He had become water.
He had melted into nothingness, into molecules that have a definite volume but no shape, twisting and turning into the churning, black waters of a risen Pangea. He had succumbed to the depths of the ocean, black as pitch, and remained untouched by the plague in doing so. Here there is something much more than silence; it’s so silent, that it is loud and thrumming, enough to pierce eardrums. But the ocean does not harm him; it never would.
Down here where the current and sunlight fails to reach, haunting and eerie invertebrates float, barely moving and almost as still as stone. He flickers in between the eyeless worms and the glowing giant squids, brushes past the anglers and other ghostly creatures. He is barely felt by them, his presence unnoticed. He waits here, in the deep darkness and solitude, awaiting the day where land could be once more accessible and his solid form could once again terrorize Beqanna.
He arises from the angry sea with kelp knotted in his mane and tail, the seawater kissing the pearlescent and evergreen of his muscled body, splitting the waves away from him with a single thought. For a moment he is translucent; half-ocean, half stallion, until he materializes completely. The sun stings his eyes, burns at the water-logged suppleness of his skin. He keeps the moisture with him as his hooves touch the sand, his body dripping eternally with his precious sea.
Even as he enters the meadow - with eyes as dark as the abyss he had secluded himself in - water spills across his coat, slickening him to where the springtime sun caused him to nearly sparkle beneath its rays.
Too long had he been beneath the surface; what little he had known before the rise of Pangea and his god has dulled into mere ferocity - he did not come to the meadow for casual conversation or to enjoy the springtime sweetness on the wind. He craved something else entirely; something feral, something dastardly.
She is beautiful.
It is the first thing he notices (besides the damn sunlight that still pierces his eyes, stinging madly), and like it was meant to, her beauty draws him to her like a moth to a flame.
Or a wolf to a sheep.
There is a rumbling of a growl in his chest - the sound is bubbling and terrible as his dark eyes rake across the soft pink and brown of her skin. The wetness of his lips - tinged with saltwater - do not hesitate to pucker and brush sweetly across the curve of her nape as she grazes, his eyes unseeing but his hunger leading him blindly. He exhales raggedly, pulling away from her with a quick upward draw of his neck, the smell of salt and the tide on his flesh. “You are...” his voice, rough and grating from disuse and unused to the dryness of air that pours over his vocal cords, slipping from his mouth like poison.
“...lovely.”
Mine.
@[Ygritte]
<3
He had melted into nothingness, into molecules that have a definite volume but no shape, twisting and turning into the churning, black waters of a risen Pangea. He had succumbed to the depths of the ocean, black as pitch, and remained untouched by the plague in doing so. Here there is something much more than silence; it’s so silent, that it is loud and thrumming, enough to pierce eardrums. But the ocean does not harm him; it never would.
Down here where the current and sunlight fails to reach, haunting and eerie invertebrates float, barely moving and almost as still as stone. He flickers in between the eyeless worms and the glowing giant squids, brushes past the anglers and other ghostly creatures. He is barely felt by them, his presence unnoticed. He waits here, in the deep darkness and solitude, awaiting the day where land could be once more accessible and his solid form could once again terrorize Beqanna.
He arises from the angry sea with kelp knotted in his mane and tail, the seawater kissing the pearlescent and evergreen of his muscled body, splitting the waves away from him with a single thought. For a moment he is translucent; half-ocean, half stallion, until he materializes completely. The sun stings his eyes, burns at the water-logged suppleness of his skin. He keeps the moisture with him as his hooves touch the sand, his body dripping eternally with his precious sea.
Even as he enters the meadow - with eyes as dark as the abyss he had secluded himself in - water spills across his coat, slickening him to where the springtime sun caused him to nearly sparkle beneath its rays.
Too long had he been beneath the surface; what little he had known before the rise of Pangea and his god has dulled into mere ferocity - he did not come to the meadow for casual conversation or to enjoy the springtime sweetness on the wind. He craved something else entirely; something feral, something dastardly.
She is beautiful.
It is the first thing he notices (besides the damn sunlight that still pierces his eyes, stinging madly), and like it was meant to, her beauty draws him to her like a moth to a flame.
Or a wolf to a sheep.
There is a rumbling of a growl in his chest - the sound is bubbling and terrible as his dark eyes rake across the soft pink and brown of her skin. The wetness of his lips - tinged with saltwater - do not hesitate to pucker and brush sweetly across the curve of her nape as she grazes, his eyes unseeing but his hunger leading him blindly. He exhales raggedly, pulling away from her with a quick upward draw of his neck, the smell of salt and the tide on his flesh. “You are...” his voice, rough and grating from disuse and unused to the dryness of air that pours over his vocal cords, slipping from his mouth like poison.
“...lovely.”
Mine.
@[Ygritte]
<3