05-18-2015, 12:08 AM
If this is to end in fire then we should all burn together
She had called him her favorite star, once upon a time. A shining light in the darkness that had drowned her so very long ago. But he was no cold and distant star, twinkling high above. There was nothing celestial about him. He was born of the earth, and losing her had awakened the fire in his soul. Not fire inherited from his mother, the Sun. The fire that burned in him was not life and light and warmth that nourished life in this wretched land and gave hope to those languishing in darkness. His fire was that of the mountain made molten by pressure beyond the bearing of it, erupting and destroying everything he touched.
Even little Strange knew he was volcanic, knew it from the moment they’d met. She’d called him her ‘Cano, his baby sister with eyes that saw too much. Maybe it suited him better than the name the Moon had given him, but his name was all he had left of her. His name, and the color of his coat, though he was untouched by the roan that had made her the Sun’s tarnished silver girl. He was almost as black as the night she’d been named for, but touched with a hint of earth, the obsidian sheen of dragon bones and volcanic glass. And his mane and tail were the silver of her light as she shone down on him from the night sky. He’d taken his height from her too, grown even a bit taller, pushing seventeen hands. His build was all the Sun’s, broad and thick and feathered. The breadth of his body and the mismatch of his eyes were about all he’d gotten from the Sun, though. Silver and brushed gold, the color wasn’t hers, but he and most of his siblings had inherited her heterochromia. The rest of him?
He had worshipped her from the moment he’d opened his eyes, the full moon shining down and illuminating her edges, making her glow with a radiance he’d so rarely seen since. He had lived for the love in her eyes, for the curve of her smile, the warmth of her embrace. And he had died for the quiet desolation it had taken him a lifetime to recognize. He’d lost her over and over again, and when she’d made sure he’d finally lost her forever, it had broken something in him, an innocence he’d thought long-since lost to years of angst and rage and self-destruction bordering on madness. Arzhur had tried to save him, but even Arzhur was gone. Not dead, but vanished into oblivion without a word of goodbye.
Well fuck that bastard anyway.
Drow wasn’t sure how he’d come back to Beqanna, or whether he’d ever really been gone or just dreaming. He came back to himself on the edges of an all too familiar meadow, standing in the shadow of a craggy old willow tree whose weeping branches caressed his scarred body with maternal affection. A gentle reminder that he was loved, despite the remnants of old wounds marring his face, his chest, his ribs, his...entire body, really. A few from battles for the hell of it, brawls he’d started when he was feeling a little too jagged to keep it to himself. Most, though, were from battles with himself, facing down a few demons who lived inside the volcano.
There was a time when he would have hidden his face behind a tumbling mass of silver-white hair, or angled his face away from strangers to spare them the initial shock of a face scarred by rage and youth and self-abuse. But was stronger than the boy he’d been when he’d carved up his own face, when he’d fought himself and strange stallions and tigers just for the sake of losing himself in the pain for a little while. He’d grown out of hiding a long time ago. So when he walked out of the shade of that lovely old willow and stepped out into the moonlight, he held his head high. The past was gone, and it was time to let it die. To move on, and make a new life for himself. Maybe that new life would be here, in the land where he’d loved and lost, fought and fallen. The land of his ancestors. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to come home.
If home even existed anymore.
Even little Strange knew he was volcanic, knew it from the moment they’d met. She’d called him her ‘Cano, his baby sister with eyes that saw too much. Maybe it suited him better than the name the Moon had given him, but his name was all he had left of her. His name, and the color of his coat, though he was untouched by the roan that had made her the Sun’s tarnished silver girl. He was almost as black as the night she’d been named for, but touched with a hint of earth, the obsidian sheen of dragon bones and volcanic glass. And his mane and tail were the silver of her light as she shone down on him from the night sky. He’d taken his height from her too, grown even a bit taller, pushing seventeen hands. His build was all the Sun’s, broad and thick and feathered. The breadth of his body and the mismatch of his eyes were about all he’d gotten from the Sun, though. Silver and brushed gold, the color wasn’t hers, but he and most of his siblings had inherited her heterochromia. The rest of him?
He had worshipped her from the moment he’d opened his eyes, the full moon shining down and illuminating her edges, making her glow with a radiance he’d so rarely seen since. He had lived for the love in her eyes, for the curve of her smile, the warmth of her embrace. And he had died for the quiet desolation it had taken him a lifetime to recognize. He’d lost her over and over again, and when she’d made sure he’d finally lost her forever, it had broken something in him, an innocence he’d thought long-since lost to years of angst and rage and self-destruction bordering on madness. Arzhur had tried to save him, but even Arzhur was gone. Not dead, but vanished into oblivion without a word of goodbye.
Well fuck that bastard anyway.
Drow wasn’t sure how he’d come back to Beqanna, or whether he’d ever really been gone or just dreaming. He came back to himself on the edges of an all too familiar meadow, standing in the shadow of a craggy old willow tree whose weeping branches caressed his scarred body with maternal affection. A gentle reminder that he was loved, despite the remnants of old wounds marring his face, his chest, his ribs, his...entire body, really. A few from battles for the hell of it, brawls he’d started when he was feeling a little too jagged to keep it to himself. Most, though, were from battles with himself, facing down a few demons who lived inside the volcano.
There was a time when he would have hidden his face behind a tumbling mass of silver-white hair, or angled his face away from strangers to spare them the initial shock of a face scarred by rage and youth and self-abuse. But was stronger than the boy he’d been when he’d carved up his own face, when he’d fought himself and strange stallions and tigers just for the sake of losing himself in the pain for a little while. He’d grown out of hiding a long time ago. So when he walked out of the shade of that lovely old willow and stepped out into the moonlight, he held his head high. The past was gone, and it was time to let it die. To move on, and make a new life for himself. Maybe that new life would be here, in the land where he’d loved and lost, fought and fallen. The land of his ancestors. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to come home.
If home even existed anymore.
Watch the flames climb high into the night
Drow
