11-25-2018, 07:14 AM
The wind is cold and howling; piercing, blinding, deafening, and pushing them back when they walk. Hills going up that he’s never encountered here before; perhaps snow and ice compiled by the ominous wind. His hoofs get stuck repeatedly when ice crashes under his weight, a baroque descendent through and through in that aspect - still, he’s happy to not have the most heavy of legs like a Belgian Draft but rather perhaps slightly thinned - the slim and strong kind like Friesians usually have. He’s happy with this fact simply because it means he can get un-stuck again, also.
It is slow going, especially when one is shivering in a summer coat. His muscles are protesting with every move, half-frozen - it is nothing but his enormous will-power that helps him go through. That, and the fact that he’s not the first in this line of idiot horses like himself, going on a suicide mission for the sake of the rest of the world, is what ensures he makes it at all. They may not all live to see the result of it - not with conditions like these. It’s a scary thought on one hand, but then, he’s already living on spare time, so why bother thinking it through? He also isn’t one to give up easily, as thick-skulled as they come. If someone has to do it, then he’s glad he’s here instead of several others he can think of.
At long last there seems to be an opening; he can’t tell if it’s complete relief or simply the eye of the storm; that is until he joins the gathering of horses near the lake, and sees that they’ve reached their destination. A tree at the heart-indent; but unlike last time he’d visited the strangely un-frozen lake, now the tree is full of ice pegs, sharp-pointed darts that menacingly hang from the tree - like bad omens, or threatening fingers perhaps, pointing at the gathered folk accusingly.
As if they’re the ones who caused all this mess in the first place.
Looking around, he wonders if some did indeed go to Pangea to kill Rhonen. He surely didn’t trust Carnage himself, and would not be tempted to take a deal of his unless a family member’s life depended on it. He briefly wonders if Ophanim or Chryseis would be stupid enough to ever bring him in such a precarious situation, but he brushes it aside. Not today. Today he’s here to fix things.
The fae must know that this island needs more fixing than just the plague, but helping them fix the plague will at least be something.
Patience, then. One step at a time.
But transporting ice is a problem. Not normally, for him, but today it is; the fae’d so neatly ridden him of his icy advantages while it could have helped them. Why? Levelling the playfield? It honestly wasn’t a competition as far as he knew. And so he looks to his companions. Now-non-healing, wingless Leli. The girl he’s seen on Nerine’s shore but who never bothered to meet with him or Breckin, that he knows of... or maybe she had and nobody ever told him anything... they usually don’t seem to think he needs to know any kingdom business, do they?
His chocolate gaze travels further along the group, but he doesn’t recognise any more of them. Oh there... wingless now... whatshisname - a Shah kid, one of the too many he hadn’t bothered to keep up with, not enough anyway. Perhaps if the guy had visited more or introduced himself, he would know, but no matter.
He snorts. So far nobody has spoken yet, so he steps towards the group. Head high enough because he wants to look them all in the eye and seek their attention, but not overly so because he doesn’t want to give them the idea he looks down in them. In this they’re equals - so whether they give him their attention or not, is not for him to decide, but at least they’ll know he has some ideas. Already one mare secludes herself, but if she wants to work on her own, that’s no problem with him. In fact, it sparks an idea. When he opens his mouth however, he notices his own chittering, though after a while, his tone steadies somewhat. ”L-let’s... think this over. We should t-try every idea we can come up with, hope-f-fully one makes it to the Mountain. One-ne ...thingg we must remember about ice. Our bodies, our breath, a-are too hot. They’ll melt if we carry them normal-ly.” A shudder. ”An-and if the ice s-starts melting, the icicles will fall off the branches... we’ll need something to hold ‘em together. But maybe... spread the chances. Any idea may work... Good luck. For the world. For our friends. For our families.” Divide and conquer. And he hopes for them, to remember they’re not alone in this world. Sacrifices must be made, for the world to survive. But not everybody has to take the dangerous path he’s planned for himself.
Some take his advice, and he watches as several horses group together into weaving baskets and the like. Others may find perhaps more hold by using other devices, things they may find in the snow. The bay mare, his peripheral vision spies, has already snatched the biggest icicle she can find, and hurries away with it. Speed might be a key. Himself, he lets go of the group discussion after his short speech, and studies their surroundings. The unfrozen, still freezing cold lake, and the snow itself - shouldn’t that work? Would it be enough? Perhaps it will.
Entranced by his thoughts now, he makes his way into the lake water, not bothering if anybody follows his reckless behaviour or tries something else instead. He soaks himself, until his legs are numb and he’s hardly able to move. This thing requires some kind of sacrifice. Not, per say, in the literal sense, although a frozen dead body would perhaps be ideal transport (in terms of temperature that is) for an icicle; but in every other sense it can’t be easy. They’ve already given up traits, for example. Should he give up his life or may he keep it? Not that he’s unwilling to die; he’s done it three times over now and he wouldn’t mind the fourth time actually being meaningful and worth something - helpful even. But he doesn’t think the others will do it (kill him) or even, that they should. The fairies aren’t very keen on horses pointlessly dying, he believes. Or else why would he even be here? They’d put him back on the side of the living, after all.
His mind is as numb as his limbs are by the time he makes his way out. It’s dark now, the night colder than the day, but that should work in his favour - unless he dies tonight. The water freezes on his fur in the cold night and he knows now, how to secure the icicles on himself. Slowly, he rolls through the snow like an old man might, stiff from the cold. Snow is not that dense, unlike the cracked layer of ice clinging to him now, and the air entrapped in it will insulate and isolate both his body heat and the icicle’s coldness, respectively.
Then comes the tricky part. When the rest of them have cleared the area directly beneath the tree, he enters it. Only a moment’s hesitation left, then he bucks - with an audible clunk where his hooves land on the tree stem, the larger ice drops down sharply upon him. Some don’t make it past the snow - small ones, not worthy of the trip. Some bury themselves into his newly created, frosty external layer. And some dive and delve deeper, into skin and muscle with a sharp painful gasp and a drop of blood (or more, but he’s cold enough not to feel it too much). No vital organs are hit, he thinks. Hopes, he corrects his thoughts. He doesn’t linger though. One more dip into the lake and the extra water freezes his entrapment to himself when he emerges (for now). But it only needs to hold while he’s swimming to the mainland anyway.
He hardly knows what to do any more, but he’s set himself a task, and that’s the only thing his stubborn mind keeps hold on. Following the island’s curves, he nears the southern point in a cold-induced, near-delusional state; a walking snowman in the aftermath of a storm.
He nearly drowns halfway. He’s not sure if anybody has followed him to help or not, but if they did he’d be ever grateful. He swims as far as he can, but occasionally stops on sandbanks - those banks that the seals usually inhabit, but his bloodied, icy form may look scary enough. Hell, he must look like a horse-yeti of sorts. He sure feels like one.
He cannot linger. His body stops shaking and shivering along the way, and that’s probably not a good sign. Entirely cold, he wonders if he’ll even make it. Through the Taigan woods he goes next, almost feeling warm. Happy with the thick mist for the sake of some of the ice on his back, he takes a slightly too-long route, lost, not entirely sure where he’s going but only knowing that he is, in fact, going somewhere.
By some miracle, the mountain comes in sight by dawn. Ah yes, that’s where he was going. He starts shivering again, and now even knowing what he’s doing, travels towards the mountain base and then starts up.
He’s not sure how far up he must go or how far he even makes it. At some point he crashes down. And hopes that there is still enough ice on him. There might be... he’s so, so cold. Will it be enough? Or did he just doom himself forever and will he never be able to help his family get fully rid of this plague? He has so much still to do but... well, at least he tried.
It is slow going, especially when one is shivering in a summer coat. His muscles are protesting with every move, half-frozen - it is nothing but his enormous will-power that helps him go through. That, and the fact that he’s not the first in this line of idiot horses like himself, going on a suicide mission for the sake of the rest of the world, is what ensures he makes it at all. They may not all live to see the result of it - not with conditions like these. It’s a scary thought on one hand, but then, he’s already living on spare time, so why bother thinking it through? He also isn’t one to give up easily, as thick-skulled as they come. If someone has to do it, then he’s glad he’s here instead of several others he can think of.
At long last there seems to be an opening; he can’t tell if it’s complete relief or simply the eye of the storm; that is until he joins the gathering of horses near the lake, and sees that they’ve reached their destination. A tree at the heart-indent; but unlike last time he’d visited the strangely un-frozen lake, now the tree is full of ice pegs, sharp-pointed darts that menacingly hang from the tree - like bad omens, or threatening fingers perhaps, pointing at the gathered folk accusingly.
As if they’re the ones who caused all this mess in the first place.
Looking around, he wonders if some did indeed go to Pangea to kill Rhonen. He surely didn’t trust Carnage himself, and would not be tempted to take a deal of his unless a family member’s life depended on it. He briefly wonders if Ophanim or Chryseis would be stupid enough to ever bring him in such a precarious situation, but he brushes it aside. Not today. Today he’s here to fix things.
The fae must know that this island needs more fixing than just the plague, but helping them fix the plague will at least be something.
Patience, then. One step at a time.
But transporting ice is a problem. Not normally, for him, but today it is; the fae’d so neatly ridden him of his icy advantages while it could have helped them. Why? Levelling the playfield? It honestly wasn’t a competition as far as he knew. And so he looks to his companions. Now-non-healing, wingless Leli. The girl he’s seen on Nerine’s shore but who never bothered to meet with him or Breckin, that he knows of... or maybe she had and nobody ever told him anything... they usually don’t seem to think he needs to know any kingdom business, do they?
His chocolate gaze travels further along the group, but he doesn’t recognise any more of them. Oh there... wingless now... whatshisname - a Shah kid, one of the too many he hadn’t bothered to keep up with, not enough anyway. Perhaps if the guy had visited more or introduced himself, he would know, but no matter.
He snorts. So far nobody has spoken yet, so he steps towards the group. Head high enough because he wants to look them all in the eye and seek their attention, but not overly so because he doesn’t want to give them the idea he looks down in them. In this they’re equals - so whether they give him their attention or not, is not for him to decide, but at least they’ll know he has some ideas. Already one mare secludes herself, but if she wants to work on her own, that’s no problem with him. In fact, it sparks an idea. When he opens his mouth however, he notices his own chittering, though after a while, his tone steadies somewhat. ”L-let’s... think this over. We should t-try every idea we can come up with, hope-f-fully one makes it to the Mountain. One-ne ...thingg we must remember about ice. Our bodies, our breath, a-are too hot. They’ll melt if we carry them normal-ly.” A shudder. ”An-and if the ice s-starts melting, the icicles will fall off the branches... we’ll need something to hold ‘em together. But maybe... spread the chances. Any idea may work... Good luck. For the world. For our friends. For our families.” Divide and conquer. And he hopes for them, to remember they’re not alone in this world. Sacrifices must be made, for the world to survive. But not everybody has to take the dangerous path he’s planned for himself.
Some take his advice, and he watches as several horses group together into weaving baskets and the like. Others may find perhaps more hold by using other devices, things they may find in the snow. The bay mare, his peripheral vision spies, has already snatched the biggest icicle she can find, and hurries away with it. Speed might be a key. Himself, he lets go of the group discussion after his short speech, and studies their surroundings. The unfrozen, still freezing cold lake, and the snow itself - shouldn’t that work? Would it be enough? Perhaps it will.
Entranced by his thoughts now, he makes his way into the lake water, not bothering if anybody follows his reckless behaviour or tries something else instead. He soaks himself, until his legs are numb and he’s hardly able to move. This thing requires some kind of sacrifice. Not, per say, in the literal sense, although a frozen dead body would perhaps be ideal transport (in terms of temperature that is) for an icicle; but in every other sense it can’t be easy. They’ve already given up traits, for example. Should he give up his life or may he keep it? Not that he’s unwilling to die; he’s done it three times over now and he wouldn’t mind the fourth time actually being meaningful and worth something - helpful even. But he doesn’t think the others will do it (kill him) or even, that they should. The fairies aren’t very keen on horses pointlessly dying, he believes. Or else why would he even be here? They’d put him back on the side of the living, after all.
His mind is as numb as his limbs are by the time he makes his way out. It’s dark now, the night colder than the day, but that should work in his favour - unless he dies tonight. The water freezes on his fur in the cold night and he knows now, how to secure the icicles on himself. Slowly, he rolls through the snow like an old man might, stiff from the cold. Snow is not that dense, unlike the cracked layer of ice clinging to him now, and the air entrapped in it will insulate and isolate both his body heat and the icicle’s coldness, respectively.
Then comes the tricky part. When the rest of them have cleared the area directly beneath the tree, he enters it. Only a moment’s hesitation left, then he bucks - with an audible clunk where his hooves land on the tree stem, the larger ice drops down sharply upon him. Some don’t make it past the snow - small ones, not worthy of the trip. Some bury themselves into his newly created, frosty external layer. And some dive and delve deeper, into skin and muscle with a sharp painful gasp and a drop of blood (or more, but he’s cold enough not to feel it too much). No vital organs are hit, he thinks. Hopes, he corrects his thoughts. He doesn’t linger though. One more dip into the lake and the extra water freezes his entrapment to himself when he emerges (for now). But it only needs to hold while he’s swimming to the mainland anyway.
He hardly knows what to do any more, but he’s set himself a task, and that’s the only thing his stubborn mind keeps hold on. Following the island’s curves, he nears the southern point in a cold-induced, near-delusional state; a walking snowman in the aftermath of a storm.
He nearly drowns halfway. He’s not sure if anybody has followed him to help or not, but if they did he’d be ever grateful. He swims as far as he can, but occasionally stops on sandbanks - those banks that the seals usually inhabit, but his bloodied, icy form may look scary enough. Hell, he must look like a horse-yeti of sorts. He sure feels like one.
He cannot linger. His body stops shaking and shivering along the way, and that’s probably not a good sign. Entirely cold, he wonders if he’ll even make it. Through the Taigan woods he goes next, almost feeling warm. Happy with the thick mist for the sake of some of the ice on his back, he takes a slightly too-long route, lost, not entirely sure where he’s going but only knowing that he is, in fact, going somewhere.
By some miracle, the mountain comes in sight by dawn. Ah yes, that’s where he was going. He starts shivering again, and now even knowing what he’s doing, travels towards the mountain base and then starts up.
He’s not sure how far up he must go or how far he even makes it. At some point he crashes down. And hopes that there is still enough ice on him. There might be... he’s so, so cold. Will it be enough? Or did he just doom himself forever and will he never be able to help his family get fully rid of this plague? He has so much still to do but... well, at least he tried.
Two things I know I can make: pretty kids, and people mad.
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