12-08-2017, 08:18 PM
The scarlet sunrise finds him nestled in a bed of pines, his legs neatly tucked beneath him and his head resting on the cool ground. Light blinks through the tree branches and dapples across Castile, dancing across his resting body until the spotlight finds his eyes. The brightness stirs him, his eyelids no longer playing an endless black scene. A deep sigh escapes him as he moves, shifting uncomfortably only to take pause and groan.
Lines of blood trace down him, dried and cracking with every hesitant movement. His muscles scream and his bones creak from exhaustion. Pain flashes white across his vision. It drains his energy, immobilizing him for a few long moments. As the sun continues to ascend its daily throne, Castile franticly wracks his mind and searches for causes and reasons. The fight had been exhausting, but he has since been active. It would make no sense; there had also been no spilling of his own blood.
It ails him to turn his head, his neck whining with exertion as he scrutinizes himself with heightened curiosity. His heart thrums and his mind reels, but still no conclusion finds him.
With a sigh of resignation, Castile eventually struggles to his feet and shakily determines where he is.
Rock beds are speckled across the low-rising hills of Loess and behind him lies the thickening tree webs of Sylva. How he came here, he isn’t entirely sure, but he ventures forward with painful steps until the heat of his own body soothes the ache.
Somehow, despite his personal struggles, his memories seem to trace back to Isobell and the changes that adorned her. It’s her life’s endeavors that draws him from solitude to find Ivar. A gruff call emanates from his chest cavity – his own voice clawing painfully at his throat – for the King. While in wait – still moving and refusing to stop – Castile searches the open landscape and eludes the minor obstacles dotting the area. His muscles ripple with every forced step and his wings desperately clutch to his sides, fighting the urge to drag across the ground with fatigue. In the eyes of his friend – of his King – he needs to appear strong always. His forelock cascades down his face, an obsidian curtain hiding his eyes as Ivar arrives.
Deep down, he wants to smile, but even his mouth stings as he tries to speak in a leveled voice. ”Hello, my friend.” It’s all he has known Ivar to be, not royalty but as childhood playmates. Straightening himself, he slides immediately into his concerns with minimal prelude. ”Have you seen Isobell lately?” Castile peers up through the unruly threads of his forelock, trying to search Ivar’s expression. ”I was with her at the River. She has experienced some changes to say the least,” he pauses to shift his body’s weight, ”and oddly enough, she sort of looks and smells like you…”
Lines of blood trace down him, dried and cracking with every hesitant movement. His muscles scream and his bones creak from exhaustion. Pain flashes white across his vision. It drains his energy, immobilizing him for a few long moments. As the sun continues to ascend its daily throne, Castile franticly wracks his mind and searches for causes and reasons. The fight had been exhausting, but he has since been active. It would make no sense; there had also been no spilling of his own blood.
It ails him to turn his head, his neck whining with exertion as he scrutinizes himself with heightened curiosity. His heart thrums and his mind reels, but still no conclusion finds him.
With a sigh of resignation, Castile eventually struggles to his feet and shakily determines where he is.
Rock beds are speckled across the low-rising hills of Loess and behind him lies the thickening tree webs of Sylva. How he came here, he isn’t entirely sure, but he ventures forward with painful steps until the heat of his own body soothes the ache.
Somehow, despite his personal struggles, his memories seem to trace back to Isobell and the changes that adorned her. It’s her life’s endeavors that draws him from solitude to find Ivar. A gruff call emanates from his chest cavity – his own voice clawing painfully at his throat – for the King. While in wait – still moving and refusing to stop – Castile searches the open landscape and eludes the minor obstacles dotting the area. His muscles ripple with every forced step and his wings desperately clutch to his sides, fighting the urge to drag across the ground with fatigue. In the eyes of his friend – of his King – he needs to appear strong always. His forelock cascades down his face, an obsidian curtain hiding his eyes as Ivar arrives.
Deep down, he wants to smile, but even his mouth stings as he tries to speak in a leveled voice. ”Hello, my friend.” It’s all he has known Ivar to be, not royalty but as childhood playmates. Straightening himself, he slides immediately into his concerns with minimal prelude. ”Have you seen Isobell lately?” Castile peers up through the unruly threads of his forelock, trying to search Ivar’s expression. ”I was with her at the River. She has experienced some changes to say the least,” he pauses to shift his body’s weight, ”and oddly enough, she sort of looks and smells like you…”