03-14-2023, 05:12 PM
Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.
(Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.
Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.
Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.)
Despite the brassy vein of apathy running bright in his line, Marten is not wholly immune to the justice the sparking sprite enacts upon him. With all the bullheadedness of his father and his grandmother he resists the lesson for as long as he can. That kernel of autonomy left inside of him in that timeless eternity deflects and defies and, slowly, recognizes the Promethean punishment laid upon him. This is the reward for his arrogance, yet it is not with him that the generational curses of his blood will be solved; at least, it is not today.
Enough already! He screams without speaking, his throat too full of salt and fire. This time when the Roc disturbs the stones he bounds forward even before the rocks can strike the boy, running as if he can outrun Fate. He cannot stop the boulder the crack's the Baltian's skull and sends him sinking into the deep of his home. He cannot stop the bewildering tearing of his senses as the colt dies again but the girl he can stop, and does. His strange gait carries him across the pebbled sand like silk, cutting the feathered girl off from the water. She pulls up suddenly, frightened by his haste and still so full of worry for her friend. Wordlessly, the stallion scowls and pushes her back to safety. He has drowned enough for a thousand lifetimes. She asks a strangled question in a language he doesn't know, standing frozen but alive on the deadly shore.
And then he rips out her precious throat.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.
(Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.
Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.
Children, the little beast shows him, without explanation, and he can see plainly who they belong to by the strangeness of their eyes but their importance is lost to him, instead he only feels the smug indifference of someone who doesn't expect to be convinced of anything at all. Yet he jerks violently when the colt is struck, his own vision flashing the bright warning flare of something within gone terribly wrong. He doesn't - and perhaps he should, but he has never meddled deeply in the magic affairs of Beqanna's spirit before - expect the panic that flares up unwarranted in his breast; the girl's worry, the creeping weakness in his knees as the Baltian boy dies. When the Stratosian leaps into the water he staggers in, too, with a barely suppressed cry mimicking the little Stratosian's distress and his own fury at being pulled along on the tide of their misfortune.
He growls out a gurgling curse, trying to pull back but the rocks have already caught the filly's blue-bird wing and bones he doesn't even have are snapped and crushed, turning his black-edged vision red and yellow and any number of colors he cannot name or be sure are real. Without dying, he drowns alongside her, staring desperately at the light refracting through the calmed ocean surface not so very far above their heads. For as long as she can, she holds her breath and his lungs burn with the same fire as hers. His face, unseen by anyone but the Sprite who has followed him, crumbles with the same horror as hers when despite it all, wing still trapped, Stratosian and Beqannan gasp reflexively, unable to stop, unable to prevent the choking cough that follows when their starving lungs glut themselves with seawater instead.
And then, there's nothing. His vision softens at the edges and so does his panic. The girl droops, her expression - one Marten mirrors against his own will which still rages somewhere safe and contained - turned tranquil. She's smiling as if it has all been a grand joke, then she's gone.)
Despite the brassy vein of apathy running bright in his line, Marten is not wholly immune to the justice the sparking sprite enacts upon him. With all the bullheadedness of his father and his grandmother he resists the lesson for as long as he can. That kernel of autonomy left inside of him in that timeless eternity deflects and defies and, slowly, recognizes the Promethean punishment laid upon him. This is the reward for his arrogance, yet it is not with him that the generational curses of his blood will be solved; at least, it is not today.
Enough already! He screams without speaking, his throat too full of salt and fire. This time when the Roc disturbs the stones he bounds forward even before the rocks can strike the boy, running as if he can outrun Fate. He cannot stop the boulder the crack's the Baltian's skull and sends him sinking into the deep of his home. He cannot stop the bewildering tearing of his senses as the colt dies again but the girl he can stop, and does. His strange gait carries him across the pebbled sand like silk, cutting the feathered girl off from the water. She pulls up suddenly, frightened by his haste and still so full of worry for her friend. Wordlessly, the stallion scowls and pushes her back to safety. He has drowned enough for a thousand lifetimes. She asks a strangled question in a language he doesn't know, standing frozen but alive on the deadly shore.
And then he rips out her precious throat.