05-06-2019, 05:53 PM
there was a heaven in youbut god, there’s a devil in me
The fog has lifted.
A once-king, hardened by life and the perils of gods and men, emerges from the shroud of disease and rot. The moon is red as if signifying the end, cascading him in the deep rust of what feels like a final era.
But it was not the end - no, he could feel it now - for a pulsation now thrums differently within him than it did before. The disease had riddled him weak and withering, along with all of Beqanna herself, but the familiar steady beat of his heart now shifts - renewed, awakened, strengthened by...something. It was not the end as he had once thought; he had prepared to die, but his body healed inwardly and outwardly, and the hand of death passed over him. It wasn’t his time.
Time.
Time leaves the cobalt of his muzzle and the rims of his eyelids peppered with gray; it leaves a slowness in his step that is careful and cautious where there used to be spontaneity. He is different yet the same as he returns to the volcano that he would always call home, his wife by his side. The sickness is gone, and so he returns.
They arrive quietly, just as morning cups the midnight sky with warm, orange fingers. Starlight still flickers gently, slowly tucking themselves away as dawn rides on the sweltering, salty wind. With a kiss to her bronzed cheek and then another (more tender, more private, against the pearl white of the delicate curve of her throat), the stallion makes his way through his familiar homeland, searching for the one he knew would still remain. A pillar and stronghold, Warrick knew it would not be long before Magnus came upon him.
Dawn finally breaks as the night peels away, the golden sunlight appearing brighter than Warrick remembers. In the distance, the cry of gulls echo, while the smell of ash and salt and smoke permeate the air. The heaviness in the Tephran wind is enough to soothe the gentle ache in his bones, humid and moist against the soreness he feels in his joints from traveling. The great navy wings at his sides rustle softly as he so habitually attempts to smooth them, the darkness of his heavy forelock sweeping across his cerulean gaze that, despite the age that he wears so well, remain bright and almost youthful.
The rising sun brings a new hope that the stallion can feel spreading in warm, golden tendrils across his back.
A once-king, hardened by life and the perils of gods and men, emerges from the shroud of disease and rot. The moon is red as if signifying the end, cascading him in the deep rust of what feels like a final era.
But it was not the end - no, he could feel it now - for a pulsation now thrums differently within him than it did before. The disease had riddled him weak and withering, along with all of Beqanna herself, but the familiar steady beat of his heart now shifts - renewed, awakened, strengthened by...something. It was not the end as he had once thought; he had prepared to die, but his body healed inwardly and outwardly, and the hand of death passed over him. It wasn’t his time.
Time.
Time leaves the cobalt of his muzzle and the rims of his eyelids peppered with gray; it leaves a slowness in his step that is careful and cautious where there used to be spontaneity. He is different yet the same as he returns to the volcano that he would always call home, his wife by his side. The sickness is gone, and so he returns.
They arrive quietly, just as morning cups the midnight sky with warm, orange fingers. Starlight still flickers gently, slowly tucking themselves away as dawn rides on the sweltering, salty wind. With a kiss to her bronzed cheek and then another (more tender, more private, against the pearl white of the delicate curve of her throat), the stallion makes his way through his familiar homeland, searching for the one he knew would still remain. A pillar and stronghold, Warrick knew it would not be long before Magnus came upon him.
Dawn finally breaks as the night peels away, the golden sunlight appearing brighter than Warrick remembers. In the distance, the cry of gulls echo, while the smell of ash and salt and smoke permeate the air. The heaviness in the Tephran wind is enough to soothe the gentle ache in his bones, humid and moist against the soreness he feels in his joints from traveling. The great navy wings at his sides rustle softly as he so habitually attempts to smooth them, the darkness of his heavy forelock sweeping across his cerulean gaze that, despite the age that he wears so well, remain bright and almost youthful.
The rising sun brings a new hope that the stallion can feel spreading in warm, golden tendrils across his back.
WARRICK