09-02-2018, 07:33 PM
hold me in this wild, wild world
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
He is standing in the surf, the tips of his wings soaked in salt water where they drag behind him, and sunrise is tinging the water along the horizon a dark color as if blood is dripping into it. He reaches down to touch his own reflection, and the next moment he is in Sylva, the leaves around his hooves the same yellows, oranges, and reds of the sunrise over Ischia. The bay king lifts his head and considers the forest, briefly thinks that perhaps he should have brought Jesper or Belgaer along with him – but then he discards the thought as quickly as it had come. After all, there is little they can do to harm Brennen, but his son and grandson are infinitely more fragile. On a more personal note, he doesn’t want Belgaer to see his sister the way she is, the thing she has become that would allow her nephew tortured and her younger sisters murdered.
Brennen isn’t sure he wants to see her like this, again.
Something isn’t right in the forest. Or, well, something is different. Things have not been right in this forest for a long time. But one thing that simply isn’t here at all, as he stretches his senses across the forest debris, is his daughter. Astarael has been here, and recently, but she is not here now. Brennen feels endlessly guilty for the brief rush of relief that sweeps through him: if Astarael is not here, with her fury and her hurt and her strange insistence that Brennen has somehow ever loved her less, treated her as less than her siblings, perhaps the rest of Sylva will see reason. They will not harbor the murderer of his daughters, of Krone, and the Allied Kingdoms will not feel they need to bring any threat against the forest of perpetual autumn.
(He doesn’t know, about Warrick. He suspects nothing, and so he hasn’t bothered to check.)
He walks forward, in easy strides, glancing at the trees and the weird boulders and the canopy of colored leaves that obscures the sky. Dawn must have broken above him, for the light is brighter now as it filters down to the ground in dappled patterns across his brown pelt and inky black wings. On an inhalation, he tastes the crispness of the winter air and then exhales and halts beside one of the mammoth-sized rocks and then he waits, to see who will come.
Brennen isn’t sure he wants to see her like this, again.
Something isn’t right in the forest. Or, well, something is different. Things have not been right in this forest for a long time. But one thing that simply isn’t here at all, as he stretches his senses across the forest debris, is his daughter. Astarael has been here, and recently, but she is not here now. Brennen feels endlessly guilty for the brief rush of relief that sweeps through him: if Astarael is not here, with her fury and her hurt and her strange insistence that Brennen has somehow ever loved her less, treated her as less than her siblings, perhaps the rest of Sylva will see reason. They will not harbor the murderer of his daughters, of Krone, and the Allied Kingdoms will not feel they need to bring any threat against the forest of perpetual autumn.
(He doesn’t know, about Warrick. He suspects nothing, and so he hasn’t bothered to check.)
He walks forward, in easy strides, glancing at the trees and the weird boulders and the canopy of colored leaves that obscures the sky. Dawn must have broken above him, for the light is brighter now as it filters down to the ground in dappled patterns across his brown pelt and inky black wings. On an inhalation, he tastes the crispness of the winter air and then exhales and halts beside one of the mammoth-sized rocks and then he waits, to see who will come.
hold me in this wild, wild world
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
BRENNEN
@[Arthas]