resurrect the saint within the wretch
He groans beneath the night sky and those giant trees, their canopies sheltering his sight from the stars that wink gently at him. The stallion moves beneath shadow and moonlight, the frozen debris of the forest floor clinging to his skin in little fractiles of ice, crunching as he shifts his weight. The white of his wings are tattered with muddied snow and bits of redwood branches that had tried to ease his fall from the sky, still outspread from his withers. He doesn’t try to assess the damage done by the fall, not yet; not when the burning sensation from his vision still presses fervently in his mind. He swears he can still smell the tendrils of smoke that had poisoned his nostrils. He is not given much time to reflect as his dark eyes flicker upwards to a familiar face, concern etched in the chestnut’s blue eyes. The pale bone of his face is littered with tiny scrapes, the blood standing out starkly even within the shadows. They were not deep enough for the wounds to drip openly, but the cuts were obvious and apparent.
Upon seeing her, he attempts to gather the deep obsidian of his legs beneath him to stand. The length of his wings are still outstretched, finding himself too tired and in too much pain to bring them to his sides. Feathers are missing from their gossamer length, parts of their ivory color stained red from where they had been ripped unwillingly from their root. “Lilliana,” he wheezes, still trying to regain his breath that his lungs had lost on impact. Though he does not feel like anything is broken, his right shoulder keeps him from standing - the pain is deep and throbbing, already bruising on the surface - and he wonders if it is out of place as it is what hit the ground first. He winces as he finds himself upright, his belly against the cold-bitten floor of the forest.
Warden’s chin rests gently on a foreleg, the curved horns protruding from his forehead tilting forward and catching the moonlight with the movement. His white eyelids flutter from a mixture of weakness and sorrow. He is not sure how her magic worked the first time and he is afraid to ask if she has seen what had caused him to fall from the sky.
Suddenly, he seemingly straightens with a jolt that has been sent through his body. The ocean blue of his eyes turn milky and he is gone from Taiga and finds himself on the dark and foreboding cliff shores of Nerine. The Watcher is met with fire once again, amongst a scene that involves so many characters that he finds it hard to keep his eyes in one place. Fire pours from open mouths, dragons, and flame-laced ravens painting the skies. Boulders fall and crash into bodies; the screams are deafening as the powerful cannot help to drown the weak. Destruction rages at every turn and with no end in sight.
He finds it strange that such a vision would replay for him - it had not been the first time that this scene had unraveled before him. This time, it is much more fervent and warlike, whereas previously he would only see fire and individual deaths. But now, the visions string together a bit more clearly, and when the open jaws of the fire-breathing stallion turn to him, he is jolted back into the present with such force, he rocks forward in place.
When Warden returns to her, the alarm is apparent in his now navy gaze. “Lilliana,” he repeats with barely a breath, his heart racing. The forest is quiet; still. “Something terrible is going to happen,” he tells her through gritted teeth. He nearly laughs at the statement - when is that ever not the case with him? Of course, something terrible is going to happen. It’s silly to say it out loud. The white of his ears falls gently back into the darkness of his mane, pensive as he sifts through his thoughts as well as the deep pain throughout his body.
@[lilliana]
