OAKS
you look well suited
like you came to win
As a rule, Oaks generally does not get out much.
For as long as he can remember, he has avoided it. He might have tried, once or twice, in his earlier days – days when he hadn’t realized the awful reality of his existence. When the way plants curled and turned brown nearby or some scrawny animals would shrivel and perish had simply seemed a natural thing. At first he’d thought it was just bad luck, the way of the world, but it didn’t take him long to realize the truth.
His very presence seemed too often to encourage the death of others.
Now, he is not aware that everything which has died in his presence was already failing and sickly to begin with. Although he is smart, he is woefully oblivious and naive (traits he inherited from his mother). His perception of it all had been bleak; for as long as he could remember, things simply languished around him, fading, crumbling, dissipating. How could he think that anything other than his mere proximity was the cause of so much death?
Needless to say, he'd sequestered himself away for some time until it finally seemed as though the curse had left him. Or at least, he'd found a place where it doesn't seem to be much of a problem.
The beauty of deserts is their generally vast spans of lifelessness which left very few victims for him to happen across.
Yet, there he spies a particularly wretched looking stallion wandering through the withered land. He watches from a distance, ears twitching and turning in interest and trailing thoughts of wonder. For some reason, he feels slightly drawn to the creature. While a large part of his consciousness begs him to stay away, warning him that he shouldn't get any nearer lest he hasten the poor thing’s surely certain demise, his curiosity gets the better of him this time.
Before he reaches near enough to greet Zain, though, another horse emerges from the dunes and approaches him. She is brilliant in comparison, blindingly white, and the young appaloosa hesitates just briefly. Nostrils flared to try and grasp their scents (as if he could determine much of anything beyond the stench of rot and decay), Oaks urges himself to join them, albeit at a slight distance which he deemed safe enough.
Foregoing any simple introductions which would seem misplaced, given the radiant mare’s question, Oaks lowers his head a little offishly. “I wondered the same, except…” he begins in a quiet, youthful voice, “I wondered more, how are you living?”
Although he is perhaps old enough to know that magic in Beqanna knows very few limits, if any, he has been surrounded by death for so long that he marvels at its perseverance in this case.
For as long as he can remember, he has avoided it. He might have tried, once or twice, in his earlier days – days when he hadn’t realized the awful reality of his existence. When the way plants curled and turned brown nearby or some scrawny animals would shrivel and perish had simply seemed a natural thing. At first he’d thought it was just bad luck, the way of the world, but it didn’t take him long to realize the truth.
His very presence seemed too often to encourage the death of others.
Now, he is not aware that everything which has died in his presence was already failing and sickly to begin with. Although he is smart, he is woefully oblivious and naive (traits he inherited from his mother). His perception of it all had been bleak; for as long as he could remember, things simply languished around him, fading, crumbling, dissipating. How could he think that anything other than his mere proximity was the cause of so much death?
Needless to say, he'd sequestered himself away for some time until it finally seemed as though the curse had left him. Or at least, he'd found a place where it doesn't seem to be much of a problem.
The beauty of deserts is their generally vast spans of lifelessness which left very few victims for him to happen across.
Yet, there he spies a particularly wretched looking stallion wandering through the withered land. He watches from a distance, ears twitching and turning in interest and trailing thoughts of wonder. For some reason, he feels slightly drawn to the creature. While a large part of his consciousness begs him to stay away, warning him that he shouldn't get any nearer lest he hasten the poor thing’s surely certain demise, his curiosity gets the better of him this time.
Before he reaches near enough to greet Zain, though, another horse emerges from the dunes and approaches him. She is brilliant in comparison, blindingly white, and the young appaloosa hesitates just briefly. Nostrils flared to try and grasp their scents (as if he could determine much of anything beyond the stench of rot and decay), Oaks urges himself to join them, albeit at a slight distance which he deemed safe enough.
Foregoing any simple introductions which would seem misplaced, given the radiant mare’s question, Oaks lowers his head a little offishly. “I wondered the same, except…” he begins in a quiet, youthful voice, “I wondered more, how are you living?”
Although he is perhaps old enough to know that magic in Beqanna knows very few limits, if any, he has been surrounded by death for so long that he marvels at its perseverance in this case.
@
Zain @
Beyza