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06-08-2016, 07:21 PM
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R E I N He bursted out of the herdland, past the decrepit Sentinels (they look so cold now, they look like death, I don't want anymore death) and the disapproving scowls of the mountains. He casted a backward glance at the mountains, the tree line, the stars beginning to glitter above him, and he shivered. 'Farther,' he thought. He had to go farther, farther away from the mountains and the snow and the sky. He loved his home dearly and endlessly, but his nightmares were always set there. The one that had set him off that evening was of his mother, of her cream and gold fur, onyx dipped hair, and glittering chains. In his life, he had always known her as warmth and love and comfort, gazing back at him with only affection in her sapphire gaze and exotically lined face. In his dream, however, she was cold, and her gaze was quiet, blank, dead. Her chains didn't glitter, her fur cream and gold fur was drenched in blood, her hair ripped and tattered. He stood by her corpse, his bloody sword dripping softly into the pool of blood around them. He felt nothing in the dream as he looked upon the product of his magic and the Basin crumbled around them. Of course, when he awoke he felt everything. Regret, nausea, love, anger (at himself), most potently though, he felt shame. His sword of blood brought no smiles made no man happy. Why had he been cursed with it? He wanted magic when he found it was a thing, but he didn't want it like this. He simply didn't understand the origin of his magic; didn't know who to blame for his cursed blood. His mother? No, she had her fireworks, nothing more, he was certain of that. His father? This he considered for a moment. Rein hadn't seen the Clovenheart in a while, and in truth, he didn't know much of the man's magical abilities, or if he had any. He hesitated to blame his father for his cursed blood, but could there be any other answer? son of a thief and a priest |
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