Ruhr
03-23-2024, 02:03 PM
No, she tells him, and Ruhr frowns.
She does not know she is from the Moon?
Her words are hesitant, and he remains entirely focused on them and her, inattentive to all else. She does not know that she is from the Moon, that she is a gift. She feels it though? and at that Ruhr slowly exhales the breath he’d been holding, grateful that the Moon has given her that at least.
The Moon does not bless all with Her full knowledge; Ruhr is of Her Chosen. More so even than his fellow Stratosians, he is certain, for only he has been granted Her visions. Only he knows with certainty what She wants, and Her will is his. He is moonstruck, he knows, but the Moon keeps him from edging into delusion.
The Moon, and the visions that come out wrong.
Are you real? What may I call you?
“I am Her Diviner,” the feathered stallion replies without ever looking away from her, “But you may call me Ruhr, and yes: I am real.” That she would ask amuses him, as though he is the one who had fallen from the sky, and the humor remains around the edges of his eyes as she moves to stand, and he steps back again to give her space.
His right leg burns, his step short, and the bright flare of pain rids him of the smile from a moment before. To distract himself, he focuses on the pattern of her wings as she flares them wide, noting the bars of palest pink on the pearly feathers as he settles his weight to his left side.
Hadn’t he seen that very shade of pink on the face of the Moon herself, as she hung near the horizon? Surely he had. He blinks, and his wings shift with incredulity at her repeated question. Why wouldn’t he be real? How hard, exactly, had she hit her head?
With his weight settled on his opposite side, Ruhr extends his feathered wing with an expectant expression on his brightly marked face. The offer to reach out and touch it, to test his realness, is clear. So is the opportunity for her to easily knock him off balance, but the risk seems worth it. She doesn’t look the aggressive sort, and her legs are still trembling. He is not defenseless if she is, as beneath the feathers and dapple hide, Ruhr is in his prime. The Moon keeps him there, and he is grateful, and he tries not to wonder why She does not rid him of his limp as well.
Rather than dwell on that in silence, he asks: “Do you know where you are? The locals call it the Meadow.”
@Plenilune
She does not know she is from the Moon?
Her words are hesitant, and he remains entirely focused on them and her, inattentive to all else. She does not know that she is from the Moon, that she is a gift. She feels it though? and at that Ruhr slowly exhales the breath he’d been holding, grateful that the Moon has given her that at least.
The Moon does not bless all with Her full knowledge; Ruhr is of Her Chosen. More so even than his fellow Stratosians, he is certain, for only he has been granted Her visions. Only he knows with certainty what She wants, and Her will is his. He is moonstruck, he knows, but the Moon keeps him from edging into delusion.
The Moon, and the visions that come out wrong.
Are you real? What may I call you?
“I am Her Diviner,” the feathered stallion replies without ever looking away from her, “But you may call me Ruhr, and yes: I am real.” That she would ask amuses him, as though he is the one who had fallen from the sky, and the humor remains around the edges of his eyes as she moves to stand, and he steps back again to give her space.
His right leg burns, his step short, and the bright flare of pain rids him of the smile from a moment before. To distract himself, he focuses on the pattern of her wings as she flares them wide, noting the bars of palest pink on the pearly feathers as he settles his weight to his left side.
Hadn’t he seen that very shade of pink on the face of the Moon herself, as she hung near the horizon? Surely he had. He blinks, and his wings shift with incredulity at her repeated question. Why wouldn’t he be real? How hard, exactly, had she hit her head?
With his weight settled on his opposite side, Ruhr extends his feathered wing with an expectant expression on his brightly marked face. The offer to reach out and touch it, to test his realness, is clear. So is the opportunity for her to easily knock him off balance, but the risk seems worth it. She doesn’t look the aggressive sort, and her legs are still trembling. He is not defenseless if she is, as beneath the feathers and dapple hide, Ruhr is in his prime. The Moon keeps him there, and he is grateful, and he tries not to wonder why She does not rid him of his limp as well.
Rather than dwell on that in silence, he asks: “Do you know where you are? The locals call it the Meadow.”
@Plenilune