11-09-2016, 02:52 PM
BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING
OF MOVING ON
OF MOVING ON
It isn’t often that he ventures from the solitude of Ischia. The waves lull him into a serenity he never wants to escape, the tropical breeze cradling him with a warm, lover’s breath. There are often days where he rests on the sandy beach and drinks in the sunlight while his eyes stare across the inlet and digest each speck of land, the sandbars, the mainland. It’s a paradise there that he hardly strays from, but he forces himself to the mainland on this day. The estrogen is running high, outnumbering him, and although he laughs at the matter he also wants to resolve it.
He has taken to underneath an oak tree for the past while. The touch of winter is still upon them, but his coat lacks the density that most mainlanders possess; there is no need for it in Ischia. His wings – so small in comparison to what he had been born with – are tightly coiled at his sides and shift only when a breeze sweeps across him. From afar he observes as horses resume normal activity as to prior to this reckoning. There are those that are homeless and those who are pursuing greater numbers in their herd, much like himself. Calculating and patient Tiphon bides his time until a particular pair grabs his attention.
”I’m Tiphon,” he’s direct but certainly not unkind. There’s a brightness in his gilded eyes that isn’t commonly found as he glances from the mare to the stallion. Seeing the female shift wrenches his heart in so many ways. There is a want to shift, to fade into the world as he had so many times before. There is a lust for his own magic to return to his blood and soul, but he still lacks it all. The residue of Beqanna’s thievery is his porcelain white and gold coat, but he lacks his aura, his prowess, his majestic wings. He is mortal now, reduced to nothing compared to what he once was. To visit the Mountain would be to tease himself and play as a reminder of what was. He doesn’t realize – doesn’t know – that the Mountain has lately let its magic leak into those suffering souls who have begged for its return.
He assumes this is it, that this is his end and that he will die a mortal and not the guardian he was born to be.
Alas, he retracts from his humbled thoughts to gaze upon them and hear the name of one land: Tephra. Not having explored the mainland, he grabs for information hungrily. ”And I’m from Ischia, a tropical island to the north.” Home, that’s what it is now. It’s paradise, it’s refuge, it’s family. A smile slowly creeps along his lips as he amiably adds, ”I hope you’ve both fared well in these bitter winter months.” Because there is hardly a winter in Ischia.
He has taken to underneath an oak tree for the past while. The touch of winter is still upon them, but his coat lacks the density that most mainlanders possess; there is no need for it in Ischia. His wings – so small in comparison to what he had been born with – are tightly coiled at his sides and shift only when a breeze sweeps across him. From afar he observes as horses resume normal activity as to prior to this reckoning. There are those that are homeless and those who are pursuing greater numbers in their herd, much like himself. Calculating and patient Tiphon bides his time until a particular pair grabs his attention.
”I’m Tiphon,” he’s direct but certainly not unkind. There’s a brightness in his gilded eyes that isn’t commonly found as he glances from the mare to the stallion. Seeing the female shift wrenches his heart in so many ways. There is a want to shift, to fade into the world as he had so many times before. There is a lust for his own magic to return to his blood and soul, but he still lacks it all. The residue of Beqanna’s thievery is his porcelain white and gold coat, but he lacks his aura, his prowess, his majestic wings. He is mortal now, reduced to nothing compared to what he once was. To visit the Mountain would be to tease himself and play as a reminder of what was. He doesn’t realize – doesn’t know – that the Mountain has lately let its magic leak into those suffering souls who have begged for its return.
He assumes this is it, that this is his end and that he will die a mortal and not the guardian he was born to be.
Alas, he retracts from his humbled thoughts to gaze upon them and hear the name of one land: Tephra. Not having explored the mainland, he grabs for information hungrily. ”And I’m from Ischia, a tropical island to the north.” Home, that’s what it is now. It’s paradise, it’s refuge, it’s family. A smile slowly creeps along his lips as he amiably adds, ”I hope you’ve both fared well in these bitter winter months.” Because there is hardly a winter in Ischia.
TIPHON
STARLACE AND INFECTION