01-06-2016, 12:37 PM
He cannot say he feels particularly free to participate in this – a doubt all newcomers to any place must face, it seems. He comes to Hurricane's call with a quiet worry, all his own. It has been a very long time since the old stallion has felt out of place, or as if he was encroaching on something entirely outside of his welcome. He feels a newborn’s outsiderness, a sensation he has not felt since he was a colt on the perimeters of social circles. That was long ago – long before he had withdrawn from society, for a very long time.
But he comes all the same. Driven by the impulsion to fit in, he realizes in this moment with a nod to the grey stallion atop his rock and snow, it maybe be something he is far too old to be pursing so hotly. But, he is also too old to take to the skies so completely, anymore. Perhaps too old for that, above all. This place is new his roost. His place to stay and to rest, to help, and to be – split between here, and wherever she may be. So he must engage.
Of the war, he is surprisingly indifferent. Clock would likely never mistake Corruption for being hard or apathetic, but that is because it is she who gets his softness and passion in full. It is she he gives it too so willingly, to hold and keep safe for him. He is not a brute – violence is not his primary calling, though he is made so perfectly for it; and if he could choose he would have no part in it at all. But if it is that he cannot, having delivered himself to the hands of this rugged ice hall, then so be it.
He knows nobody in the Gates. Or the Chamber. Or the Amazons. As far as he knows – his children are a mystery to him, and he has no friends outside of his love. And so in the end it means little to him.
He listens to the other grey stallion speak (one of the handful of complete strangers he now lives shoulder to shoulder with), and the big black bird is struck by the trust and loyalty in his voice. Hurricane commands a great deal of both, it would seem, and from his scant experience, he can see why. He can see, as well, the wisdom in a swap of colts and fillies. The diametric construction of their two kingdoms – the Tundra and the Amazons – seems to be so suitably made for this.
“On the matter of war, I admit I haven’t much of an opinion or stake either way, at least not as of now. I am willing to defer to the majority will. As for the deal with the Amazons, I think it's a very sound idea.” He shifts his big wings on his back, “I am Corruption, by the way.” His voice is ever the ancient rumble of a mountain shedding stones. Ponderous, straightforward.
But he comes all the same. Driven by the impulsion to fit in, he realizes in this moment with a nod to the grey stallion atop his rock and snow, it maybe be something he is far too old to be pursing so hotly. But, he is also too old to take to the skies so completely, anymore. Perhaps too old for that, above all. This place is new his roost. His place to stay and to rest, to help, and to be – split between here, and wherever she may be. So he must engage.
Of the war, he is surprisingly indifferent. Clock would likely never mistake Corruption for being hard or apathetic, but that is because it is she who gets his softness and passion in full. It is she he gives it too so willingly, to hold and keep safe for him. He is not a brute – violence is not his primary calling, though he is made so perfectly for it; and if he could choose he would have no part in it at all. But if it is that he cannot, having delivered himself to the hands of this rugged ice hall, then so be it.
He knows nobody in the Gates. Or the Chamber. Or the Amazons. As far as he knows – his children are a mystery to him, and he has no friends outside of his love. And so in the end it means little to him.
He listens to the other grey stallion speak (one of the handful of complete strangers he now lives shoulder to shoulder with), and the big black bird is struck by the trust and loyalty in his voice. Hurricane commands a great deal of both, it would seem, and from his scant experience, he can see why. He can see, as well, the wisdom in a swap of colts and fillies. The diametric construction of their two kingdoms – the Tundra and the Amazons – seems to be so suitably made for this.
“On the matter of war, I admit I haven’t much of an opinion or stake either way, at least not as of now. I am willing to defer to the majority will. As for the deal with the Amazons, I think it's a very sound idea.” He shifts his big wings on his back, “I am Corruption, by the way.” His voice is ever the ancient rumble of a mountain shedding stones. Ponderous, straightforward.