05-27-2021, 11:03 AM
The child that went into The Darkness is not the young stallion that emerges, too gangly, too soft-shelled, still trying to learn the pattern of his own hoofbeats one-two-three-four-five-six, one-two-three-four-five-six, each moving in strange, quick succession, each tangling together sometimes and sending him sprawling in sand and surf in a celtic knot of chagrin.
No, he is not that anymore, though of course he is still young, still growing into his body, and its lines are soft with youth except for the crisp edges of his scales which bend around that supple flesh like armor.
Somewhere, deep in his breast, he knows he is a strange sight, even in a land full of horses twisted into dragons, into kelpies, and any other number of beasts. Even in a land full of shapeshifters and fae, he does not know of anyone that looks like him (not even his parents, though Mother is delicate and strange in her way and the father-gone-feral who he has not met also wears oddness like second skin.) Perhaps it should trouble him, this feeling of singularity, but he rises to its challenge greedily, as he rises from the ocean’s briny depths to gleam bright in the tropical sunlight drenching the island’s white and shining shore. Ischia is glorious in the beaming sun and Enoch grins back at it a wild smile.
He leaves the water, flicking droplets from his tail and the swimmerets hidden beneath, those long antennae sweeping the air as if to make room in an imagined crowd. Ischia has never been crowded, and it has never been a kingdom, but he pretends himself its beloved prince just the same, handsome, fashionable, humble.
A stranger is waiting there on the beach and he approaches them with all the ease of young nobility, practiced and smooth, the ocean-wild smile turned charming instead.
“Hello, are you looking for someone?”
No, he is not that anymore, though of course he is still young, still growing into his body, and its lines are soft with youth except for the crisp edges of his scales which bend around that supple flesh like armor.
Somewhere, deep in his breast, he knows he is a strange sight, even in a land full of horses twisted into dragons, into kelpies, and any other number of beasts. Even in a land full of shapeshifters and fae, he does not know of anyone that looks like him (not even his parents, though Mother is delicate and strange in her way and the father-gone-feral who he has not met also wears oddness like second skin.) Perhaps it should trouble him, this feeling of singularity, but he rises to its challenge greedily, as he rises from the ocean’s briny depths to gleam bright in the tropical sunlight drenching the island’s white and shining shore. Ischia is glorious in the beaming sun and Enoch grins back at it a wild smile.
He leaves the water, flicking droplets from his tail and the swimmerets hidden beneath, those long antennae sweeping the air as if to make room in an imagined crowd. Ischia has never been crowded, and it has never been a kingdom, but he pretends himself its beloved prince just the same, handsome, fashionable, humble.
A stranger is waiting there on the beach and he approaches them with all the ease of young nobility, practiced and smooth, the ocean-wild smile turned charming instead.
“Hello, are you looking for someone?”
@[Maurtia]