The Isle is a charred wasteland, mostly. It is slowly coming back from whatever happened to it – Leilan never said what, and Chem never asked. It was intentional, whatever the disaster was. It was an act of destruction and it tore a scar across the frozen island. Chem hadn’t been a frequent visitor before, so he didn’t exactly recall what the tundra island looked like previously, but he was positive it was not this barren.
Vultures, ravens and eagles squabble over the scraps of those who did not make it. Jackals make off with pieces- a leg here, a jaw there. The black stallion watches them, standing on the bare horizon, letting his teal gaze wander over the flatland. Snowflakes fall sparsely, floating and dancing in the twisting winds.
Everything is dead. Only the whistling of the breeze breaks the quiet. His silhouette is a pitch black sentinel at dusk, his shape outlined in the soft pinks and purple clouds surrounding the sinking sun. He just watches the birds feast on nearby carrion, standing idly with a slanted hip.
chemdog
astra inclinant, sed non obligant.
this is for anyone at all
hes just standing there, watching birds eat a carcass
sunset
