11-26-2018, 11:07 AM
BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING
OF MOVING ON
OF MOVING ON
Exhaustion has hit him, and there are mornings when blood dribbles from his nostrils to streak his muzzle. Everything in him hurts, but when he spreads his own magic across his body, Tiphon can at least cope and mask the discomfort. Each day, he is utilizing his own power to assist others in addition to himself. He wants this to be a sanctuary, and thus far, his imagination is coming to fruition. There are voices carrying across the island. They brush away the cobwebs and create a music that this land has not heard for quite some time. The island had been a stagnant piece lost in the faeries’ magic, but since berthing it from the depths again, she has thrived.
It's all he could ever ask for.
Faces sprout from every corner, and he has enabled each and every one to live out a secluded lifestyle. He doesn’t badger them or demand anything from them. Refuge, he repeats to himself, until the chaos dies away and until there is a need for order. In the meantime, there is no harm in having families reunite and humbly tend to themselves until all of this passes. He intervenes only when necessary.
Slipping among the foliage, Tiphon is drawn to a new cluster of voices that state something of an alliance with Tephra. With a furrowed brow, he placidly looms to grab as much information before stepping from underneath the shade of a palm tree. Politics have been a thing to brush away as of late. With so many infected and dying, it boggles him to think there are ulterior motives afoot. It isn’t even just politics, however, but also an inclusion of family dramatics that surpasses Tiphon’s knowledge.
It’s reassuring to hear his name spoken with affirmation that the land is accounted for. They announce to the strangers that he oversees the island. There is no hostility tucked behind the words. They are, seemingly, content with him having claimed the resort.
A smile touches his lips – freshly cleaned in the water to remove traces of blood – as he steps forward, his magic lacing itself into his muscles to again hide any signs of the infection. Although it has been decades since his last fight, he still carries himself as a proud soldier would. It’s simply his nature as a guardian, a protector. Inclining his head, he flickers his eyes across the faces. ”I’m Tiphon,” he settles into the confidence of his own name, confirming that he is real, that he is the overseer and claimant that they’ve told the outsiders. With a quirked brow, he adds, ”Politics? Why concern yourself with politics and alliances so soon into a catastrophic plague?” Many want power, he assumes, and a higher hand in the madness. It seems premature in his eyes, but then again, Tiphon hasn’t yet involved himself in any of the ongoings outside of this island.
It's all he could ever ask for.
Faces sprout from every corner, and he has enabled each and every one to live out a secluded lifestyle. He doesn’t badger them or demand anything from them. Refuge, he repeats to himself, until the chaos dies away and until there is a need for order. In the meantime, there is no harm in having families reunite and humbly tend to themselves until all of this passes. He intervenes only when necessary.
Slipping among the foliage, Tiphon is drawn to a new cluster of voices that state something of an alliance with Tephra. With a furrowed brow, he placidly looms to grab as much information before stepping from underneath the shade of a palm tree. Politics have been a thing to brush away as of late. With so many infected and dying, it boggles him to think there are ulterior motives afoot. It isn’t even just politics, however, but also an inclusion of family dramatics that surpasses Tiphon’s knowledge.
It’s reassuring to hear his name spoken with affirmation that the land is accounted for. They announce to the strangers that he oversees the island. There is no hostility tucked behind the words. They are, seemingly, content with him having claimed the resort.
A smile touches his lips – freshly cleaned in the water to remove traces of blood – as he steps forward, his magic lacing itself into his muscles to again hide any signs of the infection. Although it has been decades since his last fight, he still carries himself as a proud soldier would. It’s simply his nature as a guardian, a protector. Inclining his head, he flickers his eyes across the faces. ”I’m Tiphon,” he settles into the confidence of his own name, confirming that he is real, that he is the overseer and claimant that they’ve told the outsiders. With a quirked brow, he adds, ”Politics? Why concern yourself with politics and alliances so soon into a catastrophic plague?” Many want power, he assumes, and a higher hand in the madness. It seems premature in his eyes, but then again, Tiphon hasn’t yet involved himself in any of the ongoings outside of this island.
TIPHON
STARLACE AND INFECTION
Sorry for the delay!
@[Kromium]