05-26-2016, 10:15 PM
i'm the one that you need and fear
Withdrawn. Such had been Azael's nearly constant state of being since he had ventured into this place. A stranger in an even stranger land. Withdrawn. Watchful. Waiting. And so it was that another day dawned and the too-bright rays of the winter sun found the grey wraith once again ghosting through the common lands, obsidian hooves crisp upon the dead, brittle stalks underhoof, his breath mere vapor swirling through the air before him. And as he moved, so too did his eyes, his ears - those latter ebon-dusted appendages swiveling to and fro atop his regal, Andalusian crown to catch the faint wisps of words uttered by the others in his passing.
Polite words. Meaningless words. The scarred brute had never seen the sense in them. Such words were mere wind without any weight to them. And what weight could polite observations about the weather truly carry?
Dull was the gaze he cast upon those others, his eyes so like twin shards of mahogany ice in their cool dismissal of mare and stallion alike. Though his outward demeanor was no doubt a frigid facade of sheer indifference, in truth, the stud was simply... bored. Perhaps even a touch disappointed. As of yet, there had been no one to catch his interest on this day.
Yet being the key word, of course.
And then, there she was. A flash of blue splashed against an otherwise colorless sky. The stud was immediately drawn to the color, the prick of his ears marking the sudden spark of his curiosity. With an arc of that elegant Andalusian neck, Azael lifted his head toward the heavens so that he could better observe that creature flying overhead. And in that observation, he felt his powerful legs slow, his frame draw to a pause. Frozen in that moment, as much of the world had already been frozen - too weak to resist the chill of that most unforgiving season.
Winter was indeed the cruelest of mistresses.
In silence did the stallion observe the mare's descent, her landing, the shimmer of a midnight-kissed sea upon her feathers as she folded those great wings along the supple curve of her back. Lovely. The word came unbidden to the stud's mind, a mere prick of thought on the very edges of his consciousness. A thought easily dismissed. Ignored. Shunned back into the recesses from which it had bloomed.
But not even the male carved from smoke and ice could fully deny the truth of such a silent declaration.
Inhale. Azael drank in deep of the crisp air, letting it bite at his nostrils, letting it burn his lungs. Exhale. More mist curled from the brute's ebon muzzle to dance in the space before him, like dragon smoke, yet far more insubstantial.
And far less deadly.
Only then did he push himself into motion once more, his steps light, his stride purposeful. Slowly did he make that approach, each sweep of his long legs devouring more of the ground beneath him until he was but a few lengths away from the mare painted in such celestial shades of black and blue. And there he slowed. And there he halted, dark eyes hooked upon the form of the winged creature even as his head lifted once more, even as his nares flared so that he could catch the female's scent, so that he could lavish in it, so that he could study it. But as for words, there were none. For what could possibly be said in such a moment?
Hello? No, no. What is your name? Never. Such niceties were useless. Such questions did not need to be pressed. And so it was that the one called Azael simply embraced the easy silence between them, letting it fall upon his broad shoulders like a mantle he always wore with such ease.
And so he watched.
And so he waited.
Polite words. Meaningless words. The scarred brute had never seen the sense in them. Such words were mere wind without any weight to them. And what weight could polite observations about the weather truly carry?
Dull was the gaze he cast upon those others, his eyes so like twin shards of mahogany ice in their cool dismissal of mare and stallion alike. Though his outward demeanor was no doubt a frigid facade of sheer indifference, in truth, the stud was simply... bored. Perhaps even a touch disappointed. As of yet, there had been no one to catch his interest on this day.
Yet being the key word, of course.
And then, there she was. A flash of blue splashed against an otherwise colorless sky. The stud was immediately drawn to the color, the prick of his ears marking the sudden spark of his curiosity. With an arc of that elegant Andalusian neck, Azael lifted his head toward the heavens so that he could better observe that creature flying overhead. And in that observation, he felt his powerful legs slow, his frame draw to a pause. Frozen in that moment, as much of the world had already been frozen - too weak to resist the chill of that most unforgiving season.
Winter was indeed the cruelest of mistresses.
In silence did the stallion observe the mare's descent, her landing, the shimmer of a midnight-kissed sea upon her feathers as she folded those great wings along the supple curve of her back. Lovely. The word came unbidden to the stud's mind, a mere prick of thought on the very edges of his consciousness. A thought easily dismissed. Ignored. Shunned back into the recesses from which it had bloomed.
But not even the male carved from smoke and ice could fully deny the truth of such a silent declaration.
Inhale. Azael drank in deep of the crisp air, letting it bite at his nostrils, letting it burn his lungs. Exhale. More mist curled from the brute's ebon muzzle to dance in the space before him, like dragon smoke, yet far more insubstantial.
And far less deadly.
Only then did he push himself into motion once more, his steps light, his stride purposeful. Slowly did he make that approach, each sweep of his long legs devouring more of the ground beneath him until he was but a few lengths away from the mare painted in such celestial shades of black and blue. And there he slowed. And there he halted, dark eyes hooked upon the form of the winged creature even as his head lifted once more, even as his nares flared so that he could catch the female's scent, so that he could lavish in it, so that he could study it. But as for words, there were none. For what could possibly be said in such a moment?
Hello? No, no. What is your name? Never. Such niceties were useless. Such questions did not need to be pressed. And so it was that the one called Azael simply embraced the easy silence between them, letting it fall upon his broad shoulders like a mantle he always wore with such ease.
And so he watched.
And so he waited.
Azael