12-12-2015, 09:57 PM
The wraith-king knows his Etro nears the moment the tethers of magic that bind his flesh to bone begin to quiver. She had been there – when he was brought him back, when the afternoon was filled with the impossibility of his rebirth and the promise of facing the regrets that had hunted for him so long. Etro was still a fuzz-furred child when the king had died his first death and even in adulthood it is obvious that she is the progeny of the Nightwalker and the Golden Rose. The bay of her mother but heavily influenced by the heavier build of her Percheron father, perhaps with time (or her mother's help) she would develop that Akhal-teke sheen her mother’s genetics gifted. A smile tugs at his lips as the sand around his hooves quiver wildly as she approaches and yet he frowns when she keeps her distance, “by gods! At least come greet your father,” he says, tufted raven-black ears twisting towards her. His tone does not suggest this is a request. The leviathan stiffens his forelegs and tucks his trembling wings against his sides, holding his lofty head high. An old warriors-soul in a new body could take the pressure of her negation for the sake of feeling his daughter’s so missed touch.
Next comes the mulberry marbled boy who calls for him by a familial name and his ears slip back against his skull for a breath, turning to regard the colt. At once he can see the hints of Nocturnal in him but, despite his lavish color, he resembled Tarnished the most. The king wonders what kind of dam his son had chosen for his son, a decision that was weighed heavily in his own choices as to who mothered his own children. The Nightwalker was a lover of powerful women, after all.
Vanquish could feel the echo of darkness that had only begin to resound within the boy but the titan smiled anyway, “Woolf,” he repeats, closing the gap of space between grandfather and grandson in a couple of large, feathered strides. “A fitting name,” the black says, dipping a long-maned neck down so that he could fill his nostrils with the faraway scent of his sameness that lay within the skin of the purple colt, “My Tarnished’s boy.” It is a statement, not a question and the same smile sits comfortably across his gothic face as he looks down at the boy, his dark magic vibrating in his nostrils.
The draft thinks to ask the boy where it was that he called home, even though he carried the Chamber’s scent – but an appaloosa girl, Lexa, comes next. She is cautious and he cannot fault her, was it not a peculiar situation? A huge winged stallion, with sand quivering at his feet standing beneath a massive, thriving oak in the middle of the Desert. He was prideful in those that had answered the strange call with boldness, they must had gotten that from him, the Nightwalker feared naught but his woman’s wrath. He had beat death and come back, what could quake him? She wears the spots of his brood with Lyric but her build is much too small – Lyric and Vanquish had bred giants and nothing less. This mare, his granddaughter, was fit yet svelte and his Percheron blood clearly diluted down – so he wonders who she belongs to. “Come dear, I promise no harm will come to you here in the Deserts,” he says, spreading a massive black wing invitingly, “the king assures it it.” He says, with a dip of his head – Vanquish had never been short on formal presentation, what was left in this world of sin if not a little bit of fucking proper royal etiquette?
A large stallion wrests his attention away from the girl and his ears prick forward, the talons on his wings slipping forward instinctually. But Kreios was unmistakable (despite his lack of horns and addition of claws), equal in size to his immense father, with a wild splash of chestnut. An immense heaviness gripped his soul as the flashes of his past indifference and his wrongness put upon his son slid before his hooded gaze. A qualm of apprehension seized him, not out of fear but out of shame. He had mistreated Kreios and the years of nothingness had given him an aching reflection that had made that a blaring fact for him to chew on, over and over. “Kreios,” he says softly, between them, reached a dark nose out to his son’s, “my heart is glad that you have come, there is much to discuss between us.” That is, if the spotted stallion allowed his dark-winged father the opportunity.
Another boy comes, another appaloosa except this time he carries more of a resemblance to his grandfather’s build than the others – a child belonging to his lineage with Lyric, no doubt. “I have called you here,” he says, his dark face turning to all of them. "Because I am Vanquish,” he says meeting the gazes of each the those that had gathered beneath the shade of his crown, “I am your grandfather and you are of my blood and flesh.” He says, to Lexa and to Woolf and to Szeth – it was clear that Etro and Kreios were already quite acquainted with her father. “To offer you home, patronage, care – whatever it is that you desire,” he says, this time meeting the gazes of both Etro and Kreios, “or nothing at all, if that is what you wish.”
And for those that had not come yet? The dragon-king's heart is still hopeful.
.
Next comes the mulberry marbled boy who calls for him by a familial name and his ears slip back against his skull for a breath, turning to regard the colt. At once he can see the hints of Nocturnal in him but, despite his lavish color, he resembled Tarnished the most. The king wonders what kind of dam his son had chosen for his son, a decision that was weighed heavily in his own choices as to who mothered his own children. The Nightwalker was a lover of powerful women, after all.
Vanquish could feel the echo of darkness that had only begin to resound within the boy but the titan smiled anyway, “Woolf,” he repeats, closing the gap of space between grandfather and grandson in a couple of large, feathered strides. “A fitting name,” the black says, dipping a long-maned neck down so that he could fill his nostrils with the faraway scent of his sameness that lay within the skin of the purple colt, “My Tarnished’s boy.” It is a statement, not a question and the same smile sits comfortably across his gothic face as he looks down at the boy, his dark magic vibrating in his nostrils.
The draft thinks to ask the boy where it was that he called home, even though he carried the Chamber’s scent – but an appaloosa girl, Lexa, comes next. She is cautious and he cannot fault her, was it not a peculiar situation? A huge winged stallion, with sand quivering at his feet standing beneath a massive, thriving oak in the middle of the Desert. He was prideful in those that had answered the strange call with boldness, they must had gotten that from him, the Nightwalker feared naught but his woman’s wrath. He had beat death and come back, what could quake him? She wears the spots of his brood with Lyric but her build is much too small – Lyric and Vanquish had bred giants and nothing less. This mare, his granddaughter, was fit yet svelte and his Percheron blood clearly diluted down – so he wonders who she belongs to. “Come dear, I promise no harm will come to you here in the Deserts,” he says, spreading a massive black wing invitingly, “the king assures it it.” He says, with a dip of his head – Vanquish had never been short on formal presentation, what was left in this world of sin if not a little bit of fucking proper royal etiquette?
A large stallion wrests his attention away from the girl and his ears prick forward, the talons on his wings slipping forward instinctually. But Kreios was unmistakable (despite his lack of horns and addition of claws), equal in size to his immense father, with a wild splash of chestnut. An immense heaviness gripped his soul as the flashes of his past indifference and his wrongness put upon his son slid before his hooded gaze. A qualm of apprehension seized him, not out of fear but out of shame. He had mistreated Kreios and the years of nothingness had given him an aching reflection that had made that a blaring fact for him to chew on, over and over. “Kreios,” he says softly, between them, reached a dark nose out to his son’s, “my heart is glad that you have come, there is much to discuss between us.” That is, if the spotted stallion allowed his dark-winged father the opportunity.
Another boy comes, another appaloosa except this time he carries more of a resemblance to his grandfather’s build than the others – a child belonging to his lineage with Lyric, no doubt. “I have called you here,” he says, his dark face turning to all of them. "Because I am Vanquish,” he says meeting the gazes of each the those that had gathered beneath the shade of his crown, “I am your grandfather and you are of my blood and flesh.” He says, to Lexa and to Woolf and to Szeth – it was clear that Etro and Kreios were already quite acquainted with her father. “To offer you home, patronage, care – whatever it is that you desire,” he says, this time meeting the gazes of both Etro and Kreios, “or nothing at all, if that is what you wish.”
And for those that had not come yet? The dragon-king's heart is still hopeful.
.
vanquish
twice a king of the deserts
