Call to Arms || Wishbone/Scorch

[Belgaer]

Belgaer

He loved to fly. Of all the gifts he’d been giving, his wings were, by far, his favorite. On any other occasion he would have taken his time, reveled in the way the wind brushed through his feathers. Time, however, was not his ally. He had been sent on a mission by his father, to call upon Ischia’s allies for an emergency meeting in regard to Sylva. The mission weighed heavy upon his shoulders. 

Flying above the barren coastal kingdom of Nerine, Belgaer peered down at the ocean as it rose and fell rhythmically. The tide ever changing. The comforting sound of the waves upon the land washed over him, sounding like music in the depths of his ears. The ocean reminded him of his home, even if Nerine was a harsher environment by far. With very little offered shade, the sun beat down upon the roughened sea grass and dunes, leaving only vacant caves for shelter. 
 
Twisting himself ever so slightly he allowed the underside of his wings to catch the wind and blow him gently off to the left. Feeling the effects of gravity, he drifted down towards the ground. Deftly he landed, his wings buffering the force of his fall. Glancing around him, he tucked his wings against his side, his sides heaving as a result of his unusually quickened pace. There had been no time to waste, there was something dark stirring in the heart of Beqanna and Jesper’s long awaited return did not bode well with the Ischians. The stallion had endured much during his time as their prisoner and, as a result, he knew all too well the strength they harbored within the yellowed leaves of Sylva. 
 
Brennen had sent Belgaer, almost instantly after they’d stumbled upon the battered and bruised stallion, ahead in hopes of alerting their allies and calling them to an informational meeting. Although ill-advised, Jesper’s sacrifice allotted them a rare opportunity to learn more about the dark forces that threatened to move against them. Perhaps, the most disturbing news his nephew had divulged, had been that Belgaer’s own half sister now ruled beside the clown king. If the rumors could be believed, she no longer resembled the Ischian she had once been. His stomach twisted whenever he thought upon the changes Jesper had described. 
 
Determined, he forced himself to remain focused upon the task at hand. There was time later to worry about the fate of his sister. Confidently he strode forward into a clearing, his red coat standing out against the neutrality of the landscape. 
 
“Wishbone,” he called out. “Scorch?”

The Prodigal Son

@[Wishbone] / @[Scorch] Basically, Brennen sent Belgaer to call an emergency meeting in the thread where they discovered Jesper (the river I think). This thread is just to help tell the story IC. 

[Wishbone]

she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death

Despite the heat of summer, Nerine’s temperatures are much milder compared to her homeland’s. Wishbone often reflects upon their similarities and differences — not with any sort of ill will — and she will find new parallels almost every time. The waves are the same (high tide and low tide, rhythmic motions against the shoreline in tune with the moon’s song) but the oceans are different (Nerine’s can often sting her skin when she wades while there is rarely a chilly moment from Tephra’s southern ocean).

This is where Wishbone finds herself when her name rides on the breeze. The ocean is warm against her heels and an assortment of gray-toned pebbles rush gently over her feet. Another parallel — while Tephra’s shores are dark and black from the ash of the volcano, Nerine’s shores supply different varieties of beachfront, both gray-sand and pebbled and beige-tossed. With a final look at the horizon, the mahogany queen turns and heads toward the voice.

She makes good time, hellbent on being timely. Wishbone’s always been the type to jump head-first into whatever water (no matter how murky) is presented to her and queenhood is no different. She will not be a lazy queen, spending her days braiding her hair while voices call her for her like a screaming cacophony.

A russet-and-white stallion’s shape appears soon. He smells of the common-areas most prominently, but there’s underlying tones of warm, sweet beaches and emerald tropical foliage. “Hello, stranger.” She greets him with a brilliant smile, one that is just as dazzling as the sun that warms their shoulders. Wishbone has never been one for important titles and, still unsure of this man’s allegiance (she has never been to Ischia before), she doesn’t deem it necessary to announce herself now. “I’m Wishbone. How can I help you?” She is curious as to how he’s gotten her name (and, in his call, followed her own with Scorch’s) and so her amber eyes turn to his face with nearly-harsh intention.

wishbone

@[Belgaer] / @[Scorch]