09-18-2019, 07:29 PM
The wind whispers to him, telling him secrets just above a murmur, the words undecipherable against the brisk winter air. No matter how still he stands, how hard his ears strain to catch even a syllable, it remains evasive.
Once the wind would have told him everything. It would have sung at his praises, murmured anything he longed to hear. He could bend and weave it. He could have wielded it like a weapon and he had appreciated it for the gift it was, something that he appreciates even more since he had to give it up in return for entry into Beqanna. Someday, the stallion thinks.
He and the breeze have been together for far too long to be parted now, even for something as sacred and ancient as the old magic that runs beneath Beqanna’s ground.
That is what he is trying to do today. Kildare has been a restless soul since entering these lands. He has gone north and south, west and east in search for answers and knowledge. At three, the young stallion is learning the lands and its leaders. When the searching brings him here, Kildare only longs for the caress of the wind and the freedom it brings. If he could, he’d lose himself in it.
Instead it only pulls at his thick mane, leading the ebony locks in a wild dance. The moment is there, it is so perceptibly close. He can hear the surge of the waves, can feel the power as they crash against the rocky shore that is still hidden behind the few remaining trees. He thinks that if he can reach the beach, he might be able to hear the wind more clearly, that it might be able to tell him things again.
But before he can go, before he overtaken by wind and song, the sound stops him.
His emerald eyes are angry. He had been so sure that the moment was right. They flash accusations as his head turns back and he searches for the source of the sound, the reason that the magic was broken.
But the accusation dies as quickly as it came. His gaze settles on a mare, a lovely mare, rounded in pregnancy. But it does nothing to take away from her beauty – it is the opposite. It only serves to enhance it, to make Kildare see her as some forgotten goddess lost in the winter wood. A grin promises to grow on her lips and what else is Kildare to do? How can one not smile back at such a captivating woman?
”Apparently not,” he says against the winter chill. He moves his body then, angles it so he can approach (and appreciate) her more easily. The young stallion tries not to let his eyes wander (his mother would have skinned him alive for such behavior) but the admiration lingers as he comes to stand casually in front of her. ”And what about you? I hope you’re not lost.”
@[Mary]
Once the wind would have told him everything. It would have sung at his praises, murmured anything he longed to hear. He could bend and weave it. He could have wielded it like a weapon and he had appreciated it for the gift it was, something that he appreciates even more since he had to give it up in return for entry into Beqanna. Someday, the stallion thinks.
He and the breeze have been together for far too long to be parted now, even for something as sacred and ancient as the old magic that runs beneath Beqanna’s ground.
That is what he is trying to do today. Kildare has been a restless soul since entering these lands. He has gone north and south, west and east in search for answers and knowledge. At three, the young stallion is learning the lands and its leaders. When the searching brings him here, Kildare only longs for the caress of the wind and the freedom it brings. If he could, he’d lose himself in it.
Instead it only pulls at his thick mane, leading the ebony locks in a wild dance. The moment is there, it is so perceptibly close. He can hear the surge of the waves, can feel the power as they crash against the rocky shore that is still hidden behind the few remaining trees. He thinks that if he can reach the beach, he might be able to hear the wind more clearly, that it might be able to tell him things again.
But before he can go, before he overtaken by wind and song, the sound stops him.
His emerald eyes are angry. He had been so sure that the moment was right. They flash accusations as his head turns back and he searches for the source of the sound, the reason that the magic was broken.
But the accusation dies as quickly as it came. His gaze settles on a mare, a lovely mare, rounded in pregnancy. But it does nothing to take away from her beauty – it is the opposite. It only serves to enhance it, to make Kildare see her as some forgotten goddess lost in the winter wood. A grin promises to grow on her lips and what else is Kildare to do? How can one not smile back at such a captivating woman?
”Apparently not,” he says against the winter chill. He moves his body then, angles it so he can approach (and appreciate) her more easily. The young stallion tries not to let his eyes wander (his mother would have skinned him alive for such behavior) but the admiration lingers as he comes to stand casually in front of her. ”And what about you? I hope you’re not lost.”
@[Mary]