10-01-2021, 12:11 PM
It had been hard at first, to be here without Bolder with them. The missing piece of their trinity had been an ache in his chest. But with time, it had dulled until he could almost forget about it. Almost.
Nights are the hardest. Sleep eludes him most evenings. Sometimes, when Bravely curls against him, he can pretend Bolder is there too. Enough to find slumber. Most nights though, there is a hollow where he had once stayed. Tonight is one of those nights.
With a soft sigh, Saffron lifts one white-tipped wing, brushing the feathers idly over a gently glowing mushroom. It washes out the glow of his own golden markings, casting him in an eerie pale light. His green eyes glint in the strange glow, made luminous against his russet skin. He sighs again, eyes dropping to the ground as he pulls his wing back to his side.
He is so tired that he almost feels as though he could drift off. And perhaps he does, for a moment.
It is in those moments of near-sleep that he hears the mysterious chant weave across the land, echoing strangely in the heavy mist. The fog should have been a warning, but here in Taiga, the fog often lingers, curling around the towering sentinel redwoods. The rhyme should make him nervous, but instead he is drawn to it, plagued by an incessant curiosity.
He is normally the sensible one, though he has certainly shared in his siblings many antics. But he is so tired of being the predictable brother. The one who barters peace between them when the bickering grows too heated. For once, he wants nothing so much as to be the spontaneous one.
So he drifts through the fog, following the pull of that enchantmentment. It isn’t until the flutter of a cloth draws his eye that he stops, baffled. He peers around, realizing belatedly he has no clue where he is, nor which direction would take him home. But that is not the strangest thing. No, that dubious title belongs to the bits of fabric, trinkets, and baubles scattered through the trees.
He should be wary, but instead he is drawn by an immense curiosity. Pick your costume, choose with care, the strange voice had crooned, and Saffron can only assume these are the costumes he must choose from. Trailing slowly through the trees, the young stallion does as he has been bid. He picks a costume with care.
When he comes to a swath of blue and red cloth with a strange S on it (he’s not sure how he knows it’s an S, only that he does), he halts. S for Saffron? He stares at it for a long moment before shrugging. Poking his head through the opening in the center, he tugs at it with his teeth until the odd symbol falls over his chest and the red cape crumples between his wings.
Costume in place, Saffron turns to peer between the trunks of the ominous forest. This one is nothing like his home. There, the trees feel safe, comfortable. Here, they are dark, the branches that twist jaggedly overhead looking eerily like fingers waiting to snatch at him. And for the first time since he had been woken from his light doze, he is nervous.
Nights are the hardest. Sleep eludes him most evenings. Sometimes, when Bravely curls against him, he can pretend Bolder is there too. Enough to find slumber. Most nights though, there is a hollow where he had once stayed. Tonight is one of those nights.
With a soft sigh, Saffron lifts one white-tipped wing, brushing the feathers idly over a gently glowing mushroom. It washes out the glow of his own golden markings, casting him in an eerie pale light. His green eyes glint in the strange glow, made luminous against his russet skin. He sighs again, eyes dropping to the ground as he pulls his wing back to his side.
He is so tired that he almost feels as though he could drift off. And perhaps he does, for a moment.
It is in those moments of near-sleep that he hears the mysterious chant weave across the land, echoing strangely in the heavy mist. The fog should have been a warning, but here in Taiga, the fog often lingers, curling around the towering sentinel redwoods. The rhyme should make him nervous, but instead he is drawn to it, plagued by an incessant curiosity.
He is normally the sensible one, though he has certainly shared in his siblings many antics. But he is so tired of being the predictable brother. The one who barters peace between them when the bickering grows too heated. For once, he wants nothing so much as to be the spontaneous one.
So he drifts through the fog, following the pull of that enchantmentment. It isn’t until the flutter of a cloth draws his eye that he stops, baffled. He peers around, realizing belatedly he has no clue where he is, nor which direction would take him home. But that is not the strangest thing. No, that dubious title belongs to the bits of fabric, trinkets, and baubles scattered through the trees.
He should be wary, but instead he is drawn by an immense curiosity. Pick your costume, choose with care, the strange voice had crooned, and Saffron can only assume these are the costumes he must choose from. Trailing slowly through the trees, the young stallion does as he has been bid. He picks a costume with care.
When he comes to a swath of blue and red cloth with a strange S on it (he’s not sure how he knows it’s an S, only that he does), he halts. S for Saffron? He stares at it for a long moment before shrugging. Poking his head through the opening in the center, he tugs at it with his teeth until the odd symbol falls over his chest and the red cape crumples between his wings.
Costume in place, Saffron turns to peer between the trunks of the ominous forest. This one is nothing like his home. There, the trees feel safe, comfortable. Here, they are dark, the branches that twist jaggedly overhead looking eerily like fingers waiting to snatch at him. And for the first time since he had been woken from his light doze, he is nervous.
Saffron