04-04-2018, 04:02 PM
we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight
There has been so much movement lately in Tephra, the Overseer is glad that summer has arrived - the warmer (hotter, sweltering) weather seems to have slowed everyone down, and he can finally catch his breath. There are many updates that are needed to be discussed with himself and his diplomats (Sylva, Ischia, Hyaline, Loess, they all play in his head over and over), but with the birth of Marble, the blue-bay stallion has found himself caring much more about his relationships with those who are already in Tephra than those who are strangers to it. He finds her familiar form along the river, her nose close to the lava streams that run rampant and random through the grasslands (anyone but a resident would find it abnormal). Warrick smiles comfortingly as he comes to stand beside her, his cobalt muzzle gently running along her neck in gentle huffs of breath in greeting, inhaling the scents on her auburn skin. He is relaxed beneath the summer sun, the tension built up in his muscles from winter and spring now somehow rubbed away in the Tephran warmth. His black mane sticks damply to his mahogany neck, just coming from the dense and humid trees of the jungle that borders the ocean’s waters, where he frequents when he is not near the base of the volcano. “Wound,” he says, his voice rich with endearment and adoration. She is special to him - though in a way he cannot truly describe - but it is apparent on the sound of his voice and the sparkle in his eye. “You have been busy. It’s good to see you.”
The Overseer absentmindedly grooms the darkness of her mane where it meets her neck, nibbling with the pinching of his teeth to pluck anything that may cling to the long tendrils. “How is Wishbone?” he asks pensively, though he chuckles and quickly adds: “Or should I say where is she?” Their daughter is as wild and rampant as the world around them and he would not be surprised if she is off making friends with the whales of the oceans or the parrots in the jungle. She is growing older (though Warrick hates to admit it; Solace is still just his darling baby in his mind’s eye), and with his agreement with Nerine, he wonders if her untamed spirit will be the one to volunteer to go.
Warrick pulls his head away from Wound to arch his neck, lowering his head to rub his cheek against the inside of his foreleg. He snorts softly as he raises his head, his black forelock falling into the deep blue of his ocean-eyes. Knowing that she’d be interested, the conversation momentarily shifts. “Sylva is cautious, but willing. Nerine and I have decided to show our bond by offering one of our own. Loess is friendly, but an official pact has yet to be made. Ischia still remains an enigma, and Hyaline of course - ” he pauses, shifting his gaze towards her with a slight puzzlement in his face. “Hyaline is good?” His voice has changed - the business has fallen away and true concern finds his vocal cords, laced with the hope that Solace still flourishes beneath Hyaline’s flowered crown.
Warrick
@[wound] <3