Set
12-05-2019, 09:17 PM
Lace me up, lace me up, he sings under his breath, nostrils flared wide and red. The singsong words tumble gently from absentminded lips, stark contrast to the violent influx of oxygen, his breath crashing in and out. The rust-colored sandstone flashes underneath his hooves in a mindless blur, bits of rock and dirt disturbed and dislodged, tumbling down the edge he so precariously races along. One in front of the other, he mumbles, unearthly bright gold eyes glancing down and then back up a moment before he shutters them from the world. A howl rumbles, gathering strength. It mixes and tangles with a roar, reverberating in his chest before pouring out ahead of him. Anger simmers in its folds, clinging to his sweat-slicked body as he leaves the sound behind him, lungs burning, eyes yet closed. A step misplaced by the breadth of a hair would send a mortal to bent and crumpled death some hundreds of yards below. Immortality, and all that has come with it, has fed his inherited sense of indestructible, helping him to walk a line that he only would have dared once, lifetimes ago.
The wind whips into a frenzy as he curls off to the right, sending one last spray of rock off into the canyon, striped hooves finding footholds on a path he’s run nearly every day since spring broke out in the shadowmare’s kingdom. It runs wild fingers through his mane, blocked by the dreads tangled there, sliding like a lover over his drenched hide, only to be left wanting in his wake.
The earth begins to rise, subtly at first, then more dramatically. Here fatigue sets into his muscles, acidic and aching, but he does not curb his pace, does not open his eyes. Muscles bunch and grip, slinging him forward, teeth grit. The edge looms - five, four, three - still he does not slow. Two. His heart pounds wildly with the thrill of it. One.
His eyes snap open at the same moment he reaches the highest peak of all the broken mesas. Empty air yawns in front of him, the wild wind beckons and he does not hesitate to throw himself after her with a triumphant crow. The distinct thrill of free-falling, when you have pushed your body to its physical limits, is a high he will never cease to revel in. Like a rock he plummets earthward, flipping over onto his back before rolling again. The earth seems to rise from her resting place, greedy fingers outstretched, but today is not the day. The itching starts across his shoulder blades, bone shifting, changing, muscles tearing and knitting together again at the whim of he who controls them. He had miscalculated once before, not shrinking enough to balance out the force of gravity. It fucking hurt. Since then, he’s perfected it. His hooves brush the dry earth in a gentle kiss that belies the violence simmering in his lean frame. He stretches, shaking his coat out with a low groan, the now-dried sweat obnoxiously itchy.
The wind whips into a frenzy as he curls off to the right, sending one last spray of rock off into the canyon, striped hooves finding footholds on a path he’s run nearly every day since spring broke out in the shadowmare’s kingdom. It runs wild fingers through his mane, blocked by the dreads tangled there, sliding like a lover over his drenched hide, only to be left wanting in his wake.
The earth begins to rise, subtly at first, then more dramatically. Here fatigue sets into his muscles, acidic and aching, but he does not curb his pace, does not open his eyes. Muscles bunch and grip, slinging him forward, teeth grit. The edge looms - five, four, three - still he does not slow. Two. His heart pounds wildly with the thrill of it. One.
His eyes snap open at the same moment he reaches the highest peak of all the broken mesas. Empty air yawns in front of him, the wild wind beckons and he does not hesitate to throw himself after her with a triumphant crow. The distinct thrill of free-falling, when you have pushed your body to its physical limits, is a high he will never cease to revel in. Like a rock he plummets earthward, flipping over onto his back before rolling again. The earth seems to rise from her resting place, greedy fingers outstretched, but today is not the day. The itching starts across his shoulder blades, bone shifting, changing, muscles tearing and knitting together again at the whim of he who controls them. He had miscalculated once before, not shrinking enough to balance out the force of gravity. It fucking hurt. Since then, he’s perfected it. His hooves brush the dry earth in a gentle kiss that belies the violence simmering in his lean frame. He stretches, shaking his coat out with a low groan, the now-dried sweat obnoxiously itchy.