05-13-2019, 03:20 PM
He lingers in the shadows, the stark white of his face turning nearly molten with the brilliance of the volcano’s lava. The once barely protruding bulbs on his forehead now nearly spiral into the thick of his neck, where cascading obsidian and ivory tendrils of his mane touch the musculature of his shoulder. He sharpens the twisted horns on the igneous rock, the sound grating and unruly. No longer a child, the young stallion keeps a rather solitary life shrouded beneath the darkness of the volcano.
Warden’s eyes are as dark as the world around him. There is no brightness, so unlike the crystal blue that is known to his family. His eyes are deep and endless, like the ocean’s tide after a storm.
He had been born into the epidemic. He watched his father wither first - a King - into the disease. He still has dreams about rivers of blood ever-flowing from gaping mouths, despite his parent’s attempt to keep the reality of the sickness away from him. Darkness and curdling blood ravaged his mind since he was a child, leaving him frightened yet strangely independent. He is no longer afraid of the disease that had wracked Beqanna - instead, he had been angry at the evil that had taken hold of nearly everyone he loved, as well as the innocent. That anger still blisters beneath the patched auburn and ivory of his skin, wanting justice for those that perished and peace for those who remain.
He has been too young then, of course.
Raising his head, the stallion steps out from the canopy of the volcano and into a deep night littered with stars. Great, white wings spread from his sides, shadows pooling into each downy feather. With a great rush of wind, he leaps upward, taking flight into the Tephran skies.
The horned stallion lands heavily on the sparkling sand of the beach, stained black by the constant plumage of smoke from the volcano. With a fluid movement, his ivory wings fold into his sides with a rush of air smelling of ash and salted ocean wind. Turning his head, his white lips pull and tug at out of place feathers, preening them so they lay comfortably.
All is quiet at this early hour, save for the rhythmic pulse of black waves against a star-studded shoreline.
Warden’s eyes are as dark as the world around him. There is no brightness, so unlike the crystal blue that is known to his family. His eyes are deep and endless, like the ocean’s tide after a storm.
He had been born into the epidemic. He watched his father wither first - a King - into the disease. He still has dreams about rivers of blood ever-flowing from gaping mouths, despite his parent’s attempt to keep the reality of the sickness away from him. Darkness and curdling blood ravaged his mind since he was a child, leaving him frightened yet strangely independent. He is no longer afraid of the disease that had wracked Beqanna - instead, he had been angry at the evil that had taken hold of nearly everyone he loved, as well as the innocent. That anger still blisters beneath the patched auburn and ivory of his skin, wanting justice for those that perished and peace for those who remain.
He has been too young then, of course.
Raising his head, the stallion steps out from the canopy of the volcano and into a deep night littered with stars. Great, white wings spread from his sides, shadows pooling into each downy feather. With a great rush of wind, he leaps upward, taking flight into the Tephran skies.
The horned stallion lands heavily on the sparkling sand of the beach, stained black by the constant plumage of smoke from the volcano. With a fluid movement, his ivory wings fold into his sides with a rush of air smelling of ash and salted ocean wind. Turning his head, his white lips pull and tug at out of place feathers, preening them so they lay comfortably.
All is quiet at this early hour, save for the rhythmic pulse of black waves against a star-studded shoreline.
