There is something behind the throne

Quilyan

greater than the king himself.

If he had ever visited the Rotunda, he had forgotten (not, of course, that that was saying much, these days).

Zarina, riding in her usual place on his withers, scampered to his poll to survey the area that he was so focused on.  She fit easily between his pricked ears, barely taller than they were; as she looked around, she offered a soothing dissent:  --No, Quilyan.  I don't believe you have been here.--  He sighed, flicking an ear in thanks.  --It is quite lovely, though.--  The marmoset was correct, the prince noticed as he wandered aimlessly toward the dilapidated pavilion, his interest piqued by the unique architecture.  He had yet to see anything like this in Helovia, and though it was not nearly as intricate as the structures that he had grown used to back home, it was remarkable in both its location and its longevity.

The gazebo sat overlooking a small river whose edges were lined with ice.  There was something interesting about the contrast between the white of the frozen water and the darkness of the liquid that ran beneath, and he spent a moment soaking in the sight.  The sky overhead was cloudy and dull, indicating that it was likely to rain - or, more likely, snow, in these temperatures - soon, and he decided that the rotunda would be as good a place as any to pass some time.  Long, white drapes hung limply in each entry.  He was sure that it would be beautiful in the spring, as the flowers that no doubt lined the banks of the river came into full bloom and a gentle breeze wafted through the curtains, carrying birdsong on its back.  For now, though, it was mostly sad and lonely.

It was a fitting place for him.

As the stallion entered the structure, he noticed that multicolored hues danced on the floor; glancing up, he noticed for the first time that the ceiling was a mixture of stained glass and wrought iron.  Even more intrigued, he halted in the center of the room and stared up.  Zarina had retreated to her place at the base of his neck, curled into the warmth of the mane-nest that she had made there.  Anyone who were to wander along would find them like this:  his head tilted back, long mane streaming down his shoulders; his wings folded along his sides; his legs spread to support his precarious stance; and Zarina hidden from view.

Talk talk talk.

RayoDeSoleil | VenomXBaby | NewdyStock | BurtN | SimplyBackgrounds