08-06-2020, 09:39 PM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
Everything is angry.
The world is angry.
There is nothing to be satisfied about (is there ever?).
There is gold in the air, and He latches to it immediately. A glistening tinge on the horizon - a spark in the desolate landscape of Pangea. He forgets, sometimes, whether or not he resided over this place. There is too much time in the space between his bones, too much age in the grit of his blood. He simply remembers the bleak and vast barren of her achingly long stretch of land. There is nothing here ( was there ever?) - there is little to be found.
He never knows why He returns - there is not much left here for him. The boredom can’t be placated - his heart will never know a thing - his loins only carry the trace of magic. The Beqanna he once knew is too far gone; there is nothing left. And yet, still, he returns. His ancient bones and his weary magic and his history that he has long forgotten.
He watches her - red and blue and gold (a flurry and a forest of color). She picks her way gently, uncomfortably, unsure (but so steady in her trek) - and he waits. Something quiet and soft in the corner, studying her so sure journey.
“Looking for someone?” His voice slithers into the air as she broaches the feast of feathers along the shore. He is languid, a relaxed posture in the poignant red of the desert. He shifts his weight, hooves sinking in what little damp earth exists in this barren place. His head tosses slightly upwards towards the abandoned angel wing that this golden thing studies. “Wasn’t me.” He says with a shrug.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in