04-19-2024, 02:53 PM
One might wonder over the myriad of coincidences that occur in Beqanna on a regular basis.
Had it been a coincidence that Volcan found her way to the coarse embrace of the Deserts, her true and rightful home? Or had that been a natural twist of fate?
Had it been a coincidence that she had unknowingly sought a home in the same kingdom where her blood relatives lived, some years ago? Or was that choice pre-destined for her?
What of now? Is it a mere coincidence that she stands beside her unknown-brother’s would-be killer?
In this instance, perhaps the situation is purely circumstantial. Regardless, Volcan remains oblivious to the vague connection in the other mare’s mind between herself and Leilan – she has never met any of her siblings, so puzzling out Deiti’s recognition of her is of no consequence to her.
Instead they exchange brief pleasantries and stand together in the sunlight, as yet unaware of their feeble connection. Volcan wonders after the comfort of Deiti’s scales, whether they kept her warm at all, and the other mare offers her shoulder for inspection. At first, the smoky-coated girl is hesitant, looking at the alluring mare with curiosity flickering in her green eyes. But she accepts the invitation silently, reaching to gingerly pass her lips against the scaly hide presented to her.
It is a somewhat familiar sensation, stirring up memories of the grand black stallion that had raised her. He, too, had always been warmed by the desert sun upon his dark back. A small puff of hot breath leaves her nose as she lingers for a moment before pulling away again. Her smile is almost coy, somewhat shy.
“My father had scales, too,” she muses quietly, nearly wistful. “Not as many, just on his wings… and a little different.” They had been dragon scales, harsher and more individual, pointed and fierce. “Yours are certainly more beautiful.” Something twinges in her heart, for it felt almost like a slight to Vanquish, but she had always thought of him as more majestic, magnificent – not quite beautiful, but stately and dignified. Oh, how she misses him.
But she mustn’t stray too deep into memory; this wasn’t the time for reminiscing. She tilts her head a little, the sun catching again on the golden sands held within the curve of her sharp cheek. “Do you come to this river often?” she asks next, dropping her eyes back to the water swirling by the bank at their feet. “I prefer a dryer climate, myself, but I suppose it’s nice here…”
Such a contrasting pair they are, the siren and the smoke-girl.
Had it been a coincidence that Volcan found her way to the coarse embrace of the Deserts, her true and rightful home? Or had that been a natural twist of fate?
Had it been a coincidence that she had unknowingly sought a home in the same kingdom where her blood relatives lived, some years ago? Or was that choice pre-destined for her?
What of now? Is it a mere coincidence that she stands beside her unknown-brother’s would-be killer?
In this instance, perhaps the situation is purely circumstantial. Regardless, Volcan remains oblivious to the vague connection in the other mare’s mind between herself and Leilan – she has never met any of her siblings, so puzzling out Deiti’s recognition of her is of no consequence to her.
Instead they exchange brief pleasantries and stand together in the sunlight, as yet unaware of their feeble connection. Volcan wonders after the comfort of Deiti’s scales, whether they kept her warm at all, and the other mare offers her shoulder for inspection. At first, the smoky-coated girl is hesitant, looking at the alluring mare with curiosity flickering in her green eyes. But she accepts the invitation silently, reaching to gingerly pass her lips against the scaly hide presented to her.
It is a somewhat familiar sensation, stirring up memories of the grand black stallion that had raised her. He, too, had always been warmed by the desert sun upon his dark back. A small puff of hot breath leaves her nose as she lingers for a moment before pulling away again. Her smile is almost coy, somewhat shy.
“My father had scales, too,” she muses quietly, nearly wistful. “Not as many, just on his wings… and a little different.” They had been dragon scales, harsher and more individual, pointed and fierce. “Yours are certainly more beautiful.” Something twinges in her heart, for it felt almost like a slight to Vanquish, but she had always thought of him as more majestic, magnificent – not quite beautiful, but stately and dignified. Oh, how she misses him.
But she mustn’t stray too deep into memory; this wasn’t the time for reminiscing. She tilts her head a little, the sun catching again on the golden sands held within the curve of her sharp cheek. “Do you come to this river often?” she asks next, dropping her eyes back to the water swirling by the bank at their feet. “I prefer a dryer climate, myself, but I suppose it’s nice here…”
Such a contrasting pair they are, the siren and the smoke-girl.
Volcan
sore must be the storm
@
Deiti