06-23-2016, 10:07 PM
It has been ages since he has visited these parts of Beqanna. The icy realm of the north has been his home for so long now that he scarce remembers anything else exists. He can easily spend days, weeks, without speaking to another soul. In truth, he has become something of a recluse.
It is not often he longs for companionship. After his years as king, he has needed the respite. But now, today, he finds himself unexpectedly heading towards the meadow, desirous of something different, something new.
Winter is rapidly approaching, bringing with it icy fingers of sleet and snow. Autumn in the Tundra is frigid (though not nearly so much as the darkest depths of winter), and already his pale coat grows thick and shaggy. In the highest reaches of the clouds, this serves him well, keeping him warm even with the sharp sting of the wind cutting against his dappled coat. The strong beat of his wings, the chill wind whipping his pale locks, the crisp, thin air flowing through his lungs, it is all as familiar to him as breathing.
There is something indescribable about flight, something only those who can breach that invisible barrier will understand.
But even he must land eventually. And so, he does, surprising even himself when he chooses the meadow. The air here is warm, almost sticky, when compared to the dry, chill air of his home. But he ignores it as easily as he does the discomforts of his home. He has long since grown accustomed to doing so.
As he settles onto the dying grasses of the late fall meadow, he glances around, dark gaze sharply observant. Tucking his ivory, feathered wings against his side, he wonders what in the hell had possessed him to come here.
It is not often he longs for companionship. After his years as king, he has needed the respite. But now, today, he finds himself unexpectedly heading towards the meadow, desirous of something different, something new.
Winter is rapidly approaching, bringing with it icy fingers of sleet and snow. Autumn in the Tundra is frigid (though not nearly so much as the darkest depths of winter), and already his pale coat grows thick and shaggy. In the highest reaches of the clouds, this serves him well, keeping him warm even with the sharp sting of the wind cutting against his dappled coat. The strong beat of his wings, the chill wind whipping his pale locks, the crisp, thin air flowing through his lungs, it is all as familiar to him as breathing.
There is something indescribable about flight, something only those who can breach that invisible barrier will understand.
But even he must land eventually. And so, he does, surprising even himself when he chooses the meadow. The air here is warm, almost sticky, when compared to the dry, chill air of his home. But he ignores it as easily as he does the discomforts of his home. He has long since grown accustomed to doing so.
As he settles onto the dying grasses of the late fall meadow, he glances around, dark gaze sharply observant. Tucking his ivory, feathered wings against his side, he wonders what in the hell had possessed him to come here.
There is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die.
Hurricane
@[Lagertha]
