06-18-2016, 09:18 AM
WEIR
Sleep, of course he was good at sleep wasn’t he? As Weir dozed the world around him went on, and the roan man was none the wiser. Isn’t that funny and a bit odd how that works? Beqanna’s potentially most intelligent creature oblivious to the world like that? It’s true, it happens and today it did just that.
As he slept, the world continued, as the world will always do, and from that continuity sprang life just as once he had summoned it into himself without knowing. That’s the link, the similarity and as he snored snow fell precariously from the sky in late spring. Each tiny flake fluttered to the earth, lining the green meadow with a blanket cover of pure and pristine alabaster. Eventually, beneath the fine powder, new life emerged and that new life was life which Weir had unknowingly brought to the world. One boy and one girl. The boy had managed quite well to shake himself free of the drifts, squealing loudly at the world as if the entire situation was indignant of him, and maybe it was. Sadly enough he didn’t hear his own cries, nor would he ever but nothings perfect and even deafness is no imperfection by most rates.
Weir sleeps as the child cries but we can imagine that he is coming to by now, slow as ever. The presence of Phaedrus is, for the time, unnoticed in his sleep, as well as the approach of his dearest love Eira. It is lucky that she arrives when she does, clearing the snow and revealing beneath a particular heap a dark colored girl, still snoozing herself it seems.
Only when she beckons him, Eira that is, does he stir, groaning as he does so. Each limb stretching, twisting perhaps a little as he opens his amber eyes to the bright sun. A few times he blinks, looking at nothing in particular as the regains focus in his sight and the last bits of sleep brush themselves away on his lashes. Now you can imagine what an odd thing this is to wake up to, a gathering of sorts and no prior knowledge of such an occasion. “Eira?” he asks sleepily, a yawn pulling his lips apart until his mouth is wide. “Phaedrus?” he wonders, looking up at the blue and black male and wondering why everyone is staring and why they are all gawking at him so.
It is then that the dulcet tones of the first child reach his ears, shrill as they are it is a wonder he hasn’t registered them until now. In his grogginess Weir asks, “Newton?” before turning his rusty head and seeing that it is not Newton at all. Not only is it not Newton but there is another unknown child laying beside him, and they are all covered in snow. Weir thinks on this a moment, looking at the two new children and back to the two horses standing before him. Back and forth, back and forth and then only then, does he turn his head and neck to look at his deflated stomach. At this his eyes grow wide, turning to look back at Eira and Phaedrus before speaking. “How on Earth?” he gulps, as if they could even begin to know or explain this conundrum.
As he slept, the world continued, as the world will always do, and from that continuity sprang life just as once he had summoned it into himself without knowing. That’s the link, the similarity and as he snored snow fell precariously from the sky in late spring. Each tiny flake fluttered to the earth, lining the green meadow with a blanket cover of pure and pristine alabaster. Eventually, beneath the fine powder, new life emerged and that new life was life which Weir had unknowingly brought to the world. One boy and one girl. The boy had managed quite well to shake himself free of the drifts, squealing loudly at the world as if the entire situation was indignant of him, and maybe it was. Sadly enough he didn’t hear his own cries, nor would he ever but nothings perfect and even deafness is no imperfection by most rates.
Weir sleeps as the child cries but we can imagine that he is coming to by now, slow as ever. The presence of Phaedrus is, for the time, unnoticed in his sleep, as well as the approach of his dearest love Eira. It is lucky that she arrives when she does, clearing the snow and revealing beneath a particular heap a dark colored girl, still snoozing herself it seems.
Only when she beckons him, Eira that is, does he stir, groaning as he does so. Each limb stretching, twisting perhaps a little as he opens his amber eyes to the bright sun. A few times he blinks, looking at nothing in particular as the regains focus in his sight and the last bits of sleep brush themselves away on his lashes. Now you can imagine what an odd thing this is to wake up to, a gathering of sorts and no prior knowledge of such an occasion. “Eira?” he asks sleepily, a yawn pulling his lips apart until his mouth is wide. “Phaedrus?” he wonders, looking up at the blue and black male and wondering why everyone is staring and why they are all gawking at him so.
It is then that the dulcet tones of the first child reach his ears, shrill as they are it is a wonder he hasn’t registered them until now. In his grogginess Weir asks, “Newton?” before turning his rusty head and seeing that it is not Newton at all. Not only is it not Newton but there is another unknown child laying beside him, and they are all covered in snow. Weir thinks on this a moment, looking at the two new children and back to the two horses standing before him. Back and forth, back and forth and then only then, does he turn his head and neck to look at his deflated stomach. At this his eyes grow wide, turning to look back at Eira and Phaedrus before speaking. “How on Earth?” he gulps, as if they could even begin to know or explain this conundrum.
WINTER IS COMING
Go ahead and respond as i wont post again from Rowling just yet.