12-02-2020, 11:26 AM
Though Quell had been conceived in the cenote where his father remains, the boy had also been raised on the Ischian islet that bore the name of their kind. Without Ivar, those treasures had gone unguarded, and had been a delightful trove of wonders for the young pegasus. They were the skulls of vanquished enemies, his mother had said. ‘Oh they were vanquished all right,’ Lothbrok had laughed when Quell has asked for the stories behind them, but try as he might Quell could never get his eldest sibling to elaborate. ‘When you’re older’, the kelpie had said, and that was that. Quell thinks, sometimes, of returning for those things that glitter (a silver antler, some golden pegasus pinfeathers, carefully collected amber pearls and bleached bone coral), that draconic desire to hoard treasure ever present in his mind.
It is what had brought him toward Wishbone after all, the glittering of her golden face.
He’s no desire to take it from her, finding the prospect more than a little nauseating, and instead is content to admire if from a conversational distance. Wishbone appears to be doing the same, though she seems, somehow, to be looking for something rather than at it, but he allows her this oddness as he would any stranger. The black mare does not comment on the fall of the north, but Quell supposes that is not unexpected. Her time as ruler had been long ago; perhaps she is no longer attached to the place the way she once was. That happens, Quell knows, had happened with his own mother.
Having not made a purposeful attempt at humor, Quell is somewhat startled by the laugh that comes in reply. Startled, but pleased, for the sound is soft in his ears and there is more to be admired in her features than simply the bright aureolin color. She has probably had a great many adventurers come in search of her, Quell thinks. He would not mind scaling the fabled granite cliffs to seek her out again.
He is smiling when she asks what they should do, and his bi-colored eyes widen in some surprise. “I’ve never had an adventure,” the winged stallion admits, “But if you do not mind a tagalong I think I would like to help you find one.”
@[Wishbone]
It is what had brought him toward Wishbone after all, the glittering of her golden face.
He’s no desire to take it from her, finding the prospect more than a little nauseating, and instead is content to admire if from a conversational distance. Wishbone appears to be doing the same, though she seems, somehow, to be looking for something rather than at it, but he allows her this oddness as he would any stranger. The black mare does not comment on the fall of the north, but Quell supposes that is not unexpected. Her time as ruler had been long ago; perhaps she is no longer attached to the place the way she once was. That happens, Quell knows, had happened with his own mother.
Having not made a purposeful attempt at humor, Quell is somewhat startled by the laugh that comes in reply. Startled, but pleased, for the sound is soft in his ears and there is more to be admired in her features than simply the bright aureolin color. She has probably had a great many adventurers come in search of her, Quell thinks. He would not mind scaling the fabled granite cliffs to seek her out again.
He is smiling when she asks what they should do, and his bi-colored eyes widen in some surprise. “I’ve never had an adventure,” the winged stallion admits, “But if you do not mind a tagalong I think I would like to help you find one.”
@[Wishbone]