01-05-2026, 06:17 PM
Stumbling, fumbling: the way he walks is marked not by memory but by search. Young again in a body once old, lost in the haze of trying to regain what was lost, what remains of this earth but not of his mind. Somewhere, the land whispers its songs of days gone past, of the line of matriarchs who made their marks last; unlike him, a quiet soul, only Limb, not much else at all. No marks he made, not quite yet; but today he wanders and thus marks he may beget.
He knows not the name of the place below: a crystalline lake, covered in snow. But here and there dot trees grown tall, green and fresh smelling, a beckoning call. Limb stretches his magic towards their roots, hoping to find warmth amidst their truths; that things long-lived can again be reborn, that from the ashes of fire seeds soar, and from thence they return back to the ground, to bloom again when they are found, by light and rain, and wind and sky, like Limb they rise, again on high.
He smiles. Small. Quiet. Approaches with head bowed, polite. The dark blue and green swirls of his coat paint stark contrast against the alabaster backdrop, inviting attention from any who might watch as he descends from the cliff tops. Towards the Dale's heart, a place temperate despite the season; towards the trees, to whom he feels called for many reasons. At the eastern-most point of the lake he stills. Wills, in his way, that someone will come. For after a lifetime now lost, the young colt wonders what could be; whether other lives wish to mingle with he.
He knows not the name of the place below: a crystalline lake, covered in snow. But here and there dot trees grown tall, green and fresh smelling, a beckoning call. Limb stretches his magic towards their roots, hoping to find warmth amidst their truths; that things long-lived can again be reborn, that from the ashes of fire seeds soar, and from thence they return back to the ground, to bloom again when they are found, by light and rain, and wind and sky, like Limb they rise, again on high.
He smiles. Small. Quiet. Approaches with head bowed, polite. The dark blue and green swirls of his coat paint stark contrast against the alabaster backdrop, inviting attention from any who might watch as he descends from the cliff tops. Towards the Dale's heart, a place temperate despite the season; towards the trees, to whom he feels called for many reasons. At the eastern-most point of the lake he stills. Wills, in his way, that someone will come. For after a lifetime now lost, the young colt wonders what could be; whether other lives wish to mingle with he.