05-25-2016, 01:37 PM
not all angels have wings
Woven from ice and smoke alike, from both shadow and light, the dappled stallion stalked across the frigid sea of grass, brittle stalks bowing in the wake of his passage and shattering underhoof with every purposeful step. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
Winter. It had always been Azael's favorite season - a time of hardship and scarcity, of biting winds and bitter uncertainties. Anyone could survive the spring, in that time of plenty with its soft breezes and tender greens. But the winter? No. No, only the truly worthy could survive the abuse of such a heartless mistress.
In. Through flared nostrils, the stud drank in of the sharpened air, unflinching; the burn of that inhalation filling his lungs was a most welcome pain. Out. Solidified in the midst of that chill, the stallion's breath unfurled from the ebon velveteen of his muzzle to dance in the air before him, as smoky as the exhalation of a great dragon and yet far more insubstantial.
And then came the time for pause, powerful legs slowing in their feast upon the earth to bring the stud's tall frame to a halt, perched as it was atop that subtle knoll. Jet-dusted ears swiveled to and fro in an almost lackadaisical sweep even as his eyes - those flat shards of mahogany ice - studied the nearly lifeless meadow which roiled before him, those skeletal waves of browned grass broken only by the occasional tree. Or another equine, of course.
In truth, it was those latter which the grey wraith studied, as was his wont. His scheme. Scheme? Indeed. For behind that veneer of stoic calm and careful disinterest lurked something far more interesting. Ambition. Ambition for what? That would surely be seen, all in due time. But first, Azael needed something. Or rather, someone.
And so he watched. He waited. And he wondered.
Will today be the day?
Winter. It had always been Azael's favorite season - a time of hardship and scarcity, of biting winds and bitter uncertainties. Anyone could survive the spring, in that time of plenty with its soft breezes and tender greens. But the winter? No. No, only the truly worthy could survive the abuse of such a heartless mistress.
In. Through flared nostrils, the stud drank in of the sharpened air, unflinching; the burn of that inhalation filling his lungs was a most welcome pain. Out. Solidified in the midst of that chill, the stallion's breath unfurled from the ebon velveteen of his muzzle to dance in the air before him, as smoky as the exhalation of a great dragon and yet far more insubstantial.
And then came the time for pause, powerful legs slowing in their feast upon the earth to bring the stud's tall frame to a halt, perched as it was atop that subtle knoll. Jet-dusted ears swiveled to and fro in an almost lackadaisical sweep even as his eyes - those flat shards of mahogany ice - studied the nearly lifeless meadow which roiled before him, those skeletal waves of browned grass broken only by the occasional tree. Or another equine, of course.
In truth, it was those latter which the grey wraith studied, as was his wont. His scheme. Scheme? Indeed. For behind that veneer of stoic calm and careful disinterest lurked something far more interesting. Ambition. Ambition for what? That would surely be seen, all in due time. But first, Azael needed something. Or rather, someone.
And so he watched. He waited. And he wondered.
Will today be the day?
Azael