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12-21-2013, 05:52 AM
Congratulations! You get my 666th Mauja post. <3
Perhaps he was just used to meeting horses that called no particular region their home. Perhaps it was just that he found nothing strange about not living anyplace, or with steady company—or just because he'd never been terribly bothered by having no physical company. But whatever the case, her words, her voice, her open eyes, surprised him. He felt his heart quieten in contemplation, his own eyes softening, smile fading slightly. Should he be lonely? Was it strange, that he felt fine on his own? Or, at least not mad? Even when he'd lived within the Edge, and Basin, surrounded by the loyalists of the Plague and the herds, he'd kept to himself in a way, a distance in his heart and mind. Holding the world at an arm's length to make sure no knives could reach his heart. His 'brows drew together over his eyes. "I..." he began, but found no words to complete the sentence, and sighed instead. He had a few friends, at least one stalwart despite his own problems. If he just donned the mask and trekked up north, he probably had a home, too.
Hollow comforts, when you've lost faith. "No," he finally admitted, watching her as she looked skywards. "There's no place I can go, really." His voice was quiet, weary; it was all his own fault, but he wasn't going to weep about it. He wouldn't let the bitterness come in again, to taint his world and blacken his blood with its sour taste. He wanted to be past the point of drowning himself in it, and in his self-pity. But to really make it past, he needed to find his strength again.
“Is it yours?” "Huh?" Her eyes had come down from the sky again, and, frowning, Mauja turned to look the way she had. Blue, blue, blue, Irma.. oh. “Good-looking,” she said, and Mauja chuckled. It felt..alien. There hadn't been much to laugh about lately. "I think a more proper way to put it would be that I am hers," he said, voice low but with an eddy of warmth underneath. Come down? he suggested. Irma held her white wings steadily out a moment longer, almost as if contemplating if it was worth it—but it wasn't like she could hunt at daytime anyway, and she did like being complimented. Deftly she folded her wings, and dropped out of the blue, arrowing towards the monochromatic pair. Mauja felt the echo of her thrill, the cold rush of wind against her feathered face.. the ground approaching so rapidly, and somehow she still saw every nuance and detail of it.
It sent a shiver through him. For a brief moment, he nearly envied the Pegasi their wings.
Then Irma was flaring hers, the mad dive ended as she glided a few yards above the purple sea of thistles. Her wings stirred the air against his sides as she balanced in the air, talons reaching out for his scarred withers; she grasped his body, little pinpricks of red flecking the tips as she broke his skin again. It hurt. It always did, the brief sting of a needle—momentarily intense, but quickly forgotten. It was familiar, comfortable even, and things felt right again, with her there by his side (or, on him, rather). "Her name is Irma," he offered to the kind mare, and the owl stared at her, icy of eye and heart.
heart-blind;
Perhaps he was just used to meeting horses that called no particular region their home. Perhaps it was just that he found nothing strange about not living anyplace, or with steady company—or just because he'd never been terribly bothered by having no physical company. But whatever the case, her words, her voice, her open eyes, surprised him. He felt his heart quieten in contemplation, his own eyes softening, smile fading slightly. Should he be lonely? Was it strange, that he felt fine on his own? Or, at least not mad? Even when he'd lived within the Edge, and Basin, surrounded by the loyalists of the Plague and the herds, he'd kept to himself in a way, a distance in his heart and mind. Holding the world at an arm's length to make sure no knives could reach his heart. His 'brows drew together over his eyes. "I..." he began, but found no words to complete the sentence, and sighed instead. He had a few friends, at least one stalwart despite his own problems. If he just donned the mask and trekked up north, he probably had a home, too.
Hollow comforts, when you've lost faith. "No," he finally admitted, watching her as she looked skywards. "There's no place I can go, really." His voice was quiet, weary; it was all his own fault, but he wasn't going to weep about it. He wouldn't let the bitterness come in again, to taint his world and blacken his blood with its sour taste. He wanted to be past the point of drowning himself in it, and in his self-pity. But to really make it past, he needed to find his strength again.
“Is it yours?” "Huh?" Her eyes had come down from the sky again, and, frowning, Mauja turned to look the way she had. Blue, blue, blue, Irma.. oh. “Good-looking,” she said, and Mauja chuckled. It felt..alien. There hadn't been much to laugh about lately. "I think a more proper way to put it would be that I am hers," he said, voice low but with an eddy of warmth underneath. Come down? he suggested. Irma held her white wings steadily out a moment longer, almost as if contemplating if it was worth it—but it wasn't like she could hunt at daytime anyway, and she did like being complimented. Deftly she folded her wings, and dropped out of the blue, arrowing towards the monochromatic pair. Mauja felt the echo of her thrill, the cold rush of wind against her feathered face.. the ground approaching so rapidly, and somehow she still saw every nuance and detail of it.
It sent a shiver through him. For a brief moment, he nearly envied the Pegasi their wings.
Then Irma was flaring hers, the mad dive ended as she glided a few yards above the purple sea of thistles. Her wings stirred the air against his sides as she balanced in the air, talons reaching out for his scarred withers; she grasped his body, little pinpricks of red flecking the tips as she broke his skin again. It hurt. It always did, the brief sting of a needle—momentarily intense, but quickly forgotten. It was familiar, comfortable even, and things felt right again, with her there by his side (or, on him, rather). "Her name is Irma," he offered to the kind mare, and the owl stared at her, icy of eye and heart.
