He is quiet, withdrawn – pensive, even. The hard gold of his eyes shutters the thoughts skipping through his mind, reflecting instead the deep blue of the south sea below, and the churn where freshwater meets salted at the river’s mouth. Sweat and water mingle in dirty rivulets as they track their way down his piebald skin, sinking into the shale he perches on. The climb had not been an easy one without the use of his magic – the slope barely that, alternating between joint-twisting outcroppings and moss-covered niches – but the bite of fatigue that yet lingers in the burn of muscles pushed to their limits is a satisfying one. It reminds him that he is yet alive. It has only been a few dozen years or so, since the bloody-shouldered queen had borne her favorite, her shark-eyed general’s son, but some days his soul drags with the weight of a dozen lifetimes.
Time passes without mark. How much time, he does not notice, but when he finally blinks his coat is dry, itches and the eastern horizon is tinged pink and clearly defined.
The obsidian-black dragon’s wings laid along his sides unfurl to greet the dawn. He loves the sound they make, stretching out several horse lengths to his left and right, the scales and thick skin stretched between bone glittering in the morning light. Tilting them up and back, they snap and tremble, full of ocean air, tugging wildly at the joint of wing and body. It is hard to remember a time before such things came to him so easily – though he takes care to keep himself in peak physical condition and is wary of relying too much on his magic, it is now just as much a part of him as the knotted scars on his shoulders from a cougar long ago. Almost reluctantly, he lowers his head and folds his wings, dropping off the face of the cliff and soaring out across the bay.
He spends hours wheeling above the glittering water, occasionally shifting on the fly and diving beneath the surface to click and leap with the creatures drawn in by his presence. It is nearly midday when the ebb and flow of wildflowers in the breeze catches his attention. Brilliant in their variety, they nod and bob in happy agreement with whatever the wind has to say. Flight muscles aching, he finds an easy landing near a small copse of trees, the great wings melting away like smoke as he moves toward water. It is quiet, not just here, but across Beqanna. He has survived many a lull, but boredom festers beneath his scar-pocked coat, the desire and urge to do something a siren song he cannot ignore for long.
08-13-2020, 03:31 AM
(This post was last modified: 08-13-2020, 03:32 AM by Set.)
He swings around to meet her less than friendly greeting, his black wings melting back into nothingness as the magic thrums in his veins. She is small; but that is only an observation, not a detriment. The smallest of creatures are typically the most tenacious. It is a smile that welcomes her, lips drawn up into the mismatched black and white of his face, bright eyes dancing with the mischief that he was only just missing.
Rather than answer her, he studies her, moving off to her side in a roundabout way, scarred muzzle dipping into the mess of wildflowers as he goes. When he moves, it is predatory and confident through no conscious thought of his; certainly, he is not stalking her – he can feel the thekwane under her skin, the little hippogriff mutt, even the little equine whose laughter is now adrift at sea. The hum of insects lies thick and heavy in his ears and he pauses, as if her invitation for him to get lost is one that demands profound thought.
Smacking his lips together suddenly, he looks back up at her, watching her expression carefully. “Can one be lost if they don’t belong any-particular-where in the first place?” He tilts his head, brow furrowed, the taste of her suggestion spiced and perfumed. His chest trembles with a bark of laughter and he moves again, nosing through the blooms.
Set has never been one to be idle and that particular characteristic manifests itself in his oft demonstrated inability to stand still. He drifts around her, eyes rolling over the scars that cover her left flank. His own itch at the sight, his knotted ropes of scar tissue lining his shoulders. He snaps his tail and shifts, a tawny mountain lion with his bright eyes stretching in his place. He takes a moment to roll in a particularly fragrant clump of blood-red poppies before sitting up and finding her gaze, whiskers twitching with ill-disguised amusement. “Are you always so disagreeable?”