OAKS
you look well suited
like you came to win
Whatever answer Oaks might have anticipated, it certainly isn’t the one he gets.
Odious as he is, something about the other stallion’s ragged appearance is alluring to the young bay. As one who has been surrounded by death nearly since the day of his birth, Oaks has grown much too acquainted with the general gore of it, nearly to the point of fascination. Even from his mildly substantial distance, a fair yard or two away, he can see the bare muscle and bone, the flex of tissue and tendon. His curiosity gets the better of him and he can’t help asking how a creature in such a state of disrepair could continue to exist.
Zain steps nearer to the luminous mare, creating quite a stark contrast in their company. While Beyza, even with her subtle scars, is ethereal and practically angelic, Zain seems somehow even more grotesque and appalling by comparison. And yet, Oaks can only gaze at the other stallion as his eyes brighten, a sanguine glow bleeding across the flesh and bone of his face as he murmurs his rather off-putting reply.
At first, the words make little sense, a hollow assurance of proof. But then he feels it – a pressure in his chest, his throat, as if gravity is pulling heavier from within. He lifts his head a little sharply, exhaling shortly as it becomes a little harder to breathe. “What…?” he rasps, taking a small step back and lifting the ghostly wings upon his back in slight alarm. His very energy wanes, slowly at first and then a bit more rapidly as his life force is drained; the muscles in his neck and shoulders slacken so that his head and wings droop a little more than before. He shudders as starry static burns at the edges of his vision.
Rather like a rag being wrung free of water, he is left depleted and slightly breathless by the time the ordeal is over. His eyes have grown ruddy in color, the light in them having dimmed as he looks up at the other two. Zain’s body seems to have mended somewhat – it is a little less unpleasant to behold and, through Oaks’ clouded gaze, he seems almost worthy now to stand beside the shining mare in their presence. Almost.
And yet, even in this enfeebled state, Oaks finds himself somehow impressed. He takes an unsteady step or two nearer, now a bit less frightened of harming the others with his own power. Listening intently, Oaks brings his head at least to shoulder height so that he may attempt to continue in their conversation. These strangers have sufficiently intrigued him enough to maintain his focus; even the mild pounding of blood rushing in his ears (as if trying to repair the unseen damage that had just been done) would not deter him from at least trying to earn their acquaintance.
Zain offers his name and proclaims himself a protector of this land, asking after their purpose for being there. Oaks wonders the same of himself, uncertain of how to answer and allowing the mare to speak first while he struggles slightly to catch his breath. It seems a bit foolish, truthfully, that he had come here with no intentions in mind other than to escape the ails of winter and dying things. He decides against admitting that, for now.
He listens as Beyza speaks, still trying to regain his composure in spite of his lightheadedness. When it is his turn, he gathers enough air to speak softly, if a little hoarse. “My name is Oaks,” he begins. “I have been alone for some time… I thought it might be nice to have some company.” One wispy wing raises a little from where it still hangs loosely at his side as if to shrug. It might have been better to reveal the truth, but the irony of that would have been a little too rich.
Odious as he is, something about the other stallion’s ragged appearance is alluring to the young bay. As one who has been surrounded by death nearly since the day of his birth, Oaks has grown much too acquainted with the general gore of it, nearly to the point of fascination. Even from his mildly substantial distance, a fair yard or two away, he can see the bare muscle and bone, the flex of tissue and tendon. His curiosity gets the better of him and he can’t help asking how a creature in such a state of disrepair could continue to exist.
Zain steps nearer to the luminous mare, creating quite a stark contrast in their company. While Beyza, even with her subtle scars, is ethereal and practically angelic, Zain seems somehow even more grotesque and appalling by comparison. And yet, Oaks can only gaze at the other stallion as his eyes brighten, a sanguine glow bleeding across the flesh and bone of his face as he murmurs his rather off-putting reply.
At first, the words make little sense, a hollow assurance of proof. But then he feels it – a pressure in his chest, his throat, as if gravity is pulling heavier from within. He lifts his head a little sharply, exhaling shortly as it becomes a little harder to breathe. “What…?” he rasps, taking a small step back and lifting the ghostly wings upon his back in slight alarm. His very energy wanes, slowly at first and then a bit more rapidly as his life force is drained; the muscles in his neck and shoulders slacken so that his head and wings droop a little more than before. He shudders as starry static burns at the edges of his vision.
Rather like a rag being wrung free of water, he is left depleted and slightly breathless by the time the ordeal is over. His eyes have grown ruddy in color, the light in them having dimmed as he looks up at the other two. Zain’s body seems to have mended somewhat – it is a little less unpleasant to behold and, through Oaks’ clouded gaze, he seems almost worthy now to stand beside the shining mare in their presence. Almost.
And yet, even in this enfeebled state, Oaks finds himself somehow impressed. He takes an unsteady step or two nearer, now a bit less frightened of harming the others with his own power. Listening intently, Oaks brings his head at least to shoulder height so that he may attempt to continue in their conversation. These strangers have sufficiently intrigued him enough to maintain his focus; even the mild pounding of blood rushing in his ears (as if trying to repair the unseen damage that had just been done) would not deter him from at least trying to earn their acquaintance.
Zain offers his name and proclaims himself a protector of this land, asking after their purpose for being there. Oaks wonders the same of himself, uncertain of how to answer and allowing the mare to speak first while he struggles slightly to catch his breath. It seems a bit foolish, truthfully, that he had come here with no intentions in mind other than to escape the ails of winter and dying things. He decides against admitting that, for now.
He listens as Beyza speaks, still trying to regain his composure in spite of his lightheadedness. When it is his turn, he gathers enough air to speak softly, if a little hoarse. “My name is Oaks,” he begins. “I have been alone for some time… I thought it might be nice to have some company.” One wispy wing raises a little from where it still hangs loosely at his side as if to shrug. It might have been better to reveal the truth, but the irony of that would have been a little too rich.
@
Zain @
Beyza