02-20-2018, 03:13 PM
He never expected this, never wanted this. Mother and Isobell were the ones that had a way with command; Castile mirrors his father in preferring the dark corners where he can simply breathe in the beauty of the world.
It was too uncomfortable to turn down his friend, to impede on a life that Ivar wanted with Isobell. With a heavy, somewhat reluctant sigh, Castile accepted but cringed at the idea of responsibility immediately settling across his shoulders.
His nomadic days have concluded.
Castile stands atop a knoll, a sentinel guarding his post, as the autumnal breeze whips through his unruly locks. His somber gaze sweeps back and forth, his ears swiveling to hear what he cannot see. Since Ivar’s phasing out, Loess has quieted – he was the lifeline of this kingdom – and the unnerving fear of failure wracks through Castile’s bones. His breaths maintain their steadiness despite the reeling of his thoughts and hammering of his heart. A child is their Queen, but her demands are disregarded by the outside world – scoffed at by those older – but Castile and Heda are to stand in her place until the appropriate time (or so he assumes). He’s yet to meet them, but the iron tang of blood in the air hints that the time is fast approaching.
Unwilling to witness the delivery, Castile bides his time before scaling more rocky posts until he has arrived at the sides of mother and child. His mismatched eyes drink in the sight of them, noting their similar features until he finally introduces himself before the herd arrives. ”Hello,” he begins, uncertain as to how it should be breached, assuming they already know of him. ”I’m Castile. I guess Ivar told you the plan with me?” His wings shuffle at his sides, willing away his rising embarrassment.
It was too uncomfortable to turn down his friend, to impede on a life that Ivar wanted with Isobell. With a heavy, somewhat reluctant sigh, Castile accepted but cringed at the idea of responsibility immediately settling across his shoulders.
His nomadic days have concluded.
Castile stands atop a knoll, a sentinel guarding his post, as the autumnal breeze whips through his unruly locks. His somber gaze sweeps back and forth, his ears swiveling to hear what he cannot see. Since Ivar’s phasing out, Loess has quieted – he was the lifeline of this kingdom – and the unnerving fear of failure wracks through Castile’s bones. His breaths maintain their steadiness despite the reeling of his thoughts and hammering of his heart. A child is their Queen, but her demands are disregarded by the outside world – scoffed at by those older – but Castile and Heda are to stand in her place until the appropriate time (or so he assumes). He’s yet to meet them, but the iron tang of blood in the air hints that the time is fast approaching.
Unwilling to witness the delivery, Castile bides his time before scaling more rocky posts until he has arrived at the sides of mother and child. His mismatched eyes drink in the sight of them, noting their similar features until he finally introduces himself before the herd arrives. ”Hello,” he begins, uncertain as to how it should be breached, assuming they already know of him. ”I’m Castile. I guess Ivar told you the plan with me?” His wings shuffle at his sides, willing away his rising embarrassment.