04-29-2024, 02:07 PM
OAKS
you look well suited
like you came to win
The demise of the wonderful purple-flowered tree had dampened Oaks’ spirits somewhat. Once again faced with the blatant reality of his curse, the ghostly wings on his shoulders slumped slightly and his eyes grow a bit dimmer in their rusty sheen. A swell of his reddened breast ushers forth a heavy sigh when the last of the flower petals flutter away, crisped and lacking their previous luster. The tree stands as a skeleton before them, blackish-gray with a woeful whisper as the wind passes through its bare fingers.
Zain insists that they try again, though, and as much as Oaks wants to divert his teacher’s focus, he obeys. It wouldn’t be polite to deny the other stallion now, not after pleading with him for help. Besides, he shouldn’t have expected much more from these experiments. The burden of his magic has made itself well-known to him by now and he shouldn’t hope to control it so readily. Silently, the appaloosa turns from the bare, spindly arbor they had created.
The painted stallion assures him that this lesson is only of good-willed intent and Oaks believes him. Why shouldn’t he trust someone offering him the opportunity to better understand and handle the plague he carries?
Another deep breath fills his empty chest. His heart steadies to a low, doleful thrum. The rough bramble of thorns and their meager roses reminds him inevitably of himself. The flowers, vivid within their grim bed, are comparable to himself. Bright, lively, searching for sunlight, they live as best they can while surrounded by the perilous barbs that life had convicted them to live amongst. Any who dared to reach for the pretty blossoms would find themselves scathed by their prickly guards.
Zain reaches to touch a flower, using his own magic (Oaks marvels at his control of it) to kindle a sickness within it. The red-bay’s face grows contemplative for a moment – had it been the tree’s health that had stopped him from affecting it before?
(The supposition is valid, though perhaps muddled by the presence of his temporary suppression acting in equal parts with his acceleration.)
But before the flower’s sickness can spread very far and before Oaks can even attempt to concentrate and channel his own magic, the blight seems to abruptly halt. With a visible sort of shiver, the decay suddenly stops halfway through the thorny bush. Oaks lifts his head a little sharply, a mild toss of his nose; some of the roses have dried and begun to crumble, their stalks and nearby vines audibly cracking, but others remain fresh with plump-petaled blooms and wiry green stems.
“But why?” Oaks wonders aloud, remaining still this time as he marvels at what he considers a miracle. A strange stir in his throat is the only indication that something opposite of the usual is occurring. Where usually his mouth tasted vaguely of ash and dirt when his curse arose, there now comes a pleasant sweetness like clean spring water. Were he not so oblivious, he may have made some sort of connection between the different sensation, but he is too mystified by the event.
For a few moments, the remainder of the bush retains its healthy vibrance, but Oaks remembers the reason for their being there. He closes his eyes almost reluctantly and tries to visualize his misfortunate magic which leaves him unaware of the plant’s eventual shift back. Whether because his imagination of the tree-like branch of magic reaching outward to the bush had been successful, or because the weak suppression had finally given way, the bush does not last.
With another shudder as if shaken from the core, the sickness spreads again. Oaks’ head drops a little once more when he opens his eyes to see the final few flowers fall victim to the illness.
“I think it worked better that time,” he observes a bit quietly, glancing at Zain. “Visualizing it, I mean…” It’s clear that he’s not all that proud of the achievement, but time would grant him the (misgiven) realization that he may actually have some control over the power.
Zain insists that they try again, though, and as much as Oaks wants to divert his teacher’s focus, he obeys. It wouldn’t be polite to deny the other stallion now, not after pleading with him for help. Besides, he shouldn’t have expected much more from these experiments. The burden of his magic has made itself well-known to him by now and he shouldn’t hope to control it so readily. Silently, the appaloosa turns from the bare, spindly arbor they had created.
The painted stallion assures him that this lesson is only of good-willed intent and Oaks believes him. Why shouldn’t he trust someone offering him the opportunity to better understand and handle the plague he carries?
Another deep breath fills his empty chest. His heart steadies to a low, doleful thrum. The rough bramble of thorns and their meager roses reminds him inevitably of himself. The flowers, vivid within their grim bed, are comparable to himself. Bright, lively, searching for sunlight, they live as best they can while surrounded by the perilous barbs that life had convicted them to live amongst. Any who dared to reach for the pretty blossoms would find themselves scathed by their prickly guards.
Zain reaches to touch a flower, using his own magic (Oaks marvels at his control of it) to kindle a sickness within it. The red-bay’s face grows contemplative for a moment – had it been the tree’s health that had stopped him from affecting it before?
(The supposition is valid, though perhaps muddled by the presence of his temporary suppression acting in equal parts with his acceleration.)
But before the flower’s sickness can spread very far and before Oaks can even attempt to concentrate and channel his own magic, the blight seems to abruptly halt. With a visible sort of shiver, the decay suddenly stops halfway through the thorny bush. Oaks lifts his head a little sharply, a mild toss of his nose; some of the roses have dried and begun to crumble, their stalks and nearby vines audibly cracking, but others remain fresh with plump-petaled blooms and wiry green stems.
“But why?” Oaks wonders aloud, remaining still this time as he marvels at what he considers a miracle. A strange stir in his throat is the only indication that something opposite of the usual is occurring. Where usually his mouth tasted vaguely of ash and dirt when his curse arose, there now comes a pleasant sweetness like clean spring water. Were he not so oblivious, he may have made some sort of connection between the different sensation, but he is too mystified by the event.
For a few moments, the remainder of the bush retains its healthy vibrance, but Oaks remembers the reason for their being there. He closes his eyes almost reluctantly and tries to visualize his misfortunate magic which leaves him unaware of the plant’s eventual shift back. Whether because his imagination of the tree-like branch of magic reaching outward to the bush had been successful, or because the weak suppression had finally given way, the bush does not last.
With another shudder as if shaken from the core, the sickness spreads again. Oaks’ head drops a little once more when he opens his eyes to see the final few flowers fall victim to the illness.
“I think it worked better that time,” he observes a bit quietly, glancing at Zain. “Visualizing it, I mean…” It’s clear that he’s not all that proud of the achievement, but time would grant him the (misgiven) realization that he may actually have some control over the power.
@
Zain