06-20-2015, 07:07 AM
Errant has felt death, and there was no cold. There was simply nothing.
He knows now that not all deaths are the same; perhaps Aneku will feel cold when his time comes. He does not swell on it overmuch. Life is most important, and too dwell too long on death is to beckon it closer.
The black king is sleeping still, and it is the slowly brightening dawn that wakens him, pushing insistently at his closed grey eyes. He wakes with a yawn and a shake of his heavy black coat, blinking his grey eyes slowly.
Most of the Tundra is still sleeping, Errant knows. His eyes tell him this, and his ears that hear no movement. He is not all-seeing as the other magicians claim to be; Errant is only mortal. He has no need to inspect each tiny crevice of the Tundra with arcane aid when he has walked these slopes since his childhood. He trusts his own senses – and those of the other men – to alert him to danger.
He’s made it to twenty-five years old; that has to be a sign of some sort.
In the distance, something red moves, and Errant narrows his still sleep-heavy eyes to see it better. It is the chestnut stallion that had appeared during the meeting, he sees. The other stallion is doing nothing more than browsing, and Errant knows that it is past time that he truly greet the newcomer.
Aneku, right?” He asks when he is close enough to converse, bobbing his head politely in greeting. “I assume you mean to stay in the Tundra, since you’re still here?” There’s something slightly amused about the turn of the black stallion’s mouth – no one stays in the Tundra for long if they do not intend to make it their permanent home.
He knows now that not all deaths are the same; perhaps Aneku will feel cold when his time comes. He does not swell on it overmuch. Life is most important, and too dwell too long on death is to beckon it closer.
The black king is sleeping still, and it is the slowly brightening dawn that wakens him, pushing insistently at his closed grey eyes. He wakes with a yawn and a shake of his heavy black coat, blinking his grey eyes slowly.
Most of the Tundra is still sleeping, Errant knows. His eyes tell him this, and his ears that hear no movement. He is not all-seeing as the other magicians claim to be; Errant is only mortal. He has no need to inspect each tiny crevice of the Tundra with arcane aid when he has walked these slopes since his childhood. He trusts his own senses – and those of the other men – to alert him to danger.
He’s made it to twenty-five years old; that has to be a sign of some sort.
In the distance, something red moves, and Errant narrows his still sleep-heavy eyes to see it better. It is the chestnut stallion that had appeared during the meeting, he sees. The other stallion is doing nothing more than browsing, and Errant knows that it is past time that he truly greet the newcomer.
Aneku, right?” He asks when he is close enough to converse, bobbing his head politely in greeting. “I assume you mean to stay in the Tundra, since you’re still here?” There’s something slightly amused about the turn of the black stallion’s mouth – no one stays in the Tundra for long if they do not intend to make it their permanent home.