10-19-2020, 12:48 AM
eight
The world is crisp- a sounding crack upon his universe. Things are shifting and changing, as they are wont to do- but he feels it deeper. He feels the rift between he and Greta (her obedience straying thin). He feels his connection to Beqanna like a thin thread of web. There is no reason for him to stay quite longer. It is such a weary and tiresome thing, to keep returning and staying longer still.
And yet, he is here. All four hooves on the ground, mind (mostly) in tact, and waiting for what comes next. What could possibly be next? What could come that he has not seen, felt, experienced, maneuvered? Magic is the epitome of what most want- but what weariness it is to carry. To live forever, to watch worlds burn and begin again, watch your children die and your enemies burn. It all churns the same.
And so he stands- almost adrift in the tawny leaves beneath his feet. The seasons come, the seasons go- and he shifts them beneath his soul. Green grass, then adrift with flowers, fading to brown, then a sheet of snow- and back again, and back again. He waits.
And yet, he is here. All four hooves on the ground, mind (mostly) in tact, and waiting for what comes next. What could possibly be next? What could come that he has not seen, felt, experienced, maneuvered? Magic is the epitome of what most want- but what weariness it is to carry. To live forever, to watch worlds burn and begin again, watch your children die and your enemies burn. It all churns the same.
And so he stands- almost adrift in the tawny leaves beneath his feet. The seasons come, the seasons go- and he shifts them beneath his soul. Green grass, then adrift with flowers, fading to brown, then a sheet of snow- and back again, and back again. He waits.
mind my wicked words and tipsy topsy smirk