agitated; bordering more on stoicism – though there is a glint of light in his eye as his iron gaze meets with Thanata.
”Thanata,” he murmurs, his voice rough and ragged on the edges, as he acknowledges her with a faint nod. He then observes the broad stallion beside her, studying his mahogany-tipped tresses that lay haphazardly over his pale, sightless eyes. ”Sindor – it has been some time. You must have questions. Unfortunately, I will be the only one to answer them – Hurricane does not reside here, nor has he ever. The last time I saw him was along the eastern border of the forest, some time ago.”
He pauses, his heady stare searching the distant shore, where the greedy waves lap repeatedly at the coastline. ”The Tundra is gone. It, and all of the other kingdoms, were taken by the faeries. To teach those craving power a lesson.” There is a flicker of darkness within his eyes; time had left him angrier and more callous over the loss of his land. ”In their place, new ones arose. Myself, along with Eight of the Valley, and Magnus, petitioned to the faeries for a refuge in the wake of the reckoning. Thus, Tephra was born from the ashes.”
He is quiet for a moment, glancing between them.
”Welcome.”
wounds so deep they never show; they never go away.
like moving pictures in my head, for years and years they've played.
like moving pictures in my head, for years and years they've played.
Offspring