He lingers in the shadows, the stark white of his face turning nearly molten with the brilliance of the volcano’s lava. Thick, slate-gray horns protrude from his forehead, narrowing until they nearly spiral into his neck, where cascading obsidian and ivory tendrils of his mane touch the musculature of his shoulder. He sharpens the twisted horns on the igneous rock, the sound grating and unruly against the low and familiar grumble of the volcano.
He had been gone a long while. Tephra had been his birthplace, and besides the whisper of his father’s name, the once ocean-prince no longer would be a familiar face. He would be a stranger among them, unless there were any that remembered Warrick, the benevolent king that was the first to be infected by the plague of Beqanna. Warden remembers it (he tries not to) vividly – the blood sputtering onto the cave walls, his father’s strength dwindling into nothingness, the healers barely keeping Warrick’s heart beating, his mother’s worry and his older sisters attempting to keep him distracted.
Fortunately, Warrick had survived, like many in Beqanna.
All the love and devotion among his family could not erase the bitter, terrible memories of that time and even now, Warden awaits the tendrils of darkness that would inevitably put him and his family within its steely grasp once again. Plagued with his terrible third eye, Warden has seen all the devastation the future holds. He had predicted his father’s illness, the plague, the war. Each that he had seen had come to fruition, and never once had he experienced a vision that would bring about good on the world – only death, destruction, darkness.
It is all he ever sees, even with his eyes open.
Raising his head with a hearty toss as if to push the memories from his mind, the stallion steps out from the canopy of the volcano’s shadow and into a deep night littered with stars. Great, white wings spread from his sides, darkness pooling into each downy feather. With a great rush of wind, he leaps upwards and takes flight into the Tephran skies.
The horned stallion lands heavily on the sparkling sand of the beach, which has been stained black by the constant plumage of smoke that slowly seeps from the volcano. He remembers standing at the water’s edge only years ago, when visions of blood-filled rivers tainted his mind. But only the open sea greets him now – dark and ominous, wrinkling against the shoreline with frothing fingers. With a fluid movement, the untainted alabaster of his wings fold into his sides with a rush of air smelling of ash and salted ocean wind. Turning his head, he busies himself by pulling and tugging at out of place feathers, preening them so that they lay comfortably.
All is quiet at this early hour, save for the rhythmic pulse of the black waves against a star-studded seashore.
@[flower]
He had been gone a long while. Tephra had been his birthplace, and besides the whisper of his father’s name, the once ocean-prince no longer would be a familiar face. He would be a stranger among them, unless there were any that remembered Warrick, the benevolent king that was the first to be infected by the plague of Beqanna. Warden remembers it (he tries not to) vividly – the blood sputtering onto the cave walls, his father’s strength dwindling into nothingness, the healers barely keeping Warrick’s heart beating, his mother’s worry and his older sisters attempting to keep him distracted.
Fortunately, Warrick had survived, like many in Beqanna.
All the love and devotion among his family could not erase the bitter, terrible memories of that time and even now, Warden awaits the tendrils of darkness that would inevitably put him and his family within its steely grasp once again. Plagued with his terrible third eye, Warden has seen all the devastation the future holds. He had predicted his father’s illness, the plague, the war. Each that he had seen had come to fruition, and never once had he experienced a vision that would bring about good on the world – only death, destruction, darkness.
It is all he ever sees, even with his eyes open.
Raising his head with a hearty toss as if to push the memories from his mind, the stallion steps out from the canopy of the volcano’s shadow and into a deep night littered with stars. Great, white wings spread from his sides, darkness pooling into each downy feather. With a great rush of wind, he leaps upwards and takes flight into the Tephran skies.
The horned stallion lands heavily on the sparkling sand of the beach, which has been stained black by the constant plumage of smoke that slowly seeps from the volcano. He remembers standing at the water’s edge only years ago, when visions of blood-filled rivers tainted his mind. But only the open sea greets him now – dark and ominous, wrinkling against the shoreline with frothing fingers. With a fluid movement, the untainted alabaster of his wings fold into his sides with a rush of air smelling of ash and salted ocean wind. Turning his head, he busies himself by pulling and tugging at out of place feathers, preening them so that they lay comfortably.
All is quiet at this early hour, save for the rhythmic pulse of the black waves against a star-studded seashore.
@[flower]
