10-29-2019, 02:41 AM
You’re uncontrollable
and we are unlovable
and we are unlovable
The colder seasons are his favourites - autumn strikes a chord with its wetness, its crisp morning sunrises and the color-changing leaves. His bay-based coat and vibrant mane and tail fit in perfectly; but it’s winter he’s adapted to. Extreme temperature drops don’t harm him - this, in fact, is what allowed him to withstand Kora’s magic at the time, allowed them to develop a strange understanding of one another. He would help her find her solitude, without needing her to give up her sense of being, of existing, of being useful. In fact her whispers about what happened on the Isle when people had thought just an icy snowdrift had passed them, had been plenty useful as leader of a place that simply wouldn’t bend to anyone’s will.
In fact his recent move there brought back all kinds of memories. Good ones and bad ones alike. He tried to hold on to his sense of belonging there, of being respected as at the very least an ally for most who ventured there, without having anything to do with politics. Of course, Beqanna politics still ventured everywhere, but it was a nice thought nonetheless.
Moving back ‘home’ from the southern lands now - Loess, the meadow - he wondered if enough people ever visited up there. Winter season was coming, and most would know to stay away from the coldest place in Beqanna. That’s why he ventured south still, even though he was supposed to live in the coldest place. He wasn’t supposed to live his year as a hermit up there as far as he understood it, after all.
Taiga lay conveniently in the way if he travelled any further than Nerine, but he knew who rules the place and avoided it like the Plague. So he travelled around, and was now walking along the northern border, east to west, to take the long swim back to the northernmost ice patches.
The mare had been downwind, and she called out on it long before he caught hers. He did see farther than he smelled or heard nowadays, he mused. Wondered briefly what it would be like to be a shifter instead, and see like a normal horse again - but it’d be better not to dwell on it, he thinks. The fairy might deem his efforts not enough. And she had been right, in a way. He had let ice build around his heart, in order to protect himself from falling for anyone again, from getting as attached as he always would if he let someone in for real. But he found the task of being helpful not that bad to do - perhaps there was a middle way. To get something, he might as well not just take it - seemed short-sighted in retrospect.
He’d done a lot of brooding, as he was prone to do it seemed. But now his icy blue gaze takes up the chestnut mare before him, her form more petite than his in many ways, as he assesses her and her tone. ”It’s also quite rude not to greet a visitor, and to assume someone a lurker rather than a passerby.” is his dry remark.
She smells of the Taigan forest, the mist clinging to her, but there’s also a hint of cold sweat, like one would have when woken from a nightmare - or from seeing him lurk in the dark mist, he reminds himself. He must not forget that he inspires fear in some - there’s more painful and bittersweet memories attached to that thought, but he cannot forget it, ever.
In fact his recent move there brought back all kinds of memories. Good ones and bad ones alike. He tried to hold on to his sense of belonging there, of being respected as at the very least an ally for most who ventured there, without having anything to do with politics. Of course, Beqanna politics still ventured everywhere, but it was a nice thought nonetheless.
Moving back ‘home’ from the southern lands now - Loess, the meadow - he wondered if enough people ever visited up there. Winter season was coming, and most would know to stay away from the coldest place in Beqanna. That’s why he ventured south still, even though he was supposed to live in the coldest place. He wasn’t supposed to live his year as a hermit up there as far as he understood it, after all.
Taiga lay conveniently in the way if he travelled any further than Nerine, but he knew who rules the place and avoided it like the Plague. So he travelled around, and was now walking along the northern border, east to west, to take the long swim back to the northernmost ice patches.
The mare had been downwind, and she called out on it long before he caught hers. He did see farther than he smelled or heard nowadays, he mused. Wondered briefly what it would be like to be a shifter instead, and see like a normal horse again - but it’d be better not to dwell on it, he thinks. The fairy might deem his efforts not enough. And she had been right, in a way. He had let ice build around his heart, in order to protect himself from falling for anyone again, from getting as attached as he always would if he let someone in for real. But he found the task of being helpful not that bad to do - perhaps there was a middle way. To get something, he might as well not just take it - seemed short-sighted in retrospect.
He’d done a lot of brooding, as he was prone to do it seemed. But now his icy blue gaze takes up the chestnut mare before him, her form more petite than his in many ways, as he assesses her and her tone. ”It’s also quite rude not to greet a visitor, and to assume someone a lurker rather than a passerby.” is his dry remark.
She smells of the Taigan forest, the mist clinging to her, but there’s also a hint of cold sweat, like one would have when woken from a nightmare - or from seeing him lurk in the dark mist, he reminds himself. He must not forget that he inspires fear in some - there’s more painful and bittersweet memories attached to that thought, but he cannot forget it, ever.
and I don’t want you to think that I care
I never would, I never could again
Leilan
no. 7 | ice forged in fire
Gave you a crap post in return thank you
@[lilliana]
Two things I know I can make: pretty kids, and people mad.
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