At first he is glad to learn that the plant had already succumbed to its fate before their arrival. While the reality is not a pleasant one, it at least means that they will not have another lesson on how to control his unwieldy magic. Despite his desire for a better grasp of it, he had long ago conceded defeat in the pursuit.
Could one really hold sway over the power of death?
It would certainly take more strength and fortitude than the soft-hearted appaloosa has. In spite of his almost reaper-like appearance, with his tattery wings that wisp and flutter like a phantom and the blood-red of his body, Oaks has always been a tender thing. Born in unfortunate times to an unfortunate sire, his gifts would have been better spent on a man like Zain, whose fascination with death was, while off-putting, much more suitable.
That’s just not the way the world works, though.
He stands upon the beach with his companion, back turned to the still-chilly winds of the ocean as he considers the dead vines before them with a small pang in his heart. When Zain asks after Oaks’ status there is a nearly visible twinge in the smaller stallion’s expression, a slight flinch in his wings at the mention of his plight. A soft sigh leaves him.
“Unfortunately.” It’s all he can think to say, for nothing really seemed to have changed other than those few fleeting weeks where it had seemed that his ill-willed magic had shifted to something kinder.
He knew he shouldn’t have expected things to improve so suddenly.
But there comes some distraction as an odd, malformed creature joins them nearby, floundered by the surf. The stench of it is gut-wrenchingly awful, a scent Oaks is well-acquainted with by now (though perhaps less-so in aquatic form). Hesitant to approach it, he watches as Zain investigates the strange creature, unidentifiable for the terrible boils and contusions upon its unsightly body.
Finally stepping nearer once the other stallion addresses him, Oaks studies it silently for a moment before a decisive huff of breath leaves him. “It rather reminds me of you,” he observes with a tentative smirk, glancing toward Zain with wariness. It is the closest he’s ever come to a jest, a ribbing delivered as gently as the rest of him.
But there is some truth in his words, with the lesions having left some of the animal’s innards exposed, its white meat left ragged by the waves and whatever lesser creatures had scavenged from it. Zain’s words twirl dangerously in his head, brushing up against the ever-present dread of death that loomed there. “I wonder how it came to be so ill-fated,” he muses, knowing well that he cannot be to blame for this loss since he has not even been near this part of the kingdom before.
Daring to bend a little closer, he holds his breath as he examines the strange internal lacerations on its skin, dilated with the gaseous bloating which often accompanied expiration. The image burns into his mind, the vaguely greenish pallor of the skin, the hideously exposed flesh, the brittle bones laid bare. It lingers in his eyes even when he blinks, and he can feel an unwelcomed twist in his chest, a strange surge that he does not identify as the upwelling of his magic as it writhes, overeager to be released from a cage.
Unseen and unknown, it reaches out toward the only other ‘living’ thing nearby – toward Zain – and digs at him with unfelt and unfeeling claws, probing into his destructed ribs around his lungs and heart. Whether its effects will truly take hold is something of a tentative mystery, though the magic behind it is hungry and craven, wrought with its own perception of the symptoms Oaks beholds in the unknown creature the ocean has presented them. It seeks to spread similar wounds throughout the undead thing’s vital organs, to litter them with gruesome blisters and festers that might impede whatever health is to be found in the painted stallion.
Outwardly, Oaks shifts a little at the mild sensation in his veins as his own heart pounds just a little harder and his breath hitches just slightly. Had it been the stench of rot emanating from the dead animal at his feet that caused that sudden lurch in his stomach, that twinge in his chest? That’s what he’ll attribute it to, though that doesn’t quite explain the sudden drain of energy he feels as well. It reminds him of when he’d first met Zain and the other man had sapped his life force away, but he does not allow it to show this time. Holding his wings against his shoulders becomes more of a noticeable effort, though, and luckily his head is still low as an ache develops in the back of his neck and static tickles against his skull.
He is determined this time not to show that he has somehow been affected – by what, he does not know. As always before, he does not realize whatever effect he may be diffusing to those around him.
Could one really hold sway over the power of death?
It would certainly take more strength and fortitude than the soft-hearted appaloosa has. In spite of his almost reaper-like appearance, with his tattery wings that wisp and flutter like a phantom and the blood-red of his body, Oaks has always been a tender thing. Born in unfortunate times to an unfortunate sire, his gifts would have been better spent on a man like Zain, whose fascination with death was, while off-putting, much more suitable.
That’s just not the way the world works, though.
He stands upon the beach with his companion, back turned to the still-chilly winds of the ocean as he considers the dead vines before them with a small pang in his heart. When Zain asks after Oaks’ status there is a nearly visible twinge in the smaller stallion’s expression, a slight flinch in his wings at the mention of his plight. A soft sigh leaves him.
“Unfortunately.” It’s all he can think to say, for nothing really seemed to have changed other than those few fleeting weeks where it had seemed that his ill-willed magic had shifted to something kinder.
He knew he shouldn’t have expected things to improve so suddenly.
But there comes some distraction as an odd, malformed creature joins them nearby, floundered by the surf. The stench of it is gut-wrenchingly awful, a scent Oaks is well-acquainted with by now (though perhaps less-so in aquatic form). Hesitant to approach it, he watches as Zain investigates the strange creature, unidentifiable for the terrible boils and contusions upon its unsightly body.
Finally stepping nearer once the other stallion addresses him, Oaks studies it silently for a moment before a decisive huff of breath leaves him. “It rather reminds me of you,” he observes with a tentative smirk, glancing toward Zain with wariness. It is the closest he’s ever come to a jest, a ribbing delivered as gently as the rest of him.
But there is some truth in his words, with the lesions having left some of the animal’s innards exposed, its white meat left ragged by the waves and whatever lesser creatures had scavenged from it. Zain’s words twirl dangerously in his head, brushing up against the ever-present dread of death that loomed there. “I wonder how it came to be so ill-fated,” he muses, knowing well that he cannot be to blame for this loss since he has not even been near this part of the kingdom before.
Daring to bend a little closer, he holds his breath as he examines the strange internal lacerations on its skin, dilated with the gaseous bloating which often accompanied expiration. The image burns into his mind, the vaguely greenish pallor of the skin, the hideously exposed flesh, the brittle bones laid bare. It lingers in his eyes even when he blinks, and he can feel an unwelcomed twist in his chest, a strange surge that he does not identify as the upwelling of his magic as it writhes, overeager to be released from a cage.
Unseen and unknown, it reaches out toward the only other ‘living’ thing nearby – toward Zain – and digs at him with unfelt and unfeeling claws, probing into his destructed ribs around his lungs and heart. Whether its effects will truly take hold is something of a tentative mystery, though the magic behind it is hungry and craven, wrought with its own perception of the symptoms Oaks beholds in the unknown creature the ocean has presented them. It seeks to spread similar wounds throughout the undead thing’s vital organs, to litter them with gruesome blisters and festers that might impede whatever health is to be found in the painted stallion.
Outwardly, Oaks shifts a little at the mild sensation in his veins as his own heart pounds just a little harder and his breath hitches just slightly. Had it been the stench of rot emanating from the dead animal at his feet that caused that sudden lurch in his stomach, that twinge in his chest? That’s what he’ll attribute it to, though that doesn’t quite explain the sudden drain of energy he feels as well. It reminds him of when he’d first met Zain and the other man had sapped his life force away, but he does not allow it to show this time. Holding his wings against his shoulders becomes more of a noticeable effort, though, and luckily his head is still low as an ache develops in the back of his neck and static tickles against his skull.
He is determined this time not to show that he has somehow been affected – by what, he does not know. As always before, he does not realize whatever effect he may be diffusing to those around him.
OAKS
@
Zain