Oaks
Oaks’ energy has been properly drained ever since his last encounter with Zain.
It has puzzled him, the odd exhaustion he had borne since that day on the Pangean beach. It had been a rather dismal sort of event, with grayish clouds casting gloom over the coppery canyons of the territory while the ocean waves had been equally pallid. Zain had been his usual self, eerie and decrepit and sinister in spite of their fairly tame conversation, lackluster and plain in its course. Until of course the larger stallion had parted ways with him, now playing host to an unknown disease that Oaks had created with his unfortunate power. The image of the creature they had observed (so malformed and disfigured by its miserable affliction – the inspiration behind his grim magic’s creation of the festering pustules and diseased lesions within his friend’s major organs) still burns in his mind’s eye even now as he wanders toward the greener expanse of the Meadow.
Another pitiable image to add to his collection of a litany of others, animals and plants alike, whose lives ended in misfortune.
Oaks has not made a habit of leaving Pangea, largely for fear that his curse might reappear at any moment to steal the life of someone or something around him. But the desert air had been too harsh in his lungs since that encounter; his feet have felt heavy, his shoulders have ached. He presumes himself to be afflicted by some sort of illness, all the while unaware that his energy has been sapped by the very mutation in his veins, that touch of oddity inherited from his father and passed on by the faeries. Creating that new disease had required a heavy debt of energy, an unseen swell of effort despite his being wholly ignorant of the magic’s actions and unaware that it had ultimately killed his only friend.
Zain had wandered off, appearing just as well as a man like him could despite playing host to the fast-acting killer that the oblivious reaper had brought to life inside him.
Equally, Oaks now pays the price for his actions, even if they had not been intentional or even known.
As he looks upon the Meadow now, drawing a deep breath of the wetter, heavier air here, he can still feel the ache in his bones. His ribs protest the expansion, one of his shoulders pops uncomfortably. The different clime does not seem an immediate solution to the waning strength within him, but he lingers all the same. His ghostly wings droop a bit at his sides – if corporeal, their primary feathers would be trailing the ground – and his head hangs a bit lower than usual, especially as he comes to stand beneath the naked arms of the tree he and his tutor had encountered before. Its once-beautiful blooms have not returned this season, even in the flush of summer, and it stirs against his mournful heart.
Raising his head takes some effort, but eventually he stands there looking up at the barren boughs, the fingers of their limbs touching against the clear sky like feeble claws. A heavy, rattling sort of breath leaves him in a sigh that scratches at his throat and rouses a brief fit of coughing; a dull ache begins to throb at the back of his head. The sun bears down upon his reddened back strong enough to elicit patches of sweat on his flanks and withers while he debates in silence whether to even bother trying to harness his magic in an attempt to revive the old arboreal life. He’d nearly managed to control his magic enough last time, before death had taken it over… could that have been a sign that his powers were changing?
His focus is so fixated that he does not notice, at first, when someone else approaches him beneath the deadened branches.
It has puzzled him, the odd exhaustion he had borne since that day on the Pangean beach. It had been a rather dismal sort of event, with grayish clouds casting gloom over the coppery canyons of the territory while the ocean waves had been equally pallid. Zain had been his usual self, eerie and decrepit and sinister in spite of their fairly tame conversation, lackluster and plain in its course. Until of course the larger stallion had parted ways with him, now playing host to an unknown disease that Oaks had created with his unfortunate power. The image of the creature they had observed (so malformed and disfigured by its miserable affliction – the inspiration behind his grim magic’s creation of the festering pustules and diseased lesions within his friend’s major organs) still burns in his mind’s eye even now as he wanders toward the greener expanse of the Meadow.
Another pitiable image to add to his collection of a litany of others, animals and plants alike, whose lives ended in misfortune.
Oaks has not made a habit of leaving Pangea, largely for fear that his curse might reappear at any moment to steal the life of someone or something around him. But the desert air had been too harsh in his lungs since that encounter; his feet have felt heavy, his shoulders have ached. He presumes himself to be afflicted by some sort of illness, all the while unaware that his energy has been sapped by the very mutation in his veins, that touch of oddity inherited from his father and passed on by the faeries. Creating that new disease had required a heavy debt of energy, an unseen swell of effort despite his being wholly ignorant of the magic’s actions and unaware that it had ultimately killed his only friend.
Zain had wandered off, appearing just as well as a man like him could despite playing host to the fast-acting killer that the oblivious reaper had brought to life inside him.
Equally, Oaks now pays the price for his actions, even if they had not been intentional or even known.
As he looks upon the Meadow now, drawing a deep breath of the wetter, heavier air here, he can still feel the ache in his bones. His ribs protest the expansion, one of his shoulders pops uncomfortably. The different clime does not seem an immediate solution to the waning strength within him, but he lingers all the same. His ghostly wings droop a bit at his sides – if corporeal, their primary feathers would be trailing the ground – and his head hangs a bit lower than usual, especially as he comes to stand beneath the naked arms of the tree he and his tutor had encountered before. Its once-beautiful blooms have not returned this season, even in the flush of summer, and it stirs against his mournful heart.
Raising his head takes some effort, but eventually he stands there looking up at the barren boughs, the fingers of their limbs touching against the clear sky like feeble claws. A heavy, rattling sort of breath leaves him in a sigh that scratches at his throat and rouses a brief fit of coughing; a dull ache begins to throb at the back of his head. The sun bears down upon his reddened back strong enough to elicit patches of sweat on his flanks and withers while he debates in silence whether to even bother trying to harness his magic in an attempt to revive the old arboreal life. He’d nearly managed to control his magic enough last time, before death had taken it over… could that have been a sign that his powers were changing?
His focus is so fixated that he does not notice, at first, when someone else approaches him beneath the deadened branches.
OAKS
ooc: this is going to be one of Oaks' quest threads dealing with healing a disease ;)