M E R C U T I O
He shouldn't be here. Somewhere deep in his gut Mercutio must have known that if he'd wanted to keep his life as it had been (as he thought it should be) then he should never have set out to find the stretch of shore that led to Dragon's Throat. And yet here he was, tall frame moving through the grassland that faded away before the coming of winter. The dry grasses were brittle and rustled as his iron-colored legs pushed them aside, as the salty wind that rolled off the sea buffeted them about so that they waved in rolling patterns. Above the sky was a bleak grey, threatening another orangemoon storm but not quite yet ready to break; Mercutio should have taken it as a warning, stormy weather ahead, and safety behind you. You're a selfish bastard, Mercutio, and now would be a wise time to break your promise.

But he had promised—promised Cera that he would come and see the Dragon's Throat, see him. As one who had determined long ago that looking deeper into himself would only bring about a wave of shame and self-loathing, Mercutio was determinedly not looking any deeper into that nagging little feeling that he wanted to keep that promise entirely too much. More than he'd wanted anything in a long time. He wanted to see Cera. He wanted to talk to him, to know more about him. He wanted to hear that laugh and see that honest smile that stretched all the way up to sparkling green eyes.

Alas, the big grullo stallion had quite a talent for lying to himself, for ignoring anything deeper than his own skin and so let him think that the compulsion to travel south was nothing but an idle whim. After all, it's not like he had anything better to do, and the weather was getting colder. As he left grass behind and found himself on a long stretch of wind-buffeted beach, Mercutio had put himself in an easy mood and summarily dismissed any trace of concern from his mind or manner. The grey skies helped, especially as they didn't loose any rain, but like blue skies made other's optimistic, the grey match his cynical humors. Honest skies. he thought. Now his amber eyes followed the clouds out and over the choppy sea to find the rise of the island in the distance. Cera had said something about a bridge, but Mercutio saw none, and so after a deep chuckled he lifted his head to give a bellow, hoping it would carry over the distance.


Yea, 'spite of show and shallow wit, and sentimental drool,
I know myself a hypocrite, a coward, and a fool.