04-02-2016, 08:37 PM
BROTHER, LET ME BE YOUR FORTRESS, WHEN THE NIGHT WINDS ARE DRIVING ON.
I CAN BE THE ONE TO LIGHT YOUR WAY; I WILL BRING YOU HOME.
The warmth of spring has arrived, and with it, it has drawn many out of the shadows and into the basking burst of sunlight and among the blooming wildflowers and fresh, lively blades of grass, which fight against the frost that remains splattered across the landscape. Afternoon has dawned upon them - the light of the sun as it begins to fade beyond the horizon highlights the usually cobalt sky in brilliant hues of maroon and tangerine, bathing the day in its glory. He is not altogether adjusted to the terrain, not as of yet. It feels unusually warm and uncomfortable, to which he allows himself to encase his scarred pelt of obsidian in a light layer of ice, which clings tightly to his skin and quenches his deeply-set desired for cooler weather.
Beyond the various colors that illustrate the rebirth of the sprawling meadows and rolling hills is a lively, massive willow, with enormous, draping branches - it is aglow with a light all of its own, and he knows better than to approach it. He is wary of the border, and his nostrils fill with the familiar scent of territorial marking - he comes to an easing halt, the edges of his hefty hooves pressing into the moist, soft soil beneath him. He feels another settle close to him; the very individual who was slowly becoming his go-to man - his right-hand. Brynmor was certainly developing a strong sense of diplomacy and held a great deal of value to the brotherhood as a whole; he valued his opinion and input on many matters and hoped that this particular venture would prove to be less volatile and more productive than the last had been.
Then again, Brynmor had struggled with a rough youth - enslaved to a kingdom that had caused him grief and pain, which would make anyone wary of their intentions, past or present. He doubted the same could be said for this land, for the Gates. Once virtuous and true, their motives had rarely erred on the side of violence or manipulation - though change was upon the horizon and nothing was predictable now. He knew naught of their intentions and with any luck, he would soon find himself closer to sealing the brotherhood's fate - alliance or foe.
His breath grows shallow and his dark crimson gaze observes the seemingly empty, rambling plain, though he knows better. His own men knew in which crevices to hide from the midday sun and icy cold gusts of wind that so often tore through their quiet, open domain - he knew it would be no different here, as various thickets and patches of foliage lined the land. It was only a matter of times until someone emerged to greet him, or perhaps condemn him. Change was shifting throughout the land; a shifting upset of tradition and what was expected. He had heard little of this King and even less of how he came to rise, but he was certain he would know enough of him in due time.
He tilts his head towards the sky, where thin, drifting clouds ease through dusk lazily above him. A deep, ringing call comes forth from his throat, echoing against the vast emptiness that lay before him. He knows that it is only a matter of time until Killdare is at his and Brynmor's side - a newly founded alliance at their heels, as they push forward, seeking to engage another. He is curious as to the persona and intentions of the new King in these lands, and insisted upon bridging the gap of communication.
He wanted security for his men, safety for their women and children. The time apart from his growing family grew heavy on his mind, but he pushed forward, determined and set in his intentions. He falls into a lull, his breathing slow and deliberate, his swiveling ears pressed to the gentle breeze as he settles in silence, waiting.
Beyond the various colors that illustrate the rebirth of the sprawling meadows and rolling hills is a lively, massive willow, with enormous, draping branches - it is aglow with a light all of its own, and he knows better than to approach it. He is wary of the border, and his nostrils fill with the familiar scent of territorial marking - he comes to an easing halt, the edges of his hefty hooves pressing into the moist, soft soil beneath him. He feels another settle close to him; the very individual who was slowly becoming his go-to man - his right-hand. Brynmor was certainly developing a strong sense of diplomacy and held a great deal of value to the brotherhood as a whole; he valued his opinion and input on many matters and hoped that this particular venture would prove to be less volatile and more productive than the last had been.
Then again, Brynmor had struggled with a rough youth - enslaved to a kingdom that had caused him grief and pain, which would make anyone wary of their intentions, past or present. He doubted the same could be said for this land, for the Gates. Once virtuous and true, their motives had rarely erred on the side of violence or manipulation - though change was upon the horizon and nothing was predictable now. He knew naught of their intentions and with any luck, he would soon find himself closer to sealing the brotherhood's fate - alliance or foe.
His breath grows shallow and his dark crimson gaze observes the seemingly empty, rambling plain, though he knows better. His own men knew in which crevices to hide from the midday sun and icy cold gusts of wind that so often tore through their quiet, open domain - he knew it would be no different here, as various thickets and patches of foliage lined the land. It was only a matter of times until someone emerged to greet him, or perhaps condemn him. Change was shifting throughout the land; a shifting upset of tradition and what was expected. He had heard little of this King and even less of how he came to rise, but he was certain he would know enough of him in due time.
He tilts his head towards the sky, where thin, drifting clouds ease through dusk lazily above him. A deep, ringing call comes forth from his throat, echoing against the vast emptiness that lay before him. He knows that it is only a matter of time until Killdare is at his and Brynmor's side - a newly founded alliance at their heels, as they push forward, seeking to engage another. He is curious as to the persona and intentions of the new King in these lands, and insisted upon bridging the gap of communication.
He wanted security for his men, safety for their women and children. The time apart from his growing family grew heavy on his mind, but he pushed forward, determined and set in his intentions. He falls into a lull, his breathing slow and deliberate, his swiveling ears pressed to the gentle breeze as he settles in silence, waiting.
OFFSPRING
the ice king of the tundra
@[Killdare] @[tannor] @[Brynmor]
