01-30-2018, 03:46 PM
He no longer wakes up confused each morning at the absence of his brother at his side. Enough time has passed since their initial parting of ways that he no longer looks for that wine-red face each dawn or feels hollow without him during the night. They had stayed together for longer than young men usually do, their closeness forged both by the bonds of their twinship and their abandonment. But they had known their time together would not last forever; they were well-adjusted and independent despite an existence that might have demanded codependence.
They catch up often enough that he does not have time to truly miss Tyrinn; just a month past they’d played a game or coward-or-dare to see who;d inch out farthest on a frozen lake deep in the woods.
Tyrinn had won, of course, Merrik has always been a bit more hesitant - a little more thorough in his thoughts.
He is doing just that - contemplating why the broad expanse of sunny meadow ahead of him had never been claimed by a single group. Common Land, it has been declared; though when and by whom is a question no one seems to have an answer to. Or even a question they cared about at all.
A warm breeze tugs at the broad wings that Merrick holds at his sides, and a stray feather itches uncomfortably. He pries it from the edge of his wing with careful teeth. When he releases it, it drifts of his own accord up to his dark mane. a few strands of hair stretch out for the quill, and they twist over and under each other until the feather is anchored securely. It brushes against others like it, feathers tied into the young stallion’s hair. Most are varying shades of blue that also look to have come from his own wings, but a few are strikingly dissimilar. There is a red pinion from a cherry cardinal, yellow from an oriole and a macaw’s green tail feather. Merrik has collected them in his travels, souvenirs of his journeys across Beqanna.
The sound of movement to the north distracts him, and Merrik looks up to see a ruddy bay mare settling into the shade of a tree. She is close enough to converse with, and there is something intriguing in those eyes that stare up from beneath the protection of her ebony forelock.
”Hey.” He says, bobbing his head in a polite greeting. ”I’m Merrik.”
They catch up often enough that he does not have time to truly miss Tyrinn; just a month past they’d played a game or coward-or-dare to see who;d inch out farthest on a frozen lake deep in the woods.
Tyrinn had won, of course, Merrik has always been a bit more hesitant - a little more thorough in his thoughts.
He is doing just that - contemplating why the broad expanse of sunny meadow ahead of him had never been claimed by a single group. Common Land, it has been declared; though when and by whom is a question no one seems to have an answer to. Or even a question they cared about at all.
A warm breeze tugs at the broad wings that Merrick holds at his sides, and a stray feather itches uncomfortably. He pries it from the edge of his wing with careful teeth. When he releases it, it drifts of his own accord up to his dark mane. a few strands of hair stretch out for the quill, and they twist over and under each other until the feather is anchored securely. It brushes against others like it, feathers tied into the young stallion’s hair. Most are varying shades of blue that also look to have come from his own wings, but a few are strikingly dissimilar. There is a red pinion from a cherry cardinal, yellow from an oriole and a macaw’s green tail feather. Merrik has collected them in his travels, souvenirs of his journeys across Beqanna.
The sound of movement to the north distracts him, and Merrik looks up to see a ruddy bay mare settling into the shade of a tree. She is close enough to converse with, and there is something intriguing in those eyes that stare up from beneath the protection of her ebony forelock.
”Hey.” He says, bobbing his head in a polite greeting. ”I’m Merrik.”