Death releases him slowly. The regeneration of bone and blood is painstaking and tedious. Sinews grow like vines, twirling and reaching and spreading roots that bring him together again. When his black eyes open into narrow slits and awareness creeps in, he realizes that somehow he has shifted planes or dimensions once again. His first breath is one of panic, spluttering and wet as if he had been drowning.
He vaguely remembers the dream-like state that held him captive in the afterlife (if he can call it an afterlife anymore). He can still feel the weight of the river forcing him deeper and deeper still, and the way the rocks rent the fibers of his soul as the force of the water pinned him against them. He had thought that he would spend the rest of eternity deep in the river of the afterlife, unable to drown for lack of lungs, yet unable to breathe.
Death has had her fun with him. She does not want him anymore.
Eventually, the inky black stallion peels himself from the roots and worm dirt as a moth breaks free of the cocoon. He squints against the sunlight that filters through the trees as a large shadow sweeps overhead. A figure plummets all too quickly towards the ground, but wings reach out to slow her just in time. She lands not too far away.
Faulkor blinks hard as if he can shake off the sleepiness of death as if he had only been napping in the half shade. He staggers forward, legs like a newborn colt’s. His breath comes more easily now, and the scents of the forest fill his nostrils. He has been here before, though he knows not how much time has passed since… How did he die? His thoughts come reluctantly and fragmented. All the while, he watches her as she pulls the shadows in close, unwittingly pulling him closer as well.
He fumbles through the undergrowth, stumbling over roots that could have easily been avoided if only the synapses would fire just a little quicker. He is like a lumbering golem, made up of rock and clay that were not created for moving at such speeds or with any tact. But each step seems to come easier until he stops before the shadowy mare with the mismatched eyes.
For a few haggard breaths, he simply stares at her in the way a raven covets something shiny - only it is her darkness that draws him to her. “You seem sad.” He states, his voice ragged like the bark of the trees that surround them. He tries to remember what sadness feels like as his gaze takes hold of her feathered wings. Something other stirs within him, familiar and strange, and feathers sprout along his withers and bones form along his shoulders until he wears a set of wings as black as hers.
@[illuminae]
He vaguely remembers the dream-like state that held him captive in the afterlife (if he can call it an afterlife anymore). He can still feel the weight of the river forcing him deeper and deeper still, and the way the rocks rent the fibers of his soul as the force of the water pinned him against them. He had thought that he would spend the rest of eternity deep in the river of the afterlife, unable to drown for lack of lungs, yet unable to breathe.
Death has had her fun with him. She does not want him anymore.
Eventually, the inky black stallion peels himself from the roots and worm dirt as a moth breaks free of the cocoon. He squints against the sunlight that filters through the trees as a large shadow sweeps overhead. A figure plummets all too quickly towards the ground, but wings reach out to slow her just in time. She lands not too far away.
Faulkor blinks hard as if he can shake off the sleepiness of death as if he had only been napping in the half shade. He staggers forward, legs like a newborn colt’s. His breath comes more easily now, and the scents of the forest fill his nostrils. He has been here before, though he knows not how much time has passed since… How did he die? His thoughts come reluctantly and fragmented. All the while, he watches her as she pulls the shadows in close, unwittingly pulling him closer as well.
He fumbles through the undergrowth, stumbling over roots that could have easily been avoided if only the synapses would fire just a little quicker. He is like a lumbering golem, made up of rock and clay that were not created for moving at such speeds or with any tact. But each step seems to come easier until he stops before the shadowy mare with the mismatched eyes.
For a few haggard breaths, he simply stares at her in the way a raven covets something shiny - only it is her darkness that draws him to her. “You seem sad.” He states, his voice ragged like the bark of the trees that surround them. He tries to remember what sadness feels like as his gaze takes hold of her feathered wings. Something other stirs within him, familiar and strange, and feathers sprout along his withers and bones form along his shoulders until he wears a set of wings as black as hers.
@[illuminae]