Set
08-02-2020, 02:12 PM
He is quiet, withdrawn – pensive, even. The hard gold of his eyes shutters the thoughts skipping through his mind, reflecting instead the deep blue of the south sea below, and the churn where freshwater meets salted at the river’s mouth. Sweat and water mingle in dirty rivulets as they track their way down his piebald skin, sinking into the shale he perches on. The climb had not been an easy one without the use of his magic – the slope barely that, alternating between joint-twisting outcroppings and moss-covered niches – but the bite of fatigue that yet lingers in the burn of muscles pushed to their limits is a satisfying one. It reminds him that he is yet alive. It has only been a few dozen years or so, since the bloody-shouldered queen had borne her favorite, her shark-eyed general’s son, but some days his soul drags with the weight of a dozen lifetimes.
Time passes without mark. How much time, he does not notice, but when he finally blinks his coat is dry, itches and the eastern horizon is tinged pink and clearly defined.
The obsidian-black dragon’s wings laid along his sides unfurl to greet the dawn. He loves the sound they make, stretching out several horse lengths to his left and right, the scales and thick skin stretched between bone glittering in the morning light. Tilting them up and back, they snap and tremble, full of ocean air, tugging wildly at the joint of wing and body. It is hard to remember a time before such things came to him so easily – though he takes care to keep himself in peak physical condition and is wary of relying too much on his magic, it is now just as much a part of him as the knotted scars on his shoulders from a cougar long ago. Almost reluctantly, he lowers his head and folds his wings, dropping off the face of the cliff and soaring out across the bay.
He spends hours wheeling above the glittering water, occasionally shifting on the fly and diving beneath the surface to click and leap with the creatures drawn in by his presence. It is nearly midday when the ebb and flow of wildflowers in the breeze catches his attention. Brilliant in their variety, they nod and bob in happy agreement with whatever the wind has to say. Flight muscles aching, he finds an easy landing near a small copse of trees, the great wings melting away like smoke as he moves toward water. It is quiet, not just here, but across Beqanna. He has survived many a lull, but boredom festers beneath his scar-pocked coat, the desire and urge to do something a siren song he cannot ignore for long.
Time passes without mark. How much time, he does not notice, but when he finally blinks his coat is dry, itches and the eastern horizon is tinged pink and clearly defined.
The obsidian-black dragon’s wings laid along his sides unfurl to greet the dawn. He loves the sound they make, stretching out several horse lengths to his left and right, the scales and thick skin stretched between bone glittering in the morning light. Tilting them up and back, they snap and tremble, full of ocean air, tugging wildly at the joint of wing and body. It is hard to remember a time before such things came to him so easily – though he takes care to keep himself in peak physical condition and is wary of relying too much on his magic, it is now just as much a part of him as the knotted scars on his shoulders from a cougar long ago. Almost reluctantly, he lowers his head and folds his wings, dropping off the face of the cliff and soaring out across the bay.
He spends hours wheeling above the glittering water, occasionally shifting on the fly and diving beneath the surface to click and leap with the creatures drawn in by his presence. It is nearly midday when the ebb and flow of wildflowers in the breeze catches his attention. Brilliant in their variety, they nod and bob in happy agreement with whatever the wind has to say. Flight muscles aching, he finds an easy landing near a small copse of trees, the great wings melting away like smoke as he moves toward water. It is quiet, not just here, but across Beqanna. He has survived many a lull, but boredom festers beneath his scar-pocked coat, the desire and urge to do something a siren song he cannot ignore for long.
@[Popinjay]