05-08-2018, 05:07 PM
we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight
The sound of the volcano often lulls Warrick to sleep. As smoke and ash tumble carelessly from its glowing top, the stallion finds himself matching his own breathing with the gentle rumble of lava gushing slowly from the depths. He has always been attached to the fiery mountain and savors the intense heat that it brings, feeling desperately cold and frigid when away from its scorching breath for too long. When sleep would find him (which was incredibly rare, unless tucked away beside Tangerine), Warrick would most likely beneath a sluice of molten rock, facing the ocean. It was no coincidence that the navy and bay stallion kept returning here every day, long before dusk, where the thickness of smoke conceals any attempt at seeing the night’s sky. He would try, sometimes, to stargaze and map the constellations like he so often did when he was younger (who was he to pretend that everything was the same?), but he found that the air nearest the volcano would begin to sting and burn his eyes and he began to use the pain as a buffer to keep him from searching the galaxies in pointless longing. Even then, with the night sky hidden from him and the groaning of the mountain as his lullaby, Warrick’s slumber was always fitful and restless; often intermittent with nightmares and terrors that kept him from truly resting. Dreams of dismal and dark days ahead, unperceivable upon waking but leaving him covered in a sheen of sweat.
He sighs, almost comfortably, as he descends onto the familiar blackened shoreline, the warmth of the sunlight touching his back with gentle fingertips – though the heat was not nearly intense enough to match that of his precious volcano, his silent and vigilant guard. His brilliant irises of cobalt shimmer blazingly against mahogany lids and black forelock as his gaze sweeps over the beach, the winter’s chill elsewhere leaving Tephra’s skies sunny and clear, with less humidity in its breath than ever before.
Time passes and it is now near sunset, where the sun still clings wearily to the sky yet pricks of indigo were starting to emerge. Beneath the golden light he stands, stoic and ever enduring, the hardened lines on his face growing dark as the sun’s rays play shadows across his auburn and navy body. He was standing near the golden shoreline, frothing water rising to meet his hooves then falling back, then coming to meet him again. The constant rhythm soothes him. It was this time of night where he truly came alive; where the sun’s rays begin to kiss the horizon and stars begin to brighten with clarity as the light of day retreats, leaving them to shine boldly. He welcomes the sun’s dying light happily, thankful for the coolness that night would soon bring. Though Beqanna lies under boughs of snow and ice, Tephra is left untouched: salty, sultry air presses against his skin, warm currents of air from the ocean bringing in the everlasting heat.
The night begins to whisper to him, a soft, clear voice that only he recognized; a voice so gentle, but yet seems to come from everywhere, even in the rustling of the tropical trees around him. The salty breeze brushes against him, twisting and curling the dark tendrils of his mane and tail carelessly on its fingers. In the distance, the volcano looms like a slumbering giant, groaning with life as smoke billows from the top, the bold gray melting into the red, oranges, and pinks of the clouds. He watches the volcano thoughtfully, his mind drifting as it always does.
Warrick
@[wound]