09-09-2016, 09:01 PM
The sky is dimming - the snow falling in light flakes upon the land that they had found. The air is moist and hot, but amidst the edges of the sea, it is cool and still and the crystalline snow still has a fighting chance to live.
Here, Eight stands, silent as he watches the ever drifting sea. The past month had been something so unknown to him. Even still, his body felt foreign - a sailor adrift at sea. He could not say he entirely missed the magic that ran through his veins, but it was as if it was a missing limb. It throbbed and he could not satiate it - a tickle in the back of his throat, a phantom limb. It was freeing too, of course - he was no longer sought out to mend or meddle or melee. He was simply another face in the crowd, someone easily enough to pass over, to blend into the normalcy of the crowded meadow of Beqanna.
Even now, Tephra is silent - the word of their new home not quite reaching the ears of all who sought it. It is comforting, in a way. It was always solace he found in the thicket of pine trees, in the high ridges of the Valley’s mountains - the quiet settled him, he was never one to converse very much.
But tonight, the silence is ruffled with soft voices, a slurring of sounds that conjoin with the lapping waves on the beach. His head turns sharply, unused to being surprised without his veil of magic, and his eyes alight on a small chestnut form unsteadily following a dunskin body. The form resonates instantaneously - Thorunn. You, the small girl he had steadily watched over in his minds eye - a fiercely silent thing that curled across the Valley, but refused to name any friends. And the dunskin, he had met you before too, a harsh greeting when you had crossed the border to find your daughter.
But there was something not quite right - the stitch in your steps told him that sometthing that shifted, it was not all what it had been.
As he ebbed closer, your wound gasped out to him - a shredded and horrible thing that eked it’s way across your face. Lesser, was the gash upon the dunskin coat, salt crystals cherry picking their way across your healing form.
The rage gapes upwards from his spine, an ugly and vicious thing (although who could say why he cared so much - he, the man who cared for nothing at all). “Who.” - it was all he could manage to summon from his throat .
Here, Eight stands, silent as he watches the ever drifting sea. The past month had been something so unknown to him. Even still, his body felt foreign - a sailor adrift at sea. He could not say he entirely missed the magic that ran through his veins, but it was as if it was a missing limb. It throbbed and he could not satiate it - a tickle in the back of his throat, a phantom limb. It was freeing too, of course - he was no longer sought out to mend or meddle or melee. He was simply another face in the crowd, someone easily enough to pass over, to blend into the normalcy of the crowded meadow of Beqanna.
Even now, Tephra is silent - the word of their new home not quite reaching the ears of all who sought it. It is comforting, in a way. It was always solace he found in the thicket of pine trees, in the high ridges of the Valley’s mountains - the quiet settled him, he was never one to converse very much.
But tonight, the silence is ruffled with soft voices, a slurring of sounds that conjoin with the lapping waves on the beach. His head turns sharply, unused to being surprised without his veil of magic, and his eyes alight on a small chestnut form unsteadily following a dunskin body. The form resonates instantaneously - Thorunn. You, the small girl he had steadily watched over in his minds eye - a fiercely silent thing that curled across the Valley, but refused to name any friends. And the dunskin, he had met you before too, a harsh greeting when you had crossed the border to find your daughter.
But there was something not quite right - the stitch in your steps told him that sometthing that shifted, it was not all what it had been.
As he ebbed closer, your wound gasped out to him - a shredded and horrible thing that eked it’s way across your face. Lesser, was the gash upon the dunskin coat, salt crystals cherry picking their way across your healing form.
The rage gapes upwards from his spine, an ugly and vicious thing (although who could say why he cared so much - he, the man who cared for nothing at all). “Who.” - it was all he could manage to summon from his throat .