07-03-2016, 07:26 PM
She has contemplated this moment for days - for weeks, for months. Her heart longed for something more than the grievous wound left behind by a callous lover that had craved nothing more than a fervent touch. She knew, deep within, that she could not stay - that she could not ever be satisfied by his vague affection and soured temperament. Though he had never behaved ill towards her, she felt it was only a matter of time until he relinquished his rage onto her the way he had so many others.
The thick foliage of the kingdom still beckons to her, drawing her close through the ashes of fallen souls and burnt flora and fauna both. From beneath the burnt remains sprung new life; gentle and fragile - bathing in the little sunlight that shone through the thickly-lined pines. She weaved around the frail blossoms and sprouts. It was a sign of new beginnings. A deeper call to the depths of her very soul. She knew what she craved, she knew what she longed for and no longer could she put it aside in the hopes of being anything but the broken, undesirable child she has always been.
Though shattered, she will carry and mend the pieces with her precious son at her side. Painted a deep plum, he presses close to her, tucked often beneath her silvery wing when able, but desperate to keep a steady pace with his mother. She is quiet, as she often is, doe eyes focused ahead. She inhales the acrid scent of sulfur and knows that she must be near. She has heard much of the Chamber King and his unusual prowess, and she knows that she will know him when she sees him.
At last, she draws her swift pace down to a careful stride, which alerts her hazel-eyed son to peer around with more curious abandon. He remains near to her, uncertain of the unfamiliar scents and menacing shadows looming around him, but he wonders to himself why she has suddenly become so still - until he sees it. Molten magma oozes from the very core of a single male; his presence is demanding and his eyes have an intensity that rival his own father's. Beside him, a rooted tree, engulfed in unwavering flames. He is altogether in awe, and terrified.
Misra gently tucks the young boy beneath her wing and presses forward, observing the various equine that have come forward. She had lingered along the border for far too long, and his call had finally urged her forward. She has ached long enough to find new refuge, to find new meaning within her crestfallen mind - if this is a sign, she is going to seize it. Her doe eyes drift across the crowd for a long moment, taking in the sight of a familiar face (Nymphetamine) but not yet the face she longed to see most. Perhaps, in time, the ursine shapeshifter would show.
She observes silently, remaining a drifter for several long moments as she takes in the magnetism and power behind the blue-tinted female and war-torn obsidian male. She admires the cheekiness of one charcoal-striped alabaster mare and cannot resist the simper that tugs at her whiskered lips upon hearing the impatient indifference of another. Finally, she pushes her own voice forward, deep brown eyes boring into that of the magma King.
"My name is Misra - and this is my son, Arestor." Her voice crackles and trembles as first, but she attempts to keep it at bay. "I seek to devote my loyalty in any way that I can, in return for refuge."
She can only hope that it is enough.
The thick foliage of the kingdom still beckons to her, drawing her close through the ashes of fallen souls and burnt flora and fauna both. From beneath the burnt remains sprung new life; gentle and fragile - bathing in the little sunlight that shone through the thickly-lined pines. She weaved around the frail blossoms and sprouts. It was a sign of new beginnings. A deeper call to the depths of her very soul. She knew what she craved, she knew what she longed for and no longer could she put it aside in the hopes of being anything but the broken, undesirable child she has always been.
Though shattered, she will carry and mend the pieces with her precious son at her side. Painted a deep plum, he presses close to her, tucked often beneath her silvery wing when able, but desperate to keep a steady pace with his mother. She is quiet, as she often is, doe eyes focused ahead. She inhales the acrid scent of sulfur and knows that she must be near. She has heard much of the Chamber King and his unusual prowess, and she knows that she will know him when she sees him.
At last, she draws her swift pace down to a careful stride, which alerts her hazel-eyed son to peer around with more curious abandon. He remains near to her, uncertain of the unfamiliar scents and menacing shadows looming around him, but he wonders to himself why she has suddenly become so still - until he sees it. Molten magma oozes from the very core of a single male; his presence is demanding and his eyes have an intensity that rival his own father's. Beside him, a rooted tree, engulfed in unwavering flames. He is altogether in awe, and terrified.
Misra gently tucks the young boy beneath her wing and presses forward, observing the various equine that have come forward. She had lingered along the border for far too long, and his call had finally urged her forward. She has ached long enough to find new refuge, to find new meaning within her crestfallen mind - if this is a sign, she is going to seize it. Her doe eyes drift across the crowd for a long moment, taking in the sight of a familiar face (Nymphetamine) but not yet the face she longed to see most. Perhaps, in time, the ursine shapeshifter would show.
She observes silently, remaining a drifter for several long moments as she takes in the magnetism and power behind the blue-tinted female and war-torn obsidian male. She admires the cheekiness of one charcoal-striped alabaster mare and cannot resist the simper that tugs at her whiskered lips upon hearing the impatient indifference of another. Finally, she pushes her own voice forward, deep brown eyes boring into that of the magma King.
"My name is Misra - and this is my son, Arestor." Her voice crackles and trembles as first, but she attempts to keep it at bay. "I seek to devote my loyalty in any way that I can, in return for refuge."
She can only hope that it is enough.
