11-08-2021, 11:27 PM
T U M U L T
He is still not used to the strange ways of this place. He has not yet figured out all of its secrets or the odd workings of its magic, and he does not yet know the things—or individuals—to be cautious of.
It’s why he obeys the summons, giving into the curiosity and ignoring the nagging discomfort that tries to stay his feet. He has never been especially brash or bold, and to follow the sound of a stranger’s voice was unlike him, but there was something so convincing about it that he finds it easy to push aside what his intuition is trying to tell him.
He goes to the mountain, and how he knows where exactly the mountain is is something he chooses to overlook. After all, he has never been to, or even heard of, this place that so many of Beqanna’s residents sought out. He stands now at the base of it, looking at the well-worn path that winds up the side of it. He does not know what this place is for, but he can see that it is well traveled. Why, he wonders, is this mountain so different from all the others that he has seen on the horizon? The air seems to hum, whether in warning or excitement he is not sure, but there is a strange sense of finality at his presence here—this sense that he cannot turn back now, that he has committed himself to something still unknown.
The further he walks up the mountain, however, the stronger a sense of dread settles over him. It sits in his veins like lead, sinking to the pit of his stomach and refusing to move. Before he has a chance to consider turning back there is a great shaking of the earth, and he is frozen in place as he tries to discern what it means, waiting for a shower of rocks and boulders to come tumbling down the mountainside. Inside, a smooth, sheer face of rock erupts from the ground in front of him, jutting up to the sky and creating an impassable wall. He frowns as the dust settles, and thinking that this must be some kind of test of his determination (which is admittedly weakening at this point, as he tries to decide if this is truly worth the hassle), he immediately takes to the skies.
It was overcast enough that his wings, a roiling mass of storm clouds—dark gray and full, as if ready to spill rain—were mostly fully formed. He only needed to get to the top of the mountain, at least, and it seemed doable.
The sunshine comes seemingly out of nowhere, and it is unlike any sunshine he has ever experienced.
It is not a warm ray straining through clouds, watery and weak.
It is a beam, searing and unforgiving, and it seems to strike him and only him.
His wings begin to evaporate, and though he starts to lower himself as quickly as he can it is not fast enough and soon he is falling rather than flying.
He hits the ground hard, a sharp pain shooting up his shoulder that causes him to grit his teeth. When he looks up he can see that he is nearly to the top, and with a hard set of his jaw he pulls himself to a stand, and he finishes making his way up the mountain.
He arrives at the top, his storm-colored coat covered in dirt and a scrape on his shoulder, but at least his wings have reappeared, the rogue sunlight seeming to have retreated entirely. He is not sure what he had expected upon reaching the summit but the unfamiliar gray stallion is not it, and he eyes him with a guarded wariness. “Are you the one that called?”
It’s why he obeys the summons, giving into the curiosity and ignoring the nagging discomfort that tries to stay his feet. He has never been especially brash or bold, and to follow the sound of a stranger’s voice was unlike him, but there was something so convincing about it that he finds it easy to push aside what his intuition is trying to tell him.
He goes to the mountain, and how he knows where exactly the mountain is is something he chooses to overlook. After all, he has never been to, or even heard of, this place that so many of Beqanna’s residents sought out. He stands now at the base of it, looking at the well-worn path that winds up the side of it. He does not know what this place is for, but he can see that it is well traveled. Why, he wonders, is this mountain so different from all the others that he has seen on the horizon? The air seems to hum, whether in warning or excitement he is not sure, but there is a strange sense of finality at his presence here—this sense that he cannot turn back now, that he has committed himself to something still unknown.
The further he walks up the mountain, however, the stronger a sense of dread settles over him. It sits in his veins like lead, sinking to the pit of his stomach and refusing to move. Before he has a chance to consider turning back there is a great shaking of the earth, and he is frozen in place as he tries to discern what it means, waiting for a shower of rocks and boulders to come tumbling down the mountainside. Inside, a smooth, sheer face of rock erupts from the ground in front of him, jutting up to the sky and creating an impassable wall. He frowns as the dust settles, and thinking that this must be some kind of test of his determination (which is admittedly weakening at this point, as he tries to decide if this is truly worth the hassle), he immediately takes to the skies.
It was overcast enough that his wings, a roiling mass of storm clouds—dark gray and full, as if ready to spill rain—were mostly fully formed. He only needed to get to the top of the mountain, at least, and it seemed doable.
The sunshine comes seemingly out of nowhere, and it is unlike any sunshine he has ever experienced.
It is not a warm ray straining through clouds, watery and weak.
It is a beam, searing and unforgiving, and it seems to strike him and only him.
His wings begin to evaporate, and though he starts to lower himself as quickly as he can it is not fast enough and soon he is falling rather than flying.
He hits the ground hard, a sharp pain shooting up his shoulder that causes him to grit his teeth. When he looks up he can see that he is nearly to the top, and with a hard set of his jaw he pulls himself to a stand, and he finishes making his way up the mountain.
He arrives at the top, his storm-colored coat covered in dirt and a scrape on his shoulder, but at least his wings have reappeared, the rogue sunlight seeming to have retreated entirely. He is not sure what he had expected upon reaching the summit but the unfamiliar gray stallion is not it, and he eyes him with a guarded wariness. “Are you the one that called?”
CAN YOU TELL ME, WILL I BREAK OR WILL I BEND?
