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11-22-2015, 06:03 PM
Tembovu
A long, relieved sigh escaped him as he Ciceron answered his question, revealing that his father was not, to his knowledge, in or of Helovia. But, beneath the relief, his inner demons wailed their disappointment— they had almost had a purpose again. Someone to hunt, manipulate, destroy.
The mammoth nearly snorts in disconcertion at the power and strength this remnant from his past self commanded. It did not feel as retired and swept away as he had thought it had become since the fall of Dorobo. In fact, at just the merest hint at someone to crush, it had leapt to attention and started to consume his thoughts.
Worry bloomed in his chest, perhaps adding fuel to the fire of his daemons. His ears tilt further back as he wrestled internally— none of this was good. It was so not good that it was terrible, awful, horrible.
Gently, if suddenly, he withdraws his touch from the quicksilver beside him, "Does one ever find peace or anything even remotely close?” His touch is suddenly burning cold in the frigid Frostfall morning. His mind, swept along in his mild chaos, fumbles to find an answer to the stallion beside.
But the only answers are bleak and bitter, fashioned from a man who has lost too much and gained too little. A man who has destroyed many lives and lost the meaning of his own. So his eyes darken further, nearly black as the markings on his face. A frown creases his brow, “One can hope for peace. But I have not found it, yet.” His normally expressive voice is flat, dead. Usually he is one to bring some sort of hope to his fellow comrades.
But his demons are shrieking their victory as he abandons his hope on this snowy precipice.
He turns his head away from the handsome stallion and striking tigress, “I apologize, my good man. Duty calls.” And, slowly, he begins his trek to the Edge through the world as frozen as the blood in his veins.
The mammoth nearly snorts in disconcertion at the power and strength this remnant from his past self commanded. It did not feel as retired and swept away as he had thought it had become since the fall of Dorobo. In fact, at just the merest hint at someone to crush, it had leapt to attention and started to consume his thoughts.
Worry bloomed in his chest, perhaps adding fuel to the fire of his daemons. His ears tilt further back as he wrestled internally— none of this was good. It was so not good that it was terrible, awful, horrible.
Gently, if suddenly, he withdraws his touch from the quicksilver beside him, "Does one ever find peace or anything even remotely close?” His touch is suddenly burning cold in the frigid Frostfall morning. His mind, swept along in his mild chaos, fumbles to find an answer to the stallion beside.
But the only answers are bleak and bitter, fashioned from a man who has lost too much and gained too little. A man who has destroyed many lives and lost the meaning of his own. So his eyes darken further, nearly black as the markings on his face. A frown creases his brow, “One can hope for peace. But I have not found it, yet.” His normally expressive voice is flat, dead. Usually he is one to bring some sort of hope to his fellow comrades.
But his demons are shrieking their victory as he abandons his hope on this snowy precipice.
He turns his head away from the handsome stallion and striking tigress, “I apologize, my good man. Duty calls.” And, slowly, he begins his trek to the Edge through the world as frozen as the blood in his veins.
@Ciceron
Please tag Tembovu.
