05-28-2018, 09:08 AM
we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight Her voice - as beautiful and radiant as the rising sun - is all that he needs to bring him back to reality, to anchor him to the volcanic ground and remind him that he is so much more than his lineage. Angelic and doe-eyed, Tephra’s youngest princess presses the softness of her hooves against the slope of his mahogany shoulder, causing the King’s eyes to quickly shift to her, a rumble of laughter sifting in his chest. The ocean. Warrick’s gaze is steady and gentle, leaning his head towards his daughter to tenderly put his navy mouth against the bridge of her alabaster and navy nose in a sweet, loving kiss. “Of course, my daughter,” his voice murmurs into the untainted blue and white of her skin, eyes blinking closed momentarily to inhale the sweet scent of her one last time before she moves from him. “You know the way, Sibyl.” Soon - far too soon - she would not need them to venture to the blackened coastline. But for now, Warrick revels in the little moments where he is needed by her, holding onto them as long as he possibly can. His deep, oceanic eyes follow her form as she gallops away, though they close briefly when the pale pink of Tangerine’s mouth finds his, a sigh erupting from his cobalt lips at her soothing touch. His auburn eyelids open to reveal a storm of trouble brewing in his irises, hidden away from his daughter but not so easily hidden from Tangerine. She asks him like he knows she will, and with a slow turn of his face he gazes into her eyes - he cannot hold back from her, but he wishes he could. The realization he holds close to his chest is cold and foreboding, and it hurts him that voicing it will hurt her too - in more ways than he can imagine. He had not been at the merciless hand of Carnage, tortured and bent and broken, and his telling Tangerine about what happened in the meadow will only make her relive those moments, and perhaps even resent him for the relation. But he cannot hide from her, and he never will. “In the meadow,” he begins, and he wonders if she can hear the wavering in his voice that is so out of place, or the way his voice is low and nearly muted as shame and discomfort coil bitterly in his stomach. He pauses, Sibyl’s wayward voice calling to them, and the stallion begins to move forward in the direction of the ocean, eyes cast on his daughter. He cannot look at her directly, not until the terrible words leave his lips could he even bare to do so. “I know who my father is. He visited me...in a vision, I think.” Or in reality. Warrick pauses, knowing the next piece of information will take whatever excitement Tangerine might feel about the identity of his father and tear it down with a single word. His face screws up with emotion, brows furrowing and a frown deepening his navy lips. He continues to watch Sibyl, and focus on his steps as he walked through the inland grasses, suddenly finding it harder to breathe. “Carnage. My father is Carnage.” Everything you have, I had first. It echoes coldly in his mind, sharp and mercilessly cutting through to the bone. He holds his breath now, the taste of bile rising onto his tongue at his admission and how utterly disgusting and shameful it made him feel. warrick |
credit to vel of adoxography.
@[Sibyl]