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The colt had been touched by victory. Twice in the same season, caressed, stroked, kissed by the divine, by the gods, by the monsters within nestled woods, sought out and sanctified, consecrated for his efforts. Never before had he felt so alive, so present, so effervescent, racing and careening with the heavens; for all his shortfalls, for all his flaws, he’d been granted and anointed with perseverance, with endurance, and the world had rewarded him for his efforts. His persistence, his determination, his boundless, unrelenting hope, his prevailing notions, his brewing conviction, his Lancelot prowess, had earned him just rewards: a flicker of a Sun God’s might, and the nestled treasure of a raven. He wanted to shout towards the stars and tell them the taste of ambrosia was sweet and molten, he wanted to parade across every hallowed ground and inform them he’d been touched by holy endeavors too, that he could become one of their flesh and blood, that they’d seen him for his gifts, his talents, his wishes, aspirations, and fantasies, had broadened him with hope and purpose. He wanted to whistle and croon into the dark shadows that he’d seen El Dorado, that he’d obtained precious metals and beautiful gold, he wanted to screech and grasp and covet each and every single thing because he was finally capable of doing so: not a pauper, but a prince. He was worthy, he was merited, he was warranted; staunch resolution had conformed and composed his machinations, his strategies, for all the world to see, for all the world to feel. Eventually he’d conquer the rest of the sovereigns, all the other empires, search and seek and destroy and ravage, because the arches of obstinate courage were rewarding, were forgiving, were beautiful, incandescent things. However, for all his zealous intentions, for all his fervent wishes, the child could do no such thing – because tucked between his folded limbs, protected beneath his childish skull, was an ivory egg.
The journey from the Deep Forest’s corridors, from the silent, strange, unnerving gallows, had been slow and tedious at best. The little beast had no intention of allowing his newfound beloved to be born within a dark, cruel sanction, where every shadow had eyes and where every sound murmured a predator’s hymn, but without some way of carrying the precious artifact, he’d carefully maneuvered it through undergrowth, along moss, beneath heavy, heady boughs. The process had taken him a lengthy amount of time, but patience, dedication, and commitment were far too embedded in his hide, positioning his horn to gently slide the oval shell across murky doldrums, breathing silent prayers and raptures, applying several debts to the waking eaves and bursting veils. Eventually, in the early morning hours, they’d managed to conquer the last bits of copse reign, peeling out into the dawn light of the Thistle Meadow, still alive, still whole, and the beautiful creature still locked within its confines. A sigh of relief folded through his chest, furnished into the remaining songs of summer, and he chose a massive boulder to hide behind, shielded from trespassers, from interlopers, from curious eyes, leonine tail only poking around and above the stone as his curiosity swarmed, as his body curled around the pale lacquer of the unbroken, silent oval.
Erebos suddenly wished Adelric was in the Meadow with him, granting him answers to the series of queries instantly spiraling around his mind, reeling along his membrane. How long would it take to hatch? What was inside and could one tell the species from its shell? Would it be a beautiful fawn like Tobias? Would it be a vicious hound? Would it be a screeching harpy? How could he help it hatch? What would he need to do when it finally appeared? What did a bond feel like? All of the sentiments and notions were a convoluted, coiling serpentine sway of overwhelming proportions, he instantly felt completely, utterly unprepared, when a clinking, cracking sound resounded around his frame.
The casing splintered, shattered, split apart by tiny claws, by miniature talons, and as he bent towards the slivered remnants, his maw came face to face, nose to nose, with a small, black, fox muzzle.
[@[Adelric] Hatching thread for Erebos’ kitsune! You’re welcome and open to attend~]
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