12-17-2017, 12:40 AM
She finds him in the daylight this time. She’s been making progress since their last conversation. Wound has explored nearly every inch of Tephra, up to the foothills of the volcano and along the shorelines of the beaches. Upon her initial arrival the shy girl had kept to the less-traveled corners of the island, nervous about the kingdom members reactions to her ugly deformities. Her first true step of courage in Tephra had been going to Warrick’s coronation.
The seasons are less noticeable on the island. Wound didn’t realize how much she appreciated the swift transition of summer into autumn (when the temperature dips enough to curl loved ones closer, when the trees begin to change from greens to brilliant reds and oranges, when the sun begins to sleep earlier) until it was taken from her. Yet she still enjoys the warmth and security Tephra brings her. Nonetheless, Wound can feel the shift in the air even though the kingdom remains in a regular state of summertime.
She begins to feel restless, as though she were slowly coming undone. Wound finds herself roaming through Tephra more often than she normally has been. She enjoys swimming in the ocean the most, feeling the current tug at her legs as if they were to sweep her away to worlds unknown. She knows what her restlessness means — as all mares do — and it grants her the knowledge of autumn approaching despite the lack of natural signs.
It’s on another fidgety day that she finds him. She’s yet to congratulate Warrick personally on his achievements. Although Wound knows little of kingdom life, she is certain there are many important events to attend to as a recent king. However, she supposes things have quieted down enough to seek him out at a more personal level.
Her eyes catch on his bay and navy frame somewhere along a molten stream and a smile graces her pretty face. Wound limps up to her king but a decent moment of anxiety stalls her movement. Should she bow? Should she wait for him to approach her? How should she address him? Warrick? King Warrick? Your Majesty? Her brow furrows together, suddenly bewildered by her confusion and lack of knowledge.
She ends up bowing deeply, but the shortness of her leg causes her to stumble clumsily. Wound nearly tumbles into the lava stream, but at the last moment leans all her weight toward Warrick. Instead of burning alive by means of the molten lava, she collides into the stallion’s chest and burns alive by means of his touch. Oh, damn.
“Your Maje- I mean, King Warr- or is it Your Majest- Oh, I am so sorry!”
@[Warrick]
The seasons are less noticeable on the island. Wound didn’t realize how much she appreciated the swift transition of summer into autumn (when the temperature dips enough to curl loved ones closer, when the trees begin to change from greens to brilliant reds and oranges, when the sun begins to sleep earlier) until it was taken from her. Yet she still enjoys the warmth and security Tephra brings her. Nonetheless, Wound can feel the shift in the air even though the kingdom remains in a regular state of summertime.
She begins to feel restless, as though she were slowly coming undone. Wound finds herself roaming through Tephra more often than she normally has been. She enjoys swimming in the ocean the most, feeling the current tug at her legs as if they were to sweep her away to worlds unknown. She knows what her restlessness means — as all mares do — and it grants her the knowledge of autumn approaching despite the lack of natural signs.
It’s on another fidgety day that she finds him. She’s yet to congratulate Warrick personally on his achievements. Although Wound knows little of kingdom life, she is certain there are many important events to attend to as a recent king. However, she supposes things have quieted down enough to seek him out at a more personal level.
Her eyes catch on his bay and navy frame somewhere along a molten stream and a smile graces her pretty face. Wound limps up to her king but a decent moment of anxiety stalls her movement. Should she bow? Should she wait for him to approach her? How should she address him? Warrick? King Warrick? Your Majesty? Her brow furrows together, suddenly bewildered by her confusion and lack of knowledge.
She ends up bowing deeply, but the shortness of her leg causes her to stumble clumsily. Wound nearly tumbles into the lava stream, but at the last moment leans all her weight toward Warrick. Instead of burning alive by means of the molten lava, she collides into the stallion’s chest and burns alive by means of his touch. Oh, damn.
“Your Maje- I mean, King Warr- or is it Your Majest- Oh, I am so sorry!”
@[Warrick]