12-31-2015, 05:34 PM
But I won't rot, I won't rot. Not this mind and not this heart.
He cannot say he is pleased when they come to him, if only because he does not find this a pleasant undertaking, and because he has had naught but blackbirds by his side for a very long time. He is tense when the little salmon-tipped mare comes to him, fatigued and sore. But she is right, they both came here for a reason. So he lowers his head to her, whiffing into the cold air in greeting, and listens to the sweet, forwardness of her invitation. She is young and heavy with life and he is the opposite — old, often feeling more overburdened by his size than advantaged by it. It makes him sad and nostalgic.
“Ygritte,” His voice is a gravel rumble, a mountain shaking rocks from itself; and he thinks he has probably seen the Falls from up high but never from his feet. He makes to reply, but they are joined by another and the big black stallion tucks his chin to his chest and sighs white breath around his face. It is not anger, and the hulking man has the air of eternal patience. He is no stranger to waiting, and to taking things in stride.
The Tundra he must know too, aerially. But he has been above many wastelands of differing character; deserts, brush and ice. Everything melds together, but for a few places marked with x's in his mind, places that glow red and hot and call to him. Hurricane meets frankness in kind and Corruption does not mind. He nods to him and shifts his great weight, “Well met both of you,” It is rough and unpracticed, but the words do not come across as insincere. He makes an understanding sound in his throat as the grey stallion warns of the Tundra's ruggedness. He has landed in hailstorms, cut through wild west winds; he is no stranger to demanding frontiers.
When the second mare arrives he begins to feel a press, beginning to grow strained. “Becca. It's Corruption,” He shifts his wings, winching a bit as he does. Her warning of war seems to pass him by with some indifference, his years of detachment have left him forged in iron, piecemeal. He is too old for war, but too perfectly made for it. “I must offer you a warning of my own,” He looks at Hurricane with dark eyes, clouding a bit in the centers, “Your kingdom's nature does not scare me, I am... well suited, but I am old.” He unfurls his wings, a gesture of departure, “If that is of no bother to you, then I will follow you there. Or otherwise find my own way, if need be.”
The worst thing about this place is that at least one emissary has always wasted their time, and time is precious. He turns to the mares, young (much younger than himself, anyway) and pretty, and he suddenly does not feel so bad for them. “Good luck.” There are no ghosts waiting for him the Tundra, of that he feels quite sure, only the one that follows his flanks wherever he walks. She will not be shook, he would never try.
“Ygritte,” His voice is a gravel rumble, a mountain shaking rocks from itself; and he thinks he has probably seen the Falls from up high but never from his feet. He makes to reply, but they are joined by another and the big black stallion tucks his chin to his chest and sighs white breath around his face. It is not anger, and the hulking man has the air of eternal patience. He is no stranger to waiting, and to taking things in stride.
The Tundra he must know too, aerially. But he has been above many wastelands of differing character; deserts, brush and ice. Everything melds together, but for a few places marked with x's in his mind, places that glow red and hot and call to him. Hurricane meets frankness in kind and Corruption does not mind. He nods to him and shifts his great weight, “Well met both of you,” It is rough and unpracticed, but the words do not come across as insincere. He makes an understanding sound in his throat as the grey stallion warns of the Tundra's ruggedness. He has landed in hailstorms, cut through wild west winds; he is no stranger to demanding frontiers.
When the second mare arrives he begins to feel a press, beginning to grow strained. “Becca. It's Corruption,” He shifts his wings, winching a bit as he does. Her warning of war seems to pass him by with some indifference, his years of detachment have left him forged in iron, piecemeal. He is too old for war, but too perfectly made for it. “I must offer you a warning of my own,” He looks at Hurricane with dark eyes, clouding a bit in the centers, “Your kingdom's nature does not scare me, I am... well suited, but I am old.” He unfurls his wings, a gesture of departure, “If that is of no bother to you, then I will follow you there. Or otherwise find my own way, if need be.”
The worst thing about this place is that at least one emissary has always wasted their time, and time is precious. He turns to the mares, young (much younger than himself, anyway) and pretty, and he suddenly does not feel so bad for them. “Good luck.” There are no ghosts waiting for him the Tundra, of that he feels quite sure, only the one that follows his flanks wherever he walks. She will not be shook, he would never try.
I won't rot.