Our Tangled Roots; Rhaegor

[Rhaegor]

and I could easily lose my mind; the way you kiss me will work each time
calling me to come back to bed, singing Georgia on my mind

Blood seems to be the focus of both of their lives, these days. Spilling it, coughing it, feeling it run like sludge through their constricted veins; sickness happened upon the eldest triplets as fire upon dry grass, though in this case the grass has consciousness. Will chose to kill Rhonen; Rhae chose to leave the safe lands. They'd discussed as much at the beginning of the outbreak, with Sviko too - but months have passed since then, and their sicknesses must be worsening.

At least, Rhae's is. He hopes that Sviko has managed to stay healthy; it would be a shame for their mothers to lose all three of their children to this plague. Not that he knows about Aegean - like I said, months have passed since he last visited home.

Home... Funny, that he should attribute that word to the place he was born, and not the land which now hosts him. Standing astride the depth of a particular valley where sweet grasses grow, the disheveled stallion considered these useless things as if he had all the time in the world, when really that became more and more questionable with each passing day. Twitching, the wings atop his shoulder shed a couple more feathers, the places worst effected by the sickness already half-bare. He would not be able to fly soon, if he still could at all.

Yoooooo... Whyooooo...

His ears perked; the wind blew as it always did here, but in its howl Rhaegor imagines he hears something more. Roused, the stallion surges forward, gritting his teeth as he comes to the slant which will bring him out of the valley and on to the ridge. As his heart begins beating more quickly to accommodate the extra strain on his muscles and lungs, blood begins gently rolling down his nostrils, lending the pink of his muzzle an extra bright hue. About half way up, he begins coughing, the sensation of blood trickling down the back of his throat both unnerving and frustrating; with a few pauses from here on out, Rhae finally finds himself atop the ridge, sweating profusely and bleeding excessively.

He is the embodiment of Health, clearly.

Swinging his shapely head from side to side in something of a daze, it takes the Hyalinian prince more than a moment to register that that red thing with sticks pocking out of it is not a Tephran rock, but the very familiar form of his normally boisterous and authoritative sister. Smiling (and coughing, though quiet now), Rhae drops his head low and approaches, coming at last to drop down next to Warlight in a heap of mottling feathers and sickness.

From this close up, he can see the fur which has begun to disappear from his beautiful sister's sides; but though he retains his coat, the bones beneath it are painfully apparent. The sickness is affecting them differently, but altogether without mercy.

"Hey Warlard," the boy said lamely, the childish nickname slash insult contextually hilarious but subjectively lame; "Didn't think I would be seeing you here."

Rhaegor

@[Warlight]