12-05-2022, 06:35 PM
An early light filtered through a thick canopy of cottonwood, sequoia and oak giving way to a flood of sprouts growing feverishly throughout the sloping and slanting ground below. Its rays soaked Buonarroti's dappled back, glistening with the dew as he gingerly lips through the shoots and savors each burst of sweets. It had been a while since he enjoyed such delicacy, his journey here long and arduous, mostly marked by bramble and a taste of loneliness that lingered bitterly. He had grown some despite the diet, his body lean and muscular – no longer the awkward colt, but a fine specimen of his Iberian and Friesian pedigree. Time spent away from Beqanna had done him well, though he could not say the same for the lands he once knew.
There hardly seemed to be dry land, the forest a welcome reprieve from the endless bodies of water he encountered. At least here he was greeted with the sounds of songbirds flirting amongst the creeping vines, repeating the stories and histories of the lands that have come and gone. Curiously, they tell him of a strange place far above the waters where others like him, cursed ones with wings live in plenty. Birds, however, were known liars and Buonarroti thought them to mock his misfortune. The ugly thing, a lone wing, held tightly against his side, was of course unmistakable and he had felt the weight of its disgrace since his birth. He would never know flight and the idea that others like himself soared like hawks through the clouds was just another cruel joke. Still, it was nice to listen in on the idle chatter. It had been so long since he had heard anything beyond the howling winds across the icy plains of the North, and he admitted it was far more comforting than the endless rush of waves that appears to have overtaken his homeland.
Except...
And it was this exception that stirred his mind awake – an unmistakable scent, though faint, wafted through this forest and through his thoughts. It was impossible to ignore, reminding him of mildew and graveyards long since forgotten. It ran through his blood just the same as his earliest memories and there would be no mistaking it.
Carnage.
Despite all that had changed, it was this scent that made him certain he had found Beqanna.
There hardly seemed to be dry land, the forest a welcome reprieve from the endless bodies of water he encountered. At least here he was greeted with the sounds of songbirds flirting amongst the creeping vines, repeating the stories and histories of the lands that have come and gone. Curiously, they tell him of a strange place far above the waters where others like him, cursed ones with wings live in plenty. Birds, however, were known liars and Buonarroti thought them to mock his misfortune. The ugly thing, a lone wing, held tightly against his side, was of course unmistakable and he had felt the weight of its disgrace since his birth. He would never know flight and the idea that others like himself soared like hawks through the clouds was just another cruel joke. Still, it was nice to listen in on the idle chatter. It had been so long since he had heard anything beyond the howling winds across the icy plains of the North, and he admitted it was far more comforting than the endless rush of waves that appears to have overtaken his homeland.
Except...
And it was this exception that stirred his mind awake – an unmistakable scent, though faint, wafted through this forest and through his thoughts. It was impossible to ignore, reminding him of mildew and graveyards long since forgotten. It ran through his blood just the same as his earliest memories and there would be no mistaking it.
Carnage.
Despite all that had changed, it was this scent that made him certain he had found Beqanna.
BUONARROTI
haven't I fallen far enough?