02-28-2018, 08:54 PM
Bored, bored, bored... Mother had been very clear that he was to remain within the stone boundary of the kingdom's heart. She was off on "kingdom business", whatever that meant. A lot of talking, saying one thing and meaning another. Politics, she called it. He snorted to himself, his one good eye rolling at nothing.
Same old clearing. Same old rocks. Same old trees. And he was alone, as usual. He was the youngest member of Sylva, the only child of the queen, and the son of... someone. Mother didn't like talking about his father, had always changed the subject when he brought the topic up.
When she had time for him, she told him stories of her homeland. He liked those stories. They were thrilling, filled with fierce battles and daring heroes, all taking place in blazing desert sands. One character in particular she liked to tell of, and her eyes got all peculiar and misty when she spoke of the fiery chestnut soldier. Sometimes, when he was particularly lonesome, he would pretend that the story-hero was his father, and would make up his own storied about the two of them and their adventures together.
It was a bit ridiculous, of course. He looked nothing like mother's descriptions of the man. He didn't look much like mother either, so he figured he must favor his father. The wings though, he did share with his mother. He flexed the appendages thoughtfully. Such wonderful limbs, and he hardly ever got to use them properly. It was still early in the day, and mother wasn't likely to be back until evening. Why shouldn't he stretch his wings, actually see a bit of the kingdom he was supposed to love?
Craning his neck about to check all sides of him, he flicked out the mottled expanses of his wings. His stomach roiled with excitement, thrilled with the idea of a bit of rebellion. He tried for mother, he really did. He loved the look she gave him when he played his part right, when he was her "perfect little prince". But he was a prince on a short leash, and he wanted to fly. So he did.
He did not get much practice outside of mother's direct supervision, and so it took him a couple of tries to become airborne. Once his feet left the trees behind though, the half grown colt could not resist a victorious whoop. He swooped and skidded through the breeze, let himself be carried higher by a helpful updraft. The ground was lacy and delicate beneath him, a pretty patchwork world.
Not being in the practice of flying much, he find himself growing tired before he was done with his adventure. He contented himself with landing on a rocky outcropping that looked over Sylva, tucked away in the southern mountain range. The breeze played with his hair, a cool counterpoint to the unseasonably warm autumn sun. Laying stretched out on his stone perch, the painted boy was happy enough to doze into a comfortable sleep.
@[Klaudius]
Same old clearing. Same old rocks. Same old trees. And he was alone, as usual. He was the youngest member of Sylva, the only child of the queen, and the son of... someone. Mother didn't like talking about his father, had always changed the subject when he brought the topic up.
When she had time for him, she told him stories of her homeland. He liked those stories. They were thrilling, filled with fierce battles and daring heroes, all taking place in blazing desert sands. One character in particular she liked to tell of, and her eyes got all peculiar and misty when she spoke of the fiery chestnut soldier. Sometimes, when he was particularly lonesome, he would pretend that the story-hero was his father, and would make up his own storied about the two of them and their adventures together.
It was a bit ridiculous, of course. He looked nothing like mother's descriptions of the man. He didn't look much like mother either, so he figured he must favor his father. The wings though, he did share with his mother. He flexed the appendages thoughtfully. Such wonderful limbs, and he hardly ever got to use them properly. It was still early in the day, and mother wasn't likely to be back until evening. Why shouldn't he stretch his wings, actually see a bit of the kingdom he was supposed to love?
Craning his neck about to check all sides of him, he flicked out the mottled expanses of his wings. His stomach roiled with excitement, thrilled with the idea of a bit of rebellion. He tried for mother, he really did. He loved the look she gave him when he played his part right, when he was her "perfect little prince". But he was a prince on a short leash, and he wanted to fly. So he did.
He did not get much practice outside of mother's direct supervision, and so it took him a couple of tries to become airborne. Once his feet left the trees behind though, the half grown colt could not resist a victorious whoop. He swooped and skidded through the breeze, let himself be carried higher by a helpful updraft. The ground was lacy and delicate beneath him, a pretty patchwork world.
Not being in the practice of flying much, he find himself growing tired before he was done with his adventure. He contented himself with landing on a rocky outcropping that looked over Sylva, tucked away in the southern mountain range. The breeze played with his hair, a cool counterpoint to the unseasonably warm autumn sun. Laying stretched out on his stone perch, the painted boy was happy enough to doze into a comfortable sleep.
@[Klaudius]