Oaks
06-24-2024, 02:42 PM
They know, of course, that he is not well. It’s obvious in their eyes, their voices and persistence, the way they do not leave him after gathering the base knowledge required to navigate these lands.
He had been born in a time where a simple cough would have dispelled all companionship, when the slightest wheeze would encourage isolation. Now, though, even strangers lost in a new land will not allow him to believe his own lies.
He should be thankful, he will tell himself later, and yet somehow at the moment he is only confused. After secreting himself away for so long, keeping his distance for countless years for the sole reason of keeping his infections to himself, it is purely baffling to him that he should now leave himself so exposed to the approaches of others.
And he is not afraid for them, like usual.
Why?
Perhaps some subconscious knowledge is barring his usual trepidation, fencing it in so that he is allowed this small bit of freedom. There has been a change in his magic (unbeknownst to him) which has granted more variety to his powers than he might have expected. It had taken so many trips to the Mountain, so many restless nights of wishing and hoping and praying, and it’s quite an unfortunate reality that the spotted stallion does not even realize his wish is (slowly) coming true at last.
For now, he chalks his lack of caution up to the fever coiled around his skull like a greedy demon, pressing into his thoughts with a fervent sort of aggression.
He listens as the girl introduces herself, the curious names causing him to tilt his head ever so slightly as he observes her with that phantom smile. “Mountain herds…” he muses quietly, wondering whether she means the very Mountain he had haunted for so long… but that couldn’t be right, could it?
The other stallion – Quetzalli, he’d said – explains what had brought him here and Oaks gives another minimal nod of his chin. “Magic is plentiful in Beqanna,” he informs them both, “I would not be surprised if you were led here intentionally.” Though, he is no man of import or a special discovery, no treasure at the end of a rainbow. They had only happened upon him by chance, he knows.
His wings shift slightly where they still hang at his sides, ghostly feathers blending into the summer grass. Above them, the branches of the tree rattle a bit in a soft breeze. He can only smile further when Quetzalli addresses the obvious matter at hand, his waning appearance and then addresses the deadened boughs overhead.
“No, there is no infection anymore,” he responds in the same raspy voice before weakly clearing his throat. “The tree…” He looks upward with hazy eyes, saddened by the memory of the blooms that had fallen so rapidly from it. “That was my fault.” Now he does step back a little as he looks back to his companions, well aware that his next words often ward others away. “I bear a curse of death, it seems… and I do not think I can control it.” A heavy sigh leaves him.
“I’ve tried to learn…” He speaks more to himself now, quieter as his muted copper gaze falls away and he repeats Zain’s words again, hoping to rein-in his magic once again. It would not do for him to infect these newcomers, to stain their impressions with a terrible memory, and so he pictures the same sort of tree-limb as before, except he imagines it curling inward like the reverse of a fern’s frond, furling toward himself instead of outward like they had practiced before. His eyes have fallen closed now as he focuses on the image of brittle twig-fingers prying carefully into his breast, through muscle and bone and further into his heart.
Stay there, he begs silently, uncertain of whom he’s trying to speak to. Just stay inside.
This nearly seems to drain him even more and he must adjust his footing, spacing his hooves a little further apart as he lifts his eyes to them again. His smile has returned, his expression softened despite the slight flickers of what appear to be pain passing across his face. “I don’t think you need to worry, though,” he continues as if he had not paused at all. “I won’t bring you harm.”
He hopes, anyway. A mild tremble rises through his muscles as his magic works inwardly, weaving throughout him to hold his own sickness in containment for the time being.
He had been born in a time where a simple cough would have dispelled all companionship, when the slightest wheeze would encourage isolation. Now, though, even strangers lost in a new land will not allow him to believe his own lies.
He should be thankful, he will tell himself later, and yet somehow at the moment he is only confused. After secreting himself away for so long, keeping his distance for countless years for the sole reason of keeping his infections to himself, it is purely baffling to him that he should now leave himself so exposed to the approaches of others.
And he is not afraid for them, like usual.
Why?
Perhaps some subconscious knowledge is barring his usual trepidation, fencing it in so that he is allowed this small bit of freedom. There has been a change in his magic (unbeknownst to him) which has granted more variety to his powers than he might have expected. It had taken so many trips to the Mountain, so many restless nights of wishing and hoping and praying, and it’s quite an unfortunate reality that the spotted stallion does not even realize his wish is (slowly) coming true at last.
For now, he chalks his lack of caution up to the fever coiled around his skull like a greedy demon, pressing into his thoughts with a fervent sort of aggression.
He listens as the girl introduces herself, the curious names causing him to tilt his head ever so slightly as he observes her with that phantom smile. “Mountain herds…” he muses quietly, wondering whether she means the very Mountain he had haunted for so long… but that couldn’t be right, could it?
The other stallion – Quetzalli, he’d said – explains what had brought him here and Oaks gives another minimal nod of his chin. “Magic is plentiful in Beqanna,” he informs them both, “I would not be surprised if you were led here intentionally.” Though, he is no man of import or a special discovery, no treasure at the end of a rainbow. They had only happened upon him by chance, he knows.
His wings shift slightly where they still hang at his sides, ghostly feathers blending into the summer grass. Above them, the branches of the tree rattle a bit in a soft breeze. He can only smile further when Quetzalli addresses the obvious matter at hand, his waning appearance and then addresses the deadened boughs overhead.
“No, there is no infection anymore,” he responds in the same raspy voice before weakly clearing his throat. “The tree…” He looks upward with hazy eyes, saddened by the memory of the blooms that had fallen so rapidly from it. “That was my fault.” Now he does step back a little as he looks back to his companions, well aware that his next words often ward others away. “I bear a curse of death, it seems… and I do not think I can control it.” A heavy sigh leaves him.
“I’ve tried to learn…” He speaks more to himself now, quieter as his muted copper gaze falls away and he repeats Zain’s words again, hoping to rein-in his magic once again. It would not do for him to infect these newcomers, to stain their impressions with a terrible memory, and so he pictures the same sort of tree-limb as before, except he imagines it curling inward like the reverse of a fern’s frond, furling toward himself instead of outward like they had practiced before. His eyes have fallen closed now as he focuses on the image of brittle twig-fingers prying carefully into his breast, through muscle and bone and further into his heart.
Stay there, he begs silently, uncertain of whom he’s trying to speak to. Just stay inside.
This nearly seems to drain him even more and he must adjust his footing, spacing his hooves a little further apart as he lifts his eyes to them again. His smile has returned, his expression softened despite the slight flickers of what appear to be pain passing across his face. “I don’t think you need to worry, though,” he continues as if he had not paused at all. “I won’t bring you harm.”
He hopes, anyway. A mild tremble rises through his muscles as his magic works inwardly, weaving throughout him to hold his own sickness in containment for the time being.
OAKS
@Awi @Quetzalli