10-29-2018, 01:14 PM
Around me, the fog rises thick and warm, obscuring the world. The chatter of my waterfall is the only sound I can hear beyond the mouth of the cave. Weak autumn sunlight cannot even penetrate the cover of steely clouds, and all of Loess feels suspended in a world with time. A few flakes of snow drift haphazardly from the metallic grey sky, the final remnants of a storm that had covered the kingdom with the first snowfall of the season. I had watched the snow melt as it fell, hidden beneath my bower of branch and stone.
English ivy twines with pothos overhead, and I watch the snow melt drip from the miniscule white flowers of the spider plant. I had caught scent of Arthas earlier this morning, and rather than face him, I have instead gone into hiding. This cave had been a discovery in the past few weeks, warmed by the spring fed waterfall just over the mouth of it. Accessible by wing (and I had tried on foot a fair few times) it is my preferred place when I do not wish to be found.
Well, found by anyone that is not the striped stallion.
If the fog were less dense I might have seen him sooner. Instead I call out as he passes over, a quiet whiny that is followed by my own plummeting from the cliff before my wings spread out. I follow him to more level ground – there is little in these highlands – and land not far from the flaxen haired drake. I tuck my pale wings to my still-slim sides (it will be weeks yet before I can be certain we are expecting).
I step closer to the white-winged stallion, a softly delighted smile on my dark mouth. Each time I see him I feel the same: like a warmth that is ever-kindled in my chest at his mere thought grows a bit more fiery. Love, and not the kind that I am forced to manufacture. With him here it is easy to forget what had me fleeing to my cave, and I am distracted further by the way his muscles move beneath sapphire and golden skin and the taste of sweat as I place a kiss along his crest.
It would be easy to slip into the haze, to avoid the resigned set of his shoulders in favor of luring him to more pleasant activities. I nearly do, because the autumn has not yet left us and I have never seen anything more wonderful, but instead I draw back. My head tilts curiously as I attempt to meet his olive green gaze with my own.
“Do you want to talk about it now?” I ask, removing the responsibility of making the decision from my own plate. I assume it has something to do with the visit from the King of Sylva, and though I’d have liked for the diplomatic visit to have gone well, I have had far too much good luck of late. It was past time for fate to strike a blow at my happiness.
English ivy twines with pothos overhead, and I watch the snow melt drip from the miniscule white flowers of the spider plant. I had caught scent of Arthas earlier this morning, and rather than face him, I have instead gone into hiding. This cave had been a discovery in the past few weeks, warmed by the spring fed waterfall just over the mouth of it. Accessible by wing (and I had tried on foot a fair few times) it is my preferred place when I do not wish to be found.
Well, found by anyone that is not the striped stallion.
If the fog were less dense I might have seen him sooner. Instead I call out as he passes over, a quiet whiny that is followed by my own plummeting from the cliff before my wings spread out. I follow him to more level ground – there is little in these highlands – and land not far from the flaxen haired drake. I tuck my pale wings to my still-slim sides (it will be weeks yet before I can be certain we are expecting).
I step closer to the white-winged stallion, a softly delighted smile on my dark mouth. Each time I see him I feel the same: like a warmth that is ever-kindled in my chest at his mere thought grows a bit more fiery. Love, and not the kind that I am forced to manufacture. With him here it is easy to forget what had me fleeing to my cave, and I am distracted further by the way his muscles move beneath sapphire and golden skin and the taste of sweat as I place a kiss along his crest.
It would be easy to slip into the haze, to avoid the resigned set of his shoulders in favor of luring him to more pleasant activities. I nearly do, because the autumn has not yet left us and I have never seen anything more wonderful, but instead I draw back. My head tilts curiously as I attempt to meet his olive green gaze with my own.
“Do you want to talk about it now?” I ask, removing the responsibility of making the decision from my own plate. I assume it has something to do with the visit from the King of Sylva, and though I’d have liked for the diplomatic visit to have gone well, I have had far too much good luck of late. It was past time for fate to strike a blow at my happiness.
