there was a heaven in youbut god there's a devil in me
The moment that Carnage grants him the ability to breathe underwater for his task could not come quickly enough - bending the knee proved humiliating and Warrick is sure that the dark god was smirking wildly overhead at the gesture. It is brief but it is not brief enough and though he does not necessarily feel any different with his temporary blessing, the winged stallion knows it has been granted when he glances up to see that he is once again alone on the mountain with the howling wind biting at his mahogany skin. He shivers, lifting his head and stretching the leg that had been bent, quick to regain himself with a sturdy shake of his snow-covered wings. Warrick’s jaw is clenched tight with the cold (and with an unwavering grimace) as he begins his trek down the fated mountain, wondering if he will truly be able to find the drowned kingdom of Pangea in his journey to the bottom of the sea.
The journey to the edge of the sea is long and lonely, so the Tephran King occupies his tired and weary mind with thoughts of his children, grandchildren, and his wife. He is sure Sibyl will be the most excited to hear about his journey, though he is already prepared to spare her the terrible details he knows that will eventually follow - it always will, with Carnage being involved. It lives a bitter feeling in his stomach, growing stronger and more pungent as he makes his way further and further, acidic on his tongue. Warrick has no idea what Carnage would do with such an offering (he could imagine, however) but it didn’t matter - Carnage would offer him protection, and whatever came from following his request would not touch him or his family.
Soon, the sturdy cobalt of Warrick’s legs dampen with the icy sting of seawater. He inhales sharply, the frigid cold seeping whatever warmth that remains in his body. The sky is dark - not because it is night, but because a storm has begun to brew in the horizon; foreboding and churning, illuminated with soft silver of heated lightning in the distance. The winged stallion hesitates for a moment - the water is uninviting and brooding, dark and crinkling as it roils beneath a blackening sky, festering and spitting in a way that the ocean of Tephra never does. It is the magic, he knows.
He does not allow himself to linger on the thought any longer (the kind of magic, why it still brews; barely alive but somehow still pulsating beneath the surface) for he knew any moment of hesitation would make him turn and leave. So, the ocean-grown stallion enters the water with a shuddering exhale of breath, fluidly stepping into the waves until they crash over his back and further still - to where the ocean sweeps him off of his hooves and his powerful legs carry him, his overly large wings attempting to steer him.
Warrick fights diving beneath the surface. Being a strong swimmer, he stays above even as the blackness of sea becomes endless, fraught with the distant rumble of thunder from the brewing tempest. It is not until near-exhaustion sets in that he finally must truly test Carnage’s word. He sinks below the surface with closed eyes, fully expecting to be met with a lungful of black seawater when he next inhaled.
The navy-tipped stallion is pleasantly surprised. His eyes open curiously as the comfort of oxygen hits his lungs, despite the way he sways to and fro in the darkness of the current. For the first time since his ascent up the mountain there is a genuine expression of pleasantness - for a moment his children flash before his eyes and he thinks about how they will enjoy hearing how he was able to survive under the sea.
Quickly, however, Warrick turns his attention to the task at hand. He doesn’t have to do much, he realizes - the forgotten kingdom seems to have noticed his presence (and perhaps the one who has sent him) and the current seems to naturally flow and pull the stallion towards the bottom. He doesn’t fight it - even with the tightening of pressure as the water squeezes around his body unmercifully, constricting him more with each passing second. Finding the feeling uncomfortable (like being put into a too-small room), Warrick propels himself forward with strokes of his legs, wishing to end his journey quickly now that it has begun.
The world is dark at the bottom of the sea. He is able to breathe but he feels as though he can’t, with the immense pressure pulling down on him. His ears burn in pain and his eyes feel larger than their sockets - he can feel his heart racing as panic sets in, wondering if though he is given the ability to breathe underwater if Carnage would have also protected him from his body buckling beneath the colossal pressure. Warrick feels his eyesight narrowing (darkness closing in, relentless and dismal) and in a crude attempt to hasten his endeavor, he quickly plucks a mouthful of black mud from the bottom.
The moment he has his ‘prize’, Warrick pushes off from the bottom with newfound strength. Like a wild animal being set free from a cage, he clamors upwards as quickly as he can to evade the yawning and gaping abyss - he can almost feel it pulling him back, surrounding him and biting at his heels.
Finally, he’s thrown himself onto the sandy shore; his nostrils and ears spilling blood and his eyesight blurred. He gasps for breath (real breath, dry and clear), blood spurting from his fluttering nostrils as he attempts to calm himself. The air burns his lungs (why is there so much pain in his chest?) from his quick ascent upwards, There is the soft pitter-patter of rainfall against his skin, fresh against the burning salt that has saturated his flesh, and the low rumble of thunder accompanying the flicker of lightning.
The storm is nearly upon him now.
The journey to the edge of the sea is long and lonely, so the Tephran King occupies his tired and weary mind with thoughts of his children, grandchildren, and his wife. He is sure Sibyl will be the most excited to hear about his journey, though he is already prepared to spare her the terrible details he knows that will eventually follow - it always will, with Carnage being involved. It lives a bitter feeling in his stomach, growing stronger and more pungent as he makes his way further and further, acidic on his tongue. Warrick has no idea what Carnage would do with such an offering (he could imagine, however) but it didn’t matter - Carnage would offer him protection, and whatever came from following his request would not touch him or his family.
Soon, the sturdy cobalt of Warrick’s legs dampen with the icy sting of seawater. He inhales sharply, the frigid cold seeping whatever warmth that remains in his body. The sky is dark - not because it is night, but because a storm has begun to brew in the horizon; foreboding and churning, illuminated with soft silver of heated lightning in the distance. The winged stallion hesitates for a moment - the water is uninviting and brooding, dark and crinkling as it roils beneath a blackening sky, festering and spitting in a way that the ocean of Tephra never does. It is the magic, he knows.
He does not allow himself to linger on the thought any longer (the kind of magic, why it still brews; barely alive but somehow still pulsating beneath the surface) for he knew any moment of hesitation would make him turn and leave. So, the ocean-grown stallion enters the water with a shuddering exhale of breath, fluidly stepping into the waves until they crash over his back and further still - to where the ocean sweeps him off of his hooves and his powerful legs carry him, his overly large wings attempting to steer him.
Warrick fights diving beneath the surface. Being a strong swimmer, he stays above even as the blackness of sea becomes endless, fraught with the distant rumble of thunder from the brewing tempest. It is not until near-exhaustion sets in that he finally must truly test Carnage’s word. He sinks below the surface with closed eyes, fully expecting to be met with a lungful of black seawater when he next inhaled.
The navy-tipped stallion is pleasantly surprised. His eyes open curiously as the comfort of oxygen hits his lungs, despite the way he sways to and fro in the darkness of the current. For the first time since his ascent up the mountain there is a genuine expression of pleasantness - for a moment his children flash before his eyes and he thinks about how they will enjoy hearing how he was able to survive under the sea.
Quickly, however, Warrick turns his attention to the task at hand. He doesn’t have to do much, he realizes - the forgotten kingdom seems to have noticed his presence (and perhaps the one who has sent him) and the current seems to naturally flow and pull the stallion towards the bottom. He doesn’t fight it - even with the tightening of pressure as the water squeezes around his body unmercifully, constricting him more with each passing second. Finding the feeling uncomfortable (like being put into a too-small room), Warrick propels himself forward with strokes of his legs, wishing to end his journey quickly now that it has begun.
The world is dark at the bottom of the sea. He is able to breathe but he feels as though he can’t, with the immense pressure pulling down on him. His ears burn in pain and his eyes feel larger than their sockets - he can feel his heart racing as panic sets in, wondering if though he is given the ability to breathe underwater if Carnage would have also protected him from his body buckling beneath the colossal pressure. Warrick feels his eyesight narrowing (darkness closing in, relentless and dismal) and in a crude attempt to hasten his endeavor, he quickly plucks a mouthful of black mud from the bottom.
The moment he has his ‘prize’, Warrick pushes off from the bottom with newfound strength. Like a wild animal being set free from a cage, he clamors upwards as quickly as he can to evade the yawning and gaping abyss - he can almost feel it pulling him back, surrounding him and biting at his heels.
Finally, he’s thrown himself onto the sandy shore; his nostrils and ears spilling blood and his eyesight blurred. He gasps for breath (real breath, dry and clear), blood spurting from his fluttering nostrils as he attempts to calm himself. The air burns his lungs (why is there so much pain in his chest?) from his quick ascent upwards, There is the soft pitter-patter of rainfall against his skin, fresh against the burning salt that has saturated his flesh, and the low rumble of thunder accompanying the flicker of lightning.
The storm is nearly upon him now.
WARRICK
@[Carnage]