Small dusty nostrils exhaled into the sand, the tiny speckles of gold and red catch scattered to the winds while the heavier grains merely nudged in a different direction. He doesn't know exactly how long he's been laid in front of the rocky crevice which he often dozes, a little ways away is the oasis and the richer grasses of birdsong, but he can't bring himself to care. The colt can hear the sounds of foals playing, young and older than he, probably by the sides of his mothers and his gut bubbles with jealousy. He should be there playing with his mother, and yet here he is, a pitiful heap of legs and downy wings, sulking in the shade.


Alone, bitter and failing at hiding it, and the failure is a bitter pill to swallow.

He's supposed to be strong, isn't he? His pa is strong, and he likes to think his mother is too, where ever she is in the throat or beyond it's beachy borders. He's killed a wolf! for God sake! He has dragon magic bubbling in his heart and in his veins! He is strong, yet here he is, laying between the sandy grasses and sunbleached rocks like some stray left out in the bitter elements. No pa, no ma and all the hunger and emotions to go along with it. Astarot has his mother, and bitterness turns to momentary jealousy, a grumbled snort sends another wave of dust into the air and he pulled his gangly legs to him to make himself more comfortable. The idea that he was jealous, displaying weak emotions made him feel all the more terrible and annoyed with himself, he could recite the words in his mind like a chant to the God of the Sun by now. Strength. Honour. Power. There could be no weaknesses, even when your bones were brittle with youth and eyes bright with innocence, so why was he here? Sulking with round eyes and a tight chest.

Tyrath knew he could easily just get up and wiggle away, if he really wanted to. Go and try and find something on the mainland to take his mind off of it — or he could practice his magic some more, but even today the allure of changing into a Gold Dragon can't entertain the skull boy today. Part of him wanted to sulk, part of him wanted to be angry and sad, bitter and jealous that he was alone. Once again with only himself for company, just him and the birds and all the negativity a boy could fester within himself. 


"Talk."

Life is not a song, sweetling.
Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow.

Tyrath