05-15-2018, 11:47 PM
hold me in this wild, wild world
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
Brennen is stealing a quiet, private moment with one of his grandchildren, in a clearing not far from the place where jungle meets shore. Grye is a strange child, but he has been blossoming under the attention of Brennen, and Galilee, and his aunts and uncles; the bay pegasus had wondered at first if it was really wise of his twins to drop their son here, not even six months old, but he had welcomed the boy of course into the family fold, and there’s no denying he has grown well in every way since. And, well, the twins are just odd, and perhaps they wouldn’t make the best parents anyway. He’s coaching his youngest grandson in some of his very first battle-lessons this bright afternoon, when his own name reaches them from somewhere above.
He gathers the colt to his side and sets off briskly down the path towards the shore, a ground-eating trot tempered only by making sure the creamy-colored boy can keep up. When he sets eyes upon the one who called him, even from a distance, it’s a little like looking into a clear pool and seeing himself; Warrick could be Brennen’s slightly distorted reflection, if you took his inky dark points and wings and made them a deep navy instead. As he is considering the stranger, Grye darts ahead of him, suddenly excited by the presence of his uncle. “Uncle Bel, Uncle Bel, grandpa was showing me the coolest moves -” he cuts off and blinks green eyes at Warrick, his little almost-yearling nose wrinkling at a quite familiar scent, and then he tucks himself close to his spotted uncle’s side, his still-small size allowing him to fit just barely under Belgaer’s right wing.
“You’re from Tephra,” he addresses this comment to the stranger, taking another breath filled with the sulfuric scent of his birthplace. Before he can say anything else, Brennen arrives, placing himself on Belgaer’s right side as well, sandwiching the youngest between the two of them and a gently censorious look is enough to quiet the boy - for now (it’s a toss up; half the time the colt is every inch his irrepressible, do-as-I-please dam, but the other half he is a carbon copy of his soft-spoken and unerringly polite sire). Then he lifts his gaze to his son’s face and gives Bel a quick, approving smile before turning a polite but impassive look on the stranger. “As my son said, welcome to Ischia. I’m Brennen, and the scamp is Grye.” The quickest glimmer of a smile there invites the Tephran to share in the inescapable humor and chaos of surrounding oneself with littles.
Grye is still quiet, but watching the stranger with an intentness not always seen in youth of his tender age; he wants so badly to ask about his parents, but so far his grandfather’s unspoken warning keeps him from doing so. “What can we help you with?” Brennen continues with a curious tilt of his dished face.
He gathers the colt to his side and sets off briskly down the path towards the shore, a ground-eating trot tempered only by making sure the creamy-colored boy can keep up. When he sets eyes upon the one who called him, even from a distance, it’s a little like looking into a clear pool and seeing himself; Warrick could be Brennen’s slightly distorted reflection, if you took his inky dark points and wings and made them a deep navy instead. As he is considering the stranger, Grye darts ahead of him, suddenly excited by the presence of his uncle. “Uncle Bel, Uncle Bel, grandpa was showing me the coolest moves -” he cuts off and blinks green eyes at Warrick, his little almost-yearling nose wrinkling at a quite familiar scent, and then he tucks himself close to his spotted uncle’s side, his still-small size allowing him to fit just barely under Belgaer’s right wing.
“You’re from Tephra,” he addresses this comment to the stranger, taking another breath filled with the sulfuric scent of his birthplace. Before he can say anything else, Brennen arrives, placing himself on Belgaer’s right side as well, sandwiching the youngest between the two of them and a gently censorious look is enough to quiet the boy - for now (it’s a toss up; half the time the colt is every inch his irrepressible, do-as-I-please dam, but the other half he is a carbon copy of his soft-spoken and unerringly polite sire). Then he lifts his gaze to his son’s face and gives Bel a quick, approving smile before turning a polite but impassive look on the stranger. “As my son said, welcome to Ischia. I’m Brennen, and the scamp is Grye.” The quickest glimmer of a smile there invites the Tephran to share in the inescapable humor and chaos of surrounding oneself with littles.
Grye is still quiet, but watching the stranger with an intentness not always seen in youth of his tender age; he wants so badly to ask about his parents, but so far his grandfather’s unspoken warning keeps him from doing so. “What can we help you with?” Brennen continues with a curious tilt of his dished face.
hold me in this wild, wild world
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
BRENNEN