03-19-2024, 06:50 PM
As the son of a magical mare (Anadil carried a strain of Beqanna’s original magic, raw and unbridled), Doctor had learned early on not to question the ways of their world.
Born out of strife and conflict and raised during a heady feud, he’d had little chance for childish wonder or imaginings. He had been faced with fantastical scenes from his birth. From cloudless storms, hideous golems of stone and sand, even his own pyrrhic breath – almost nothing seems implausible, nevermind impossible.
Their adventure at the base of the Mountain is no exception.
Just because he had not seen a horse reborn by fire before does not mean he is altogether amazed by it. Amused, perhaps, because Beqanna often seemed to find strange ways to entertain its earthly inhabitants. It is a rather impressive coincidence that they had both received such attention, though.
He hadn’t noticed the shadows at first, not after the mare’s fiery rebirth. He had thought them a mere interference before or a trick of luck*. As they had departed, though, it became hard to miss the fact that they followed him too, dancing and lively upon the ground even when he stood still. It feels well suited though, the inky cloak he wears now. Fire and shadow seemed a repetitive theme in his life.
They arrive at the Meadow, blanketed in the fresh green* of a blooming spring, and the brightness of it with its veritable rainbow* scheme of fresh flowers seems to clear his mind of the wandering thoughts that had occupied it. He stops there (the shadows continue their flickering, slowing to a gentle waltz over the tops of the patches of shamrock* and clover* underfoot) and turns to the mare with her freshly-reborn coat of gold*.
“You called me your friend earlier,” he observes rather bluntly, “but friends usually know each other’s names. Mine is Doctor.” He probably should’ve told her that sooner, before leading her to such a fatal encounter, but manners had escaped him in the thirst for adventure.
Lowering his head briefly to rub his face on his striped knee (he is still spattered with her blood and it itches), he recounts everything else she had said during her struggle. “You mentioned your son… You said you saw him, when you…” He tilts his head a little as if to shrug toward the Mountain they’d left behind. “What was it like? To… die.”
He is only hesitant to ask her for fear of her being angry or upset about the ordeal – he’d said he would protect her and had quite plainly failed at that. His curiosity, however, drives him to pose the question regardless of her potential backlash.
Born out of strife and conflict and raised during a heady feud, he’d had little chance for childish wonder or imaginings. He had been faced with fantastical scenes from his birth. From cloudless storms, hideous golems of stone and sand, even his own pyrrhic breath – almost nothing seems implausible, nevermind impossible.
Their adventure at the base of the Mountain is no exception.
Just because he had not seen a horse reborn by fire before does not mean he is altogether amazed by it. Amused, perhaps, because Beqanna often seemed to find strange ways to entertain its earthly inhabitants. It is a rather impressive coincidence that they had both received such attention, though.
He hadn’t noticed the shadows at first, not after the mare’s fiery rebirth. He had thought them a mere interference before or a trick of luck*. As they had departed, though, it became hard to miss the fact that they followed him too, dancing and lively upon the ground even when he stood still. It feels well suited though, the inky cloak he wears now. Fire and shadow seemed a repetitive theme in his life.
They arrive at the Meadow, blanketed in the fresh green* of a blooming spring, and the brightness of it with its veritable rainbow* scheme of fresh flowers seems to clear his mind of the wandering thoughts that had occupied it. He stops there (the shadows continue their flickering, slowing to a gentle waltz over the tops of the patches of shamrock* and clover* underfoot) and turns to the mare with her freshly-reborn coat of gold*.
“You called me your friend earlier,” he observes rather bluntly, “but friends usually know each other’s names. Mine is Doctor.” He probably should’ve told her that sooner, before leading her to such a fatal encounter, but manners had escaped him in the thirst for adventure.
Lowering his head briefly to rub his face on his striped knee (he is still spattered with her blood and it itches), he recounts everything else she had said during her struggle. “You mentioned your son… You said you saw him, when you…” He tilts his head a little as if to shrug toward the Mountain they’d left behind. “What was it like? To… die.”
He is only hesitant to ask her for fear of her being angry or upset about the ordeal – he’d said he would protect her and had quite plainly failed at that. His curiosity, however, drives him to pose the question regardless of her potential backlash.
doctor
@Umani