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05-24-2016, 09:23 AM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
The smell of blood drew them.
Wild things lurked in the Edge forest—wild things lurked in all of Helovia—and the unfortunate demise of small animals was not uncommon; but the owls were opportunistic. Bound together by a third soul they had one advantage over their still-wild kin: numbers. It had happened on more than one occasion that they had stolen the kill of some unfortunate predator, but given how easy it would be for the owls to live a lazy lifestyle as thieves it was a bit surprising how seldom they did it. Perhaps it was pride, or the love for the hunt, or some other reason no one exactly knew—but their keen senses picked up the smell of fresh blood, and for a lack of better things to do, they wheeled away from Mauja to investigate the source.
Sunlight glittered along the metallic barring on Irma's back; it struck deep navy glints and it was with a twinge of sadness that Mauja watched it. Sometimes, it seemed like the owls cared more for each other than they did for him—he was the glue holding them together, but they were two of a kind, made from the same stuff down to their hollow bones. They loved—deeply, fiercely, two pulsating wells of warmth in the frigid darkness.
But he could not fly with them. He could not hunt with them. He could not perch up in the trees, sleeping the days away; he couldn't swoop in on near-silent wings and grasp the fragile, warm body of a mouse in a well-padded, taloned foot.
He was a horse. They were owls. They would have had nothing to do with one another if not for whatever magic it was which brought their souls together.
His blue eyes fell from the sunny sky to the snow-laden shadows, and with a decidedly unhappy look upon his face he sidled in under some trees. It wasn't that the rays were warm—they weren't, they were still cold with winter's lingering bite. But it felt like he was watched, as if the sun-beams chased along the muscles of his neck to his face, and bored deep into his pale eyes, straight to the core of his soul.
And he didn't want anyone hearing his spirit sigh the words, "perhaps they would've been better off without me".
The fact that he and Irma had been fated for one another—that someone, presumably Spark, had bent the fabric of time and space singularly to make sure they had found one another—was a small comfort. Diego, aside from a spirit blessing him, hadn't been fated in any way. He had been Irma's choice, and there they were, flying wing-to-wing, one made of ice, the other of fire.
He smoothed the sorrow from his face, and followed them.
What they found—and by extension, he—wasn't a fresh kill, though. It was a mare, one he didn't know, with blood dripping from her muzzle, staining the snow around them. A pile of glass shards lay nearby, tracks, both hers and that of her cervid, churning up the snow. Clearly, someone had been at work here, and cut herself on the still-sharp fragments. The owls, uninterested in Helovia's equine population, settled on the crystal staff jammed in between his back and the leather satchel. Mauja, on the other hand, couldn't just back out of the situation in the same way, so he stopped where he was and merely tilted his head at her.
[ @Raeden ]
Wild things lurked in the Edge forest—wild things lurked in all of Helovia—and the unfortunate demise of small animals was not uncommon; but the owls were opportunistic. Bound together by a third soul they had one advantage over their still-wild kin: numbers. It had happened on more than one occasion that they had stolen the kill of some unfortunate predator, but given how easy it would be for the owls to live a lazy lifestyle as thieves it was a bit surprising how seldom they did it. Perhaps it was pride, or the love for the hunt, or some other reason no one exactly knew—but their keen senses picked up the smell of fresh blood, and for a lack of better things to do, they wheeled away from Mauja to investigate the source.
Sunlight glittered along the metallic barring on Irma's back; it struck deep navy glints and it was with a twinge of sadness that Mauja watched it. Sometimes, it seemed like the owls cared more for each other than they did for him—he was the glue holding them together, but they were two of a kind, made from the same stuff down to their hollow bones. They loved—deeply, fiercely, two pulsating wells of warmth in the frigid darkness.
But he could not fly with them. He could not hunt with them. He could not perch up in the trees, sleeping the days away; he couldn't swoop in on near-silent wings and grasp the fragile, warm body of a mouse in a well-padded, taloned foot.
He was a horse. They were owls. They would have had nothing to do with one another if not for whatever magic it was which brought their souls together.
His blue eyes fell from the sunny sky to the snow-laden shadows, and with a decidedly unhappy look upon his face he sidled in under some trees. It wasn't that the rays were warm—they weren't, they were still cold with winter's lingering bite. But it felt like he was watched, as if the sun-beams chased along the muscles of his neck to his face, and bored deep into his pale eyes, straight to the core of his soul.
And he didn't want anyone hearing his spirit sigh the words, "perhaps they would've been better off without me".
The fact that he and Irma had been fated for one another—that someone, presumably Spark, had bent the fabric of time and space singularly to make sure they had found one another—was a small comfort. Diego, aside from a spirit blessing him, hadn't been fated in any way. He had been Irma's choice, and there they were, flying wing-to-wing, one made of ice, the other of fire.
He smoothed the sorrow from his face, and followed them.
What they found—and by extension, he—wasn't a fresh kill, though. It was a mare, one he didn't know, with blood dripping from her muzzle, staining the snow around them. A pile of glass shards lay nearby, tracks, both hers and that of her cervid, churning up the snow. Clearly, someone had been at work here, and cut herself on the still-sharp fragments. The owls, uninterested in Helovia's equine population, settled on the crystal staff jammed in between his back and the leather satchel. Mauja, on the other hand, couldn't just back out of the situation in the same way, so he stopped where he was and merely tilted his head at her.
[ @Raeden ]
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
