i'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell
Alive or dead, they all become ghosts at some point. They all become stories, some of them legends, all of them a piece of historical fabric. Some of them fade off quietly, some of them go out in a blaze of glory. But they all fade eventually.
The good ones find their way back.
Warship himself has never been able to shrug off the collar of the Chamber and fade into that quiet nothingness. Its been there, noose-like and greedy, robbing him of life and blood since the moment his eyes opened. He can barely remember what his mother looked like, but he can recall every version of the Chamber he has ever seen. Flaming trees and magical Ravens, a brief joining with the Valley; he remembers them all in detail. He can also remember faces that were constant, though their features have grown hazy over time; Atrox, his sire, the scarred Panther King who had given his heart for his kingdom. Straia, the tobiano mare he watched grow into something beautiful and fierce. So many faces, so many lifetimes.
The Chamber is quiet today, as she has been for several years. A lull has settled over the lands, filling in the gaps that the abscene of horseflesh leaves behind. There was a time that the old warrior would have sought out such solitude, but now he finds himself growing bored of it. While he is a man of few words, he is at his very core an equine, a creature not made for solitary living. A mournful howl leaves his mouth as his golden eyes scan his surroundings. He finds nothing or no one, but that doesn't mean they aren't there.
Anyone is better than no one at this point.
warship
