09-11-2018, 09:37 PM
hold me in this wild, wild world
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
He comes, from time to time, to watch. Often, they’re all the same – at least at first glance – and it’s too taxing to consider going in to wade through the noise and find the ones who aren’t the same. And he hasn’t come in some time – there was business, Kingdom business, the possibility of going to war. There was a time for mourning; though not for healing, because that hasn’t come. On top of that, there was a large period of time when he wasn’t fit for public company.
Not in control.
Now he stands at the border of the field, partially because he’s ready, and partially because he wants to make sure he’s ready, before he ends up proving that he’s not, in a more delicate situation that trying to do some recruiting. Winter is a comfortable time for the man who was a Brother of the Tundra for most of his long life; it is a welcome change from the heat of his island, heat that gathers even now in the dead of winter. Ischia is never cold; the most Brennen can hope for in his Kingdom is a cool breeze off the water.
He opens his senses, looking for nothing in particular, and meanders amongst them until he feels a tug, and follows it, uncertain what he was even looking for. Honey-brown eyes lock on the mare in front of him and he gives a little half-smile, shy almost, and walks to a comfortable speaking distance. “Hello,” he offers in his quiet drawl, and does a mental check. Control. Yes. He still has it. “I’m Brennen.”
Not in control.
Now he stands at the border of the field, partially because he’s ready, and partially because he wants to make sure he’s ready, before he ends up proving that he’s not, in a more delicate situation that trying to do some recruiting. Winter is a comfortable time for the man who was a Brother of the Tundra for most of his long life; it is a welcome change from the heat of his island, heat that gathers even now in the dead of winter. Ischia is never cold; the most Brennen can hope for in his Kingdom is a cool breeze off the water.
He opens his senses, looking for nothing in particular, and meanders amongst them until he feels a tug, and follows it, uncertain what he was even looking for. Honey-brown eyes lock on the mare in front of him and he gives a little half-smile, shy almost, and walks to a comfortable speaking distance. “Hello,” he offers in his quiet drawl, and does a mental check. Control. Yes. He still has it. “I’m Brennen.”
hold me in this wild, wild world
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
BRENNEN