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02-23-2014, 08:24 AM
Mauja Frosthjärta
It was just one, complete hell-journey. The trip to the Threshold had been nothing special, but once there, the skies had come crashing down. Freezing rain had plastered his thick coat against his skin, body steaming away precious heat at a too rapid rate, breath pluming into cold air. And on the return journey, it just became worse and worse. The wind picked up. The cold intensified. Every ounce of warmth was robbed from body and soul, thick ice blocking his veins—if poor Fiore had attempted to have any kind of conversation, Mauja wouldn't have noticed. He set his shaking jaws together, lowered his head against the storm winds, and simply decided that he wouldn't stop trotting until he was home again.
So in that fashion, stubborn and distant and frozen to the core, Mauja crossed Helovia with the sturdy paint stallion in tow. Ice rimed his whiskers, ice covered the stiller parts of his body like armor plates, back, shoulders, face. His tail was a dead, heavy weight of ice, forelock all tangled up and frozen to his horn, mane a mess full of ice-clumps beating bruises against his cold neck with every step. Winter was his friend only as long as he was dry; standing in a downpour did not make you dry. Quite the opposite.
There was only one way to go and that was forward, his internal compass keeping their track fairly straight through the storm-wrecked, abandoned land. Helovia had a haunted feeling, shadows swirling around his fetlocks with every step and snapping half-heartedly after him. Nothing stirred on either horizon, and the clouds and keening wind kept him from even considering the sky. Fortunately, there were no wraiths in their path. Once or twice he thought he caught sight of a slow-moving shape disturbing the hazy outline of the horizon, but they could just as well have been trees.
Gradually the footing changed, from nearly undisturbed snow (for who crossed the surface these days?) to heavy slush, and finally, the dark, volcanic sands. The horizon had brightened into a steady glow, the low, murmuring roar of the Heartfire barely heard over the whipping winds. Bit by bit the air had warmed, though he kept clear of the furnace; it, too, had fallen to corruption, volatile and violent as it flickered and roared. Mauja gritted his teeth. Just a little further... Exhaustion burned in his limbs, lungs pushing out breaths in harsh snorts, dragged them in again with a gasp. Fresh blood had seeped out from some of the deeper wounds, torn open by the constant movement.
And then, from the sky, shapes descended; led by fire itself, two horses, wings folding. One was familiar. He frowned, steps faltering from a dogged trot to a walk. He was spent, utterly spent, heart racing and breath turning into a rattling series of coughs. His hoof snagged on a rock and he stumbled sideways, righting himself only with an effort; damn everything. Damn him. Why had he gone out? There was no way he'd get out of this in good shape.
"Midas," he whispered, still too far away, suddenly knowing why the shape was so familiar. Blearily, Mauja turned to look at the paint stallion, hoping to see him there; tired, maybe, after such a long, intense travel through a storm, but hopefully alive and not full of pus and rotting flesh and bared, beating hearts. Irma was somewhere there too, in the back of his mind, sending warmth and strength and a handful of curses. He steeled himself, forced his aching limbs to push off into a trot again. Don't go, don't go, don't go; was he just hallucinating the paint campolina? Why did it feel like the world would end if Midas went down with his charge, and left them alone here, on the surface? "Midas," he said again, still too low, maybe just twenty yards away now, a blur of white in the damned world. Gone was their last parting, the charges presented against him, the act of violence.
"Midas!" he finally managed to cry out, a weak shout across the sound of windfury; he was tired and cold and aching, but no matter how chilled he felt, to a touch he would be flaming hot with fever.
( @[Hawkeye], @[Fiore]; Candy, let me know if you don't want me to assume Hawkeye landed too ^^ )
So in that fashion, stubborn and distant and frozen to the core, Mauja crossed Helovia with the sturdy paint stallion in tow. Ice rimed his whiskers, ice covered the stiller parts of his body like armor plates, back, shoulders, face. His tail was a dead, heavy weight of ice, forelock all tangled up and frozen to his horn, mane a mess full of ice-clumps beating bruises against his cold neck with every step. Winter was his friend only as long as he was dry; standing in a downpour did not make you dry. Quite the opposite.
There was only one way to go and that was forward, his internal compass keeping their track fairly straight through the storm-wrecked, abandoned land. Helovia had a haunted feeling, shadows swirling around his fetlocks with every step and snapping half-heartedly after him. Nothing stirred on either horizon, and the clouds and keening wind kept him from even considering the sky. Fortunately, there were no wraiths in their path. Once or twice he thought he caught sight of a slow-moving shape disturbing the hazy outline of the horizon, but they could just as well have been trees.
Gradually the footing changed, from nearly undisturbed snow (for who crossed the surface these days?) to heavy slush, and finally, the dark, volcanic sands. The horizon had brightened into a steady glow, the low, murmuring roar of the Heartfire barely heard over the whipping winds. Bit by bit the air had warmed, though he kept clear of the furnace; it, too, had fallen to corruption, volatile and violent as it flickered and roared. Mauja gritted his teeth. Just a little further... Exhaustion burned in his limbs, lungs pushing out breaths in harsh snorts, dragged them in again with a gasp. Fresh blood had seeped out from some of the deeper wounds, torn open by the constant movement.
And then, from the sky, shapes descended; led by fire itself, two horses, wings folding. One was familiar. He frowned, steps faltering from a dogged trot to a walk. He was spent, utterly spent, heart racing and breath turning into a rattling series of coughs. His hoof snagged on a rock and he stumbled sideways, righting himself only with an effort; damn everything. Damn him. Why had he gone out? There was no way he'd get out of this in good shape.
"Midas," he whispered, still too far away, suddenly knowing why the shape was so familiar. Blearily, Mauja turned to look at the paint stallion, hoping to see him there; tired, maybe, after such a long, intense travel through a storm, but hopefully alive and not full of pus and rotting flesh and bared, beating hearts. Irma was somewhere there too, in the back of his mind, sending warmth and strength and a handful of curses. He steeled himself, forced his aching limbs to push off into a trot again. Don't go, don't go, don't go; was he just hallucinating the paint campolina? Why did it feel like the world would end if Midas went down with his charge, and left them alone here, on the surface? "Midas," he said again, still too low, maybe just twenty yards away now, a blur of white in the damned world. Gone was their last parting, the charges presented against him, the act of violence.
"Midas!" he finally managed to cry out, a weak shout across the sound of windfury; he was tired and cold and aching, but no matter how chilled he felt, to a touch he would be flaming hot with fever.
( @[Hawkeye], @[Fiore]; Candy, let me know if you don't want me to assume Hawkeye landed too ^^ )
the only memory is us kissing in the moonlight
