± when you feel my heat, look into my eyes ±
He hauls his rested body to the Meadow, no longer plagued by the consumption of fire, at least for now. When Killdare awoke the next morning, sore but whole, he was again just a stallion. His earthy bay coat remained dull as ever, coarse black tendrils coiling around his hind. For a moment it was a dream, until his mind cleared enough to register the heat within. Without much thought to the matter, his legs bubbled, burning once again as the lava and he became one. This time it did not pain him, this time he did not think he would die.
It was hours before it went away, when he finally pushed it back inside, brow beaded with sweat from the concentration. It was harder than it looked, controlling this power, but he'd be damned if he was tamed so easily by it. Killdare was not one to easily give up, he was perhaps bull headed when it came to such matters, though in his family that wasn't so unheard of.
He would best the trait, the trait would not best him.
When he had finally subdued the moving liquid, tucked it away, that is when he was on the move. That is when he stalked to the Meadow, glassy-green eyes alert for anything. The Kingdom he was handed was broken, shattered, it was a mess. He was left to pick up the pieces or suffer because he could not. When he had counted them that night, he was surprised at how few, too few, remained. The greatest claim of the War was his mentor, his comrade in arms, Warship.
How or why he would never know, suppose we always think our heroes invincible? The Chamber King was no exception, still a boy in many ways, still growing.
When he sees her he offers a gruff "Hello" perhaps a little too deep and forced, maybe he should work on his diplomacy skills after all. He was too tired to fake it, to make smiles and jokes, to flatter. He could not muster charm now, fresh from battle and loss and gain. Wounds never do heal that quickly do they?
It was hours before it went away, when he finally pushed it back inside, brow beaded with sweat from the concentration. It was harder than it looked, controlling this power, but he'd be damned if he was tamed so easily by it. Killdare was not one to easily give up, he was perhaps bull headed when it came to such matters, though in his family that wasn't so unheard of.
He would best the trait, the trait would not best him.
When he had finally subdued the moving liquid, tucked it away, that is when he was on the move. That is when he stalked to the Meadow, glassy-green eyes alert for anything. The Kingdom he was handed was broken, shattered, it was a mess. He was left to pick up the pieces or suffer because he could not. When he had counted them that night, he was surprised at how few, too few, remained. The greatest claim of the War was his mentor, his comrade in arms, Warship.
How or why he would never know, suppose we always think our heroes invincible? The Chamber King was no exception, still a boy in many ways, still growing.
When he sees her he offers a gruff "Hello" perhaps a little too deep and forced, maybe he should work on his diplomacy skills after all. He was too tired to fake it, to make smiles and jokes, to flatter. He could not muster charm now, fresh from battle and loss and gain. Wounds never do heal that quickly do they?
KILLDARE
magma King of the Chamber
