keep you like an oath
may nothing but death do us part
may nothing but death do us part
There was nothing to compare to the sweet reality of being man, nothing to replace the power he felt in his very fingertips. Fingers, hands, he soured, grumbling under his breath as he tilted carelessly over the forest of the common grounds. Autumn sent a chilling self-realization under his feathers and it did nothing to better his mood on the matter. He had so enjoyed the taste of freedom that came with being man, the busy life, the food, the killing. The fae were fickle creatures, spiteful even to give Kirin that sort of unique taste of ability and then snatch it away. Didn’t they know who he was? It made his very blood boil at the thought, sent a growling deep within his throat as he snatched at a passing sparrow. Even the little birds knew him, the lavender stallion was very much bird-like himself but still, they learned to avoid his games all the same- clever birds.
Speaking of games, Kirin had been dropped back off in Beqanna in a most unceremonious way. Tossed end over end until he lay sprawled over the silvered sands of the beach, pressing his hooves into the earth only to make failed peace with having hooves again. Miniature cuts crossed his legs like he’d had that audacity to run through a bramble like an imbecile, bright but crusting against the pastel shade of purple. One particular laceration on his forearm was ugly and puckered and it stung most unpleasantly when he walked. No doubt it would leave behind a nasty and unwanted scar and oh, how he had hollered at the realization back in the Cove. His enraged voice had echoed without harmony against the craggy cliffsides, sending flocks of gulls fleeing from their roost from some unknown danger.
To top it off his neck was sore, his ribs as well, hell, he hurt all over really and that is why he left- choosing to find somewhere else to let his temper stew from recent magic-filled events. If you can even imagine the thistle colored male was more on edge than he usually was, he had difficulty sleeping and angered easily and often. This year he relentlessly scoured the lands for mares, those that were his, those that weren’t his. The most embarrassing symptom was how easily he startled, jerking around unwantedly at the crash of a large wave against the cliffs, the snap of twig as thrushes left the bushes. Kirin was not a frightened pigeon, rarely did such things bother him but now they did- without his permission these feelings slowly soiled his once pristine mannerisms.
Everything was so vivid still, fresh in his mind like sprouting spring grass. Smells of brick and linen haunted him, the gentle buzz of a thing called electricity etched itself against the backdrop of each thought. The bustle of a castle, the sound of voices against high ceilings, memories of warm, perfumed baths. Perhaps that’s why he had a very un-Kirin like landing, brushing far too close to the spruce trees as he tossed himself through the air while deep in thought. A most ungraceful landing, ,tripping over his own long legs and hurriedly righting himself before looking around. Did anyone see? he wondered, tucking his lavender plumes to his sides and taking a few long, calming breaths.
Speaking of games, Kirin had been dropped back off in Beqanna in a most unceremonious way. Tossed end over end until he lay sprawled over the silvered sands of the beach, pressing his hooves into the earth only to make failed peace with having hooves again. Miniature cuts crossed his legs like he’d had that audacity to run through a bramble like an imbecile, bright but crusting against the pastel shade of purple. One particular laceration on his forearm was ugly and puckered and it stung most unpleasantly when he walked. No doubt it would leave behind a nasty and unwanted scar and oh, how he had hollered at the realization back in the Cove. His enraged voice had echoed without harmony against the craggy cliffsides, sending flocks of gulls fleeing from their roost from some unknown danger.
To top it off his neck was sore, his ribs as well, hell, he hurt all over really and that is why he left- choosing to find somewhere else to let his temper stew from recent magic-filled events. If you can even imagine the thistle colored male was more on edge than he usually was, he had difficulty sleeping and angered easily and often. This year he relentlessly scoured the lands for mares, those that were his, those that weren’t his. The most embarrassing symptom was how easily he startled, jerking around unwantedly at the crash of a large wave against the cliffs, the snap of twig as thrushes left the bushes. Kirin was not a frightened pigeon, rarely did such things bother him but now they did- without his permission these feelings slowly soiled his once pristine mannerisms.
Everything was so vivid still, fresh in his mind like sprouting spring grass. Smells of brick and linen haunted him, the gentle buzz of a thing called electricity etched itself against the backdrop of each thought. The bustle of a castle, the sound of voices against high ceilings, memories of warm, perfumed baths. Perhaps that’s why he had a very un-Kirin like landing, brushing far too close to the spruce trees as he tossed himself through the air while deep in thought. A most ungraceful landing, ,tripping over his own long legs and hurriedly righting himself before looking around. Did anyone see? he wondered, tucking his lavender plumes to his sides and taking a few long, calming breaths.
Kirin
son of khaos
@[Clark]