06-15-2020, 09:20 PM
Florian climbs, but he does it like a skittish thing, his every step as nervous a flutter as the beating of his heart, and though he has managed to come halfway high, the whirlwind of emotion that rushes through his breast threatens to take him away, threatens to bring on the darkness and the strange shifting that falls on him unbidden. In his short, unkempt, pink mane, bright green tendrils sprout and curl, feelers that reach out and brush against his trembling skin like a terrible promise.
If you shift, you will fall.
He will roll and tumble. Will he break? The colt shudders at the thought and a leaf falls out of his mane to dangle before his eyes, hiding the path before him. His hooves slip on the treacherous soil and, half-blinded and trembling, he pauses, tail flicking and flashing against his flanks. His breath is like a woodpecker's beak striking the back of his throat, halting, sharp, and fast, and he closes his eyes as his vision grows fuzzy and full of sparks at its edges.
His ears twist until they find the sound of water trickling down the mountain side, of wind in the lupines, rustling softly. Behind it, the silence of wilderness, of nothing and no one but the birds which avoid him. The catch in his throat eases, and the boy breathes deeply, maroon eyes opening sleepily. The rogue leaf evaporates back into bright mane, and he celebrates quietly this mastery of the curse, but knows in his heart that he cannot actually control the triggers that set off his episodes, and that today's triumph will not mean anything come tomorrow.
A sad sigh breaks the silence around him, and Florian, startled back into reality by the loudness of it in his ears, takes a moment to find his bearings. Although summer still burns, the wind is bright and cold as it winds through the flowers and the warped dwarf trees. The bird song is thin, the air is thin, too. He wonders if the thin air makes the magic work better, or the Fairies more apt to hear when horses seek them out. The green youth never thought to ask anyone else about their visits to the mountain, he wonders if his father ever came here, seeking a solution to the exasperating nature of their shifting. Surely, he thinks, with all the wisdom of childhood, if there was a way to undo this, he'd've done it.
So, another solution for Florian's problem, a problem that Malkin doesn't have and would therefore have never thought to try and redress. The colt thinks of his loneliness, and the fear of his black-outs, that anything could happen, and that he doesn't know what the ramifications might be. He calls softly - he assumes that magic will alert them of his presence, but he does not like to be startled and is loath to startle others lest they suffer an affliction as he does. He does not know how long to wait for them to come. An hour? A day? Does he wait until the early mountain winter comes with its frost and its ferocity?
And then, because he is still a child, though not nearly so small as he was once upon a time, he curls his legs beneath him, tucked away and nearly invisible in the greenery around him.
If you shift, you will fall.
He will roll and tumble. Will he break? The colt shudders at the thought and a leaf falls out of his mane to dangle before his eyes, hiding the path before him. His hooves slip on the treacherous soil and, half-blinded and trembling, he pauses, tail flicking and flashing against his flanks. His breath is like a woodpecker's beak striking the back of his throat, halting, sharp, and fast, and he closes his eyes as his vision grows fuzzy and full of sparks at its edges.
His ears twist until they find the sound of water trickling down the mountain side, of wind in the lupines, rustling softly. Behind it, the silence of wilderness, of nothing and no one but the birds which avoid him. The catch in his throat eases, and the boy breathes deeply, maroon eyes opening sleepily. The rogue leaf evaporates back into bright mane, and he celebrates quietly this mastery of the curse, but knows in his heart that he cannot actually control the triggers that set off his episodes, and that today's triumph will not mean anything come tomorrow.
A sad sigh breaks the silence around him, and Florian, startled back into reality by the loudness of it in his ears, takes a moment to find his bearings. Although summer still burns, the wind is bright and cold as it winds through the flowers and the warped dwarf trees. The bird song is thin, the air is thin, too. He wonders if the thin air makes the magic work better, or the Fairies more apt to hear when horses seek them out. The green youth never thought to ask anyone else about their visits to the mountain, he wonders if his father ever came here, seeking a solution to the exasperating nature of their shifting. Surely, he thinks, with all the wisdom of childhood, if there was a way to undo this, he'd've done it.
So, another solution for Florian's problem, a problem that Malkin doesn't have and would therefore have never thought to try and redress. The colt thinks of his loneliness, and the fear of his black-outs, that anything could happen, and that he doesn't know what the ramifications might be. He calls softly - he assumes that magic will alert them of his presence, but he does not like to be startled and is loath to startle others lest they suffer an affliction as he does. He does not know how long to wait for them to come. An hour? A day? Does he wait until the early mountain winter comes with its frost and its ferocity?
And then, because he is still a child, though not nearly so small as he was once upon a time, he curls his legs beneath him, tucked away and nearly invisible in the greenery around him.
Florian is here to quest for a companion animal to help guard him and keep him safe when he is a gourd because he doesn't know he could ask to have the trait changed lol
