04-23-2019, 07:43 PM
His journey had come full circle and now his legs stopped at the entrance of Pangea, where the life of Beqanna faded into sand and further out, wasteland.
Vadar isn't really sure why he keeps coming back here. This land was the rejected territory, once kingdom; a place where few ventured and even less saw fitting for life. Perhaps that's why he wants to return: they're alike in that way - rejected, ill-suited for Beqanna.
And yet, both he and the risen desert still live.
Taking his first steps inward, the black stallion twists both hairless ears when the call to arms comes. There are only patches of his fur remaining and the rest is dry, cracked skin. Under the hot sun it stretches painfully and turns brown, the color of rot. He is not... well. Except the final effects refuse to take hold and finish the job because whoever or whatever pulled him out of a stupor a few months ago is holding fast and keeping the remaining illness at bay, even as it rages out of control from the Mountain. His split hooves kick up red dust and the sand finds its way into every scab he wears until he comes to the gathering to look up, up where Litotes waits for them.
"Count me in." His misused, aching throat rasps. Vadar's lips are split and bleeding fresh like the cremello's nose. "I'm small, not fit to fight, but I have my ways. I'm Kingdom born as well - the bastard son of a bastard king, so I can hold my own in conversation. Put me wherever you'd like."
ooc: three's a party yo
Vadar isn't really sure why he keeps coming back here. This land was the rejected territory, once kingdom; a place where few ventured and even less saw fitting for life. Perhaps that's why he wants to return: they're alike in that way - rejected, ill-suited for Beqanna.
And yet, both he and the risen desert still live.
Taking his first steps inward, the black stallion twists both hairless ears when the call to arms comes. There are only patches of his fur remaining and the rest is dry, cracked skin. Under the hot sun it stretches painfully and turns brown, the color of rot. He is not... well. Except the final effects refuse to take hold and finish the job because whoever or whatever pulled him out of a stupor a few months ago is holding fast and keeping the remaining illness at bay, even as it rages out of control from the Mountain. His split hooves kick up red dust and the sand finds its way into every scab he wears until he comes to the gathering to look up, up where Litotes waits for them.
"Count me in." His misused, aching throat rasps. Vadar's lips are split and bleeding fresh like the cremello's nose. "I'm small, not fit to fight, but I have my ways. I'm Kingdom born as well - the bastard son of a bastard king, so I can hold my own in conversation. Put me wherever you'd like."
ooc: three's a party yo