06-06-2018, 11:48 AM
we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight A voice on the heavy summer air calls to him, his name distinctly heard above the soft rustle of palm trees swaying together, clustered with brilliant plumeria and hibiscus that have blossomed wonderfully beneath the sultry heat of Tephra. The Overseer moves from beneath the shade of the tropical plants, the burning sun vivid against the auburn of his coat, taking to the skies with a stretch of navy wings. It is not long before he identifies a familiar form on the ground, a chestnut pegasus who just landed in the inland plains, where low tide has left mud and damp earth beneath the swaying of golden grasses. Warrick’s dives towards him, the strong beats of his wings echoing on the wind. He lands solidly before him, navy legs carrying him at a lope towards the one he recognized as Belgaer. Warrick’s wings fold into his sides, slowing himself into a trot and then to a walk, before halting with a toss of his head. Trouble brews in the stallion’s eyes, and Warrick cannot help but press his lips together in a thin line at the realization. Cobalt wings flutter gently at his sides, striving to set the feathers in place from his flight, all the while the cool ocean blue of his gaze remains steadily on the Ischian man. “Belgaer,” the Overseer begins, his deep baritone even and unwavering. The winged stallion had also called for Amorette, and a single blue-tipped ear remains backwards, listening for the soon-approach of the obsidian mare. He has no doubt she would be along shortly. “It is good to see you again, my friend.” Warrick pauses, his head tilting slightly. “Even if I feel as though our meeting may not be one of good news.” warrick |
credit to vel of adoxography.