EREMIEL
i'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired
There’s darkness here; the layered stones around him bleed quiet in their shadows. Sifted grains beneath him answer to his hooves as though he was the pressure along a current. Eremiel walked a steady path beneath the moonlit dunes, his dappled pelt fighting for moonbeams with each change of faint clouds spreading across the moon, retreating again to entangle themselves with a path held steady by starlight and cosmos; not even the river could compete with the warring nature of illumination and gloom.
Teeth from a broken jaw crack beneath his next pace; a long-forgotten creature met its doom in the sea of sand. Eremiel lowers his head, nostrils flaring wide until the tiny pinpricks of dust and dirt seated themselves against the chamber of his nose to express themselves in a flurry of smoke rolling outwards from an irreplaceable gust of breath.
As if to answer, the wind ignites the sandbanks with a rush of air, gusts billowing harshly enough to force a turn of his head. Dusty grains lift into great sweeping clouds, spiraling across the oceans of red and orange barrens until they settle in sifted mounds once again. The remnants of a dying breeze remain to splay his silvered mane across his neck, along the ridges of his backside, while his ambered eyes watch a drifting feather sway to his feathered ankles.
The lavender plume fell motionless at his feet.
A symbol that placed a signature without the pensmith’s presence, his head turned toward the North, watching the stillness of night claim even the path of a silvered cove. He continued his passage to the largest canyon, pressing his nose to the fringe in farewell. Eremiel sought the river within the confines of crags empowering themselves as a cradle, clutching within them the promise of existence.
Teeth from a broken jaw crack beneath his next pace; a long-forgotten creature met its doom in the sea of sand. Eremiel lowers his head, nostrils flaring wide until the tiny pinpricks of dust and dirt seated themselves against the chamber of his nose to express themselves in a flurry of smoke rolling outwards from an irreplaceable gust of breath.
As if to answer, the wind ignites the sandbanks with a rush of air, gusts billowing harshly enough to force a turn of his head. Dusty grains lift into great sweeping clouds, spiraling across the oceans of red and orange barrens until they settle in sifted mounds once again. The remnants of a dying breeze remain to splay his silvered mane across his neck, along the ridges of his backside, while his ambered eyes watch a drifting feather sway to his feathered ankles.
The lavender plume fell motionless at his feet.
A symbol that placed a signature without the pensmith’s presence, his head turned toward the North, watching the stillness of night claim even the path of a silvered cove. He continued his passage to the largest canyon, pressing his nose to the fringe in farewell. Eremiel sought the river within the confines of crags empowering themselves as a cradle, clutching within them the promise of existence.
Mahlon x Kohl