11-09-2016, 03:16 PM
BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING
OF MOVING ON
OF MOVING ON
Tiphon, lost to his memories and his pain, succumbs to the need to roam. The warmth of Ischia was at his back when he took flight and it wasn’t long until the tropical climate dissipated and waned as the season of winter choked the mainland. Blistery winds greeted him and although these temporary wings are much smaller than the grandeur of what he had been born with Tiphon still navigated with practiced ease until he had settled into the field. He alights gingerly and favors his cracked front hoof. How he managed to injure himself he isn’t sure, but the lack of magic in his being is taunting him now. He could so easily heal himself once before, but the reckoning stripped him of everything. Unable to rejuvenate himself Tiphon is forced to suffer, forced to be a mere mortal.
It’s with this limp that he joins them, but despite the pain climbing up his leg he still carries himself with dignity and with the expression of a soldier. The concept of discomfort is new to him; each time he experienced pain it had been short-lived as magic sewed the muscle fibers back together or immediately mended his wounds. With this, he isn’t sure how long his misery will last.
The two have only just met with Magnus’ name still idly waiting for a reply. ”I’m Tiphon,” he brusquely adds to the conversation as a languid grin softens the ridges of his porcelain face. ”I hope the winter has been kinder to you both than me,” a play of humor riddles his voice while glancing down to the large quarter crack splitting his hoof. Perhaps it would be best if he remained on the island and took comfort in the tide, but alas, their home is still being built, still strengthening. It’s here that he must be to increase their numbers, and so he puts aside his personal pain for the good of his home as always.
It’s with this limp that he joins them, but despite the pain climbing up his leg he still carries himself with dignity and with the expression of a soldier. The concept of discomfort is new to him; each time he experienced pain it had been short-lived as magic sewed the muscle fibers back together or immediately mended his wounds. With this, he isn’t sure how long his misery will last.
The two have only just met with Magnus’ name still idly waiting for a reply. ”I’m Tiphon,” he brusquely adds to the conversation as a languid grin softens the ridges of his porcelain face. ”I hope the winter has been kinder to you both than me,” a play of humor riddles his voice while glancing down to the large quarter crack splitting his hoof. Perhaps it would be best if he remained on the island and took comfort in the tide, but alas, their home is still being built, still strengthening. It’s here that he must be to increase their numbers, and so he puts aside his personal pain for the good of his home as always.
TIPHON
STARLACE AND INFECTION