07-08-2017, 03:09 PM
you can have my isolation,
you can have the hate that it brings.
you can have the hate that it brings.
It is not long until he and Warrick are met by another – lithe, agile, and undeniably beautiful - but terse and bitter, with a muttering string of words falling out of her mouth upon seeing them. His own gaze is settled upon her, tracing the curve of her cheek, the hollow beneath her averted eyes – she cannot even look at him, nor at Warrick, for any extended period of time, which is both unnerving and unusual.
There is a fleeting moment in which he is longing for the days of old, when kingdoms had certain values, and some semblance of respect towards one another (even when tensions were high, boundaries were not often crossed, and behavior was kept in check to keep decorum intact). Even a name would suffice. Alas, he is not hopeful after his unproductive and wholly disdainful meeting with Kerberos – the memory of his crude language, vile tongue and hefty reproach has left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he is altogether wary of any other.
If an island unto themselves they must be, so be it – Tephra did not need anyone else to stand on its own. It had been the first to rise, and it would be the last to fall.
He does not, however, fault her for any discontent she may feel – admittedly, as he contemplates the dark, charred vegetation, and the once crystalline lake with its eerie sheen, he, too, would be devastated to find his own land in such disarray. He does not know with who she is aligned (and perhaps she has assumed he would know who she is – arrogant, that assumption would be, but certainly she is just too distracted by the destruction to offer a name), but it is Warrick who is then cutting through the tension of the unknown.
Quietly, his own voice rises then, ”We are not here for a typical political meeting – Offspring; my apologies, I didn't catch your name?”
But before anything else can be said, yet again, another has come, though with less grace and more ferocity – barreling towards them. He is soon grimacing from the invasion into his mind – the sudden presence of another, wholly unwelcome. His eyes bore into Molotov’s own, fire meeting with fire, with his browline furrowed deeply in disdain – he is not amused by her invasive intrusiveness on his own thoughts, which were his and his alone.
How do you know him? she is inquiring, but alone with her mind – her eyes settled upon him, with a stagnant silence settled between them. He does not say anything to her, and though he cannot keep her from rifling through his mind, he does not give her an answer.
It is then that Amet comes over the hillcrest, covered in gleaming, gilded scales, exuding a warmth of his own towards Warrick. There is a moment shared between them, before the gold-laden stallion look towards him, meeting him eye for eye and sharing his own introduction.
”Amet,” he says quietly, but evenly, slightly discontent at the way the festering flame within his chest has suddenly diminished into little more than a flicker (though it is somewhat of a relief that the flickering flame that so often lingered on his spine as residue of his exoskeleton is muted). ”my condolences for what has happened to your kingdom. I am Offspring. Shortly after the attack on Hyaline, my son returned to Tephra – you might know him as Levi.”
He exhales softly, searching the hardened planes of their faces – knowing the repercussions that might lay ahead. ”I did not know of his intentions, nor of the attack until he spoke of it himself. To say that I am disappointed would be an understatement – his mother and I raised him better than that,” his voice is lower, then, resembling more a growl than a mumble. ”and I have come to give notice that though he is once more on Tephran soil, any further insolence on his behalf will be dealt with accordingly.”
There is a fleeting moment in which he is longing for the days of old, when kingdoms had certain values, and some semblance of respect towards one another (even when tensions were high, boundaries were not often crossed, and behavior was kept in check to keep decorum intact). Even a name would suffice. Alas, he is not hopeful after his unproductive and wholly disdainful meeting with Kerberos – the memory of his crude language, vile tongue and hefty reproach has left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he is altogether wary of any other.
If an island unto themselves they must be, so be it – Tephra did not need anyone else to stand on its own. It had been the first to rise, and it would be the last to fall.
He does not, however, fault her for any discontent she may feel – admittedly, as he contemplates the dark, charred vegetation, and the once crystalline lake with its eerie sheen, he, too, would be devastated to find his own land in such disarray. He does not know with who she is aligned (and perhaps she has assumed he would know who she is – arrogant, that assumption would be, but certainly she is just too distracted by the destruction to offer a name), but it is Warrick who is then cutting through the tension of the unknown.
Quietly, his own voice rises then, ”We are not here for a typical political meeting – Offspring; my apologies, I didn't catch your name?”
But before anything else can be said, yet again, another has come, though with less grace and more ferocity – barreling towards them. He is soon grimacing from the invasion into his mind – the sudden presence of another, wholly unwelcome. His eyes bore into Molotov’s own, fire meeting with fire, with his browline furrowed deeply in disdain – he is not amused by her invasive intrusiveness on his own thoughts, which were his and his alone.
How do you know him? she is inquiring, but alone with her mind – her eyes settled upon him, with a stagnant silence settled between them. He does not say anything to her, and though he cannot keep her from rifling through his mind, he does not give her an answer.
It is then that Amet comes over the hillcrest, covered in gleaming, gilded scales, exuding a warmth of his own towards Warrick. There is a moment shared between them, before the gold-laden stallion look towards him, meeting him eye for eye and sharing his own introduction.
”Amet,” he says quietly, but evenly, slightly discontent at the way the festering flame within his chest has suddenly diminished into little more than a flicker (though it is somewhat of a relief that the flickering flame that so often lingered on his spine as residue of his exoskeleton is muted). ”my condolences for what has happened to your kingdom. I am Offspring. Shortly after the attack on Hyaline, my son returned to Tephra – you might know him as Levi.”
He exhales softly, searching the hardened planes of their faces – knowing the repercussions that might lay ahead. ”I did not know of his intentions, nor of the attack until he spoke of it himself. To say that I am disappointed would be an understatement – his mother and I raised him better than that,” his voice is lower, then, resembling more a growl than a mumble. ”and I have come to give notice that though he is once more on Tephran soil, any further insolence on his behalf will be dealt with accordingly.”
you can have my absence of faith,
you can have my everything.
you can have my everything.
OFFSPRING
@[Warrick] @[Nayl] @[Molotov] @[Amet]