12-19-2015, 09:22 PM
The wraith-king’s time as of late had been spent mulling over the brewing war and grooming the gift the god’s had given him. At first, he had soured at the realization that his super-strength had not been returned to his bones when they had been rebuilt. For close to thirteen years the power had been soaked into his marrow and without it, his new body had felt lighter, more fragile - at first.
But there had never been anything fragile about the Nightwalker, gifted or barren. The king had been practicing building perfect, to-scale replications of himself, made of sand and of cactus, of sandstone and bedrock. The exercises were taxing, leaving the beast swathed in in a slick sheen of white sweat on his shadowed skin.
Vanquish had been napping beneath his oak when the black smoke girl had been spat onto the sands of Deserts. And when Yael’s silky, intangible touch came to wake the beast it felt no different than if she stood before him. The king tilt’s his heavy head back, nostrils flaring as he picks out her scent. It isn’t hard to pick out smell of new life here – it is honeyed and delicate amongst the many hard spices of the Desert.
Dragon’s wings unfold from his sides, lifting him easily into the sky. Dark eyes catch the mother camel and calf as they uncomfortably linger beside a trembling filly. A sliver of humor passes his memories as he recalls the many days of chasing the humpbacked beasts through the dunes. The Nightwalker steps from the sky a few long-legged steps from the trio, he knew the camel’s wouldn’t spook away even with the giant’s descent – not with Yael’s sway over them.
She is small and smelled of afterbirth although no mare’s scent accompanied it and even in its peculiarity it is not especially disconcerting. This is the Deserts after all, ruled by dragons and magicians and strange things are as common as tumbleweeds here.
“Do you know your name, little smoke girl?” The king asks, reaching with a membranous wing to tuck her shivering frame against his blood-warm side.
.
But there had never been anything fragile about the Nightwalker, gifted or barren. The king had been practicing building perfect, to-scale replications of himself, made of sand and of cactus, of sandstone and bedrock. The exercises were taxing, leaving the beast swathed in in a slick sheen of white sweat on his shadowed skin.
Vanquish had been napping beneath his oak when the black smoke girl had been spat onto the sands of Deserts. And when Yael’s silky, intangible touch came to wake the beast it felt no different than if she stood before him. The king tilt’s his heavy head back, nostrils flaring as he picks out her scent. It isn’t hard to pick out smell of new life here – it is honeyed and delicate amongst the many hard spices of the Desert.
Dragon’s wings unfold from his sides, lifting him easily into the sky. Dark eyes catch the mother camel and calf as they uncomfortably linger beside a trembling filly. A sliver of humor passes his memories as he recalls the many days of chasing the humpbacked beasts through the dunes. The Nightwalker steps from the sky a few long-legged steps from the trio, he knew the camel’s wouldn’t spook away even with the giant’s descent – not with Yael’s sway over them.
She is small and smelled of afterbirth although no mare’s scent accompanied it and even in its peculiarity it is not especially disconcerting. This is the Deserts after all, ruled by dragons and magicians and strange things are as common as tumbleweeds here.
“Do you know your name, little smoke girl?” The king asks, reaching with a membranous wing to tuck her shivering frame against his blood-warm side.
.
vanquish
black king of the deserts
