04-02-2017, 01:46 PM
The world seems a little less lonely with Castile still clutching her side. Lior has taken to his seclusion – a norm of his – which abandons Nayl to her own musings and her own responsibilities. The crown on her head seems heavier as a silence plagues Nerine in a way she never thought possible. All those that had been so passionate, so fiery, have slipped into the shadows except for those select few who float to the forefront of her mind. They will be rewarded.
She will not – cannot – allow her home to fall peril to the powers of Beqanna, not again (although the Jungle’s demise was no one’s fault).
Being here in the field triggers a deep discomfort in her core, but she is here nonetheless. Castile yawns idly at her side after having spent hours trekking across the terrain to even reach this foreign place. There is no ocean – no waves lapping at the shore – and there are no seagulls scrummaging through the tall grass. This place is so new, so odd, and he carefully drinks it in with an analytical eye.
”Her,” he somberly says with a curious glance up to mother after having spotted the magenta mare, ”I like her color.” Nayl regards the boy with questioning, but she shrugs and turns her attention to the clusters of horses nearby. It doesn’t take long for the color to assault her golden eyes; the shade of magenta contrasts heavily against piebalds, grays, and chestnuts. And with a hushed nod to the boy, they move toward this stranger. The grass whispers as they cut through, the wind sighing against their skin.
”Hello,” she says, blunt but certainly not unkind, ”I’m Nayl.” The boy, with a ruffle of his wings, inches closer, watching her intently with an eye of gold and silver. ”And I’m Castile.” He isn’t a drastic addition to the conversation, but it doesn’t stop him. His mother’s shadow isn’t enough to suppress him. ”We’re from Nerine. Who are you?”
She will not – cannot – allow her home to fall peril to the powers of Beqanna, not again (although the Jungle’s demise was no one’s fault).
Being here in the field triggers a deep discomfort in her core, but she is here nonetheless. Castile yawns idly at her side after having spent hours trekking across the terrain to even reach this foreign place. There is no ocean – no waves lapping at the shore – and there are no seagulls scrummaging through the tall grass. This place is so new, so odd, and he carefully drinks it in with an analytical eye.
”Her,” he somberly says with a curious glance up to mother after having spotted the magenta mare, ”I like her color.” Nayl regards the boy with questioning, but she shrugs and turns her attention to the clusters of horses nearby. It doesn’t take long for the color to assault her golden eyes; the shade of magenta contrasts heavily against piebalds, grays, and chestnuts. And with a hushed nod to the boy, they move toward this stranger. The grass whispers as they cut through, the wind sighing against their skin.
”Hello,” she says, blunt but certainly not unkind, ”I’m Nayl.” The boy, with a ruffle of his wings, inches closer, watching her intently with an eye of gold and silver. ”And I’m Castile.” He isn’t a drastic addition to the conversation, but it doesn’t stop him. His mother’s shadow isn’t enough to suppress him. ”We’re from Nerine. Who are you?”