05-10-2020, 09:55 AM
A full moon hangs heavy and low in the sky above the trees, but Clegane wouldn't know. He weaves like a fawn through the darkest places of the Riverlands, large, pale wings he had never used before are held close to his sides. He is not a creature made for tight woodlands, but he had rarely left. His time in the meadow with its golden sunlight and clean air had been abruptly put to an end by Violence.
Even though there is no wind tonight, Clegane catches the scents far off places he has never seen; little pieces of beautiful worlds falling from a stranger's coat the way frost falls from his. For someone who has only known damp copses of river-trees for so long, these scents send a thrum of longing trough his chest.
The air is still and cold enough to make his nose bleed if he pulled it across that damaged tissue too quickly. But Clegane tugs at the subtle currents in the air around them, finding one and redirecting it towards the other stallion in the clearing. The wind consolidates into a bundle of fine tendrils that runs its fingers gently across the others mane, plucking a dried flower from where it was tangled in a witchknot of silver hair.
Catching the moonlight, the flower rides the wind back to its master and rises to the level of his grisly face.
"Where is this from?" Clegane's voice is low and dreamy, as he lets the small, crumpled flower fill his mind with images of possibilities of other worlds. Places he had always said he would see, but never had the courage to go.
Even though there is no wind tonight, Clegane catches the scents far off places he has never seen; little pieces of beautiful worlds falling from a stranger's coat the way frost falls from his. For someone who has only known damp copses of river-trees for so long, these scents send a thrum of longing trough his chest.
The air is still and cold enough to make his nose bleed if he pulled it across that damaged tissue too quickly. But Clegane tugs at the subtle currents in the air around them, finding one and redirecting it towards the other stallion in the clearing. The wind consolidates into a bundle of fine tendrils that runs its fingers gently across the others mane, plucking a dried flower from where it was tangled in a witchknot of silver hair.
Catching the moonlight, the flower rides the wind back to its master and rises to the level of his grisly face.
"Where is this from?" Clegane's voice is low and dreamy, as he lets the small, crumpled flower fill his mind with images of possibilities of other worlds. Places he had always said he would see, but never had the courage to go.
