| Aurora Basin Phantom atk: 7.5 | def: 10 | dam: 2.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16 hh :: 8 yrs HP: 60.0 | Buff: NOVICE |
| Glo |
11-07-2016, 07:22 PM
(This post was last modified: 11-07-2016, 07:24 PM by Roland.)
To say he had not thought of Helovia often after his hasty departure would be to accuse Roland of heartlessness, and though he was, upon occasion, capable of acts of cruelty, it would be foolish to think the land he once called home had scarce stepped into his thoughts. There was once a time when it had interrupted his musings often.
For many months he had been pained by regret, haunted by memories. The guilt of a hasty departure and problems left unresolved would eat away into sleepless nights and early mornings that dawned with frustration and resentment, more than optimism and determination. But with the first whisper of magic under his skin seasons ago, his mind had turned away from the home he had known for so many years, to old conflicts and new opportunities. They seemed of such little consequence now that they had been put behind him, but in the moment they had been Roland's sole focus, the possibilities within his reach endless. He had stolen away like a shadow, away from home, from his companions, from his life.
Many months had passed, and the thoughts had been all but driven from his mind entirely. There was no use in dwelling over past mistakes- of which Roland had made many- and after he had satisfied his wanderlust and ambition, all that was left was the world sprawling out before him. He no longer knew what to do with himself, displaced, without guidance or mission. So he had done what he had proved to be best at, and wandered.
As a child it had become clear that he would never possess a gift for navigation. Though, direction had never held much importance for the wayward stallion. He had rarely travelled with an objective in mind, instead letting the landscape guide his feet and take him where it would, a leaf riding the rush of a current down a swiftly flowing stream. It was the method that had served him for many years, and the satisfaction he found in allowing himself to go wherever he chose, with spontaneity, had led him into more than one interesting situation.
It was the same ignorance that led him into a once familiar valley without so much as a whisper of suspicion. Roland picked his way carefully down the switchback path into the cupped palms of the Threshold as if it were his first time traversing it, wearied gaze passing through the trees as if they held no significance, instilled no spark of recognition within his tired mind.
It was an early winter morning, the sun's warmth not yet having reached the shadowed trough of the valley, and Roland's breath misted before his face with every exhalation. His eyes dropped down to watch the movement of his feet, avoiding the patches of slick ice that lay in wait across the trail that had been carved by many wayfaring hooves.
His return to Helovia did not play out like his first entrance, dressed in gleaming golds and coppers, fearing what could be following at his heels. Instead he came under a mantle of charcoal black, waves of obsidian hair tumbling down his neck and brushing against his hocks. He had not shown his true face for many months, having instead adopted a veneer of conjured magic, and was suited in the towering frame of a stocky draft horse, twin golden horns rising from his crown. He could never shake the urge to be ostentatious, even in his attempts to be covert. It made for an intimidating sight as he dipped beneath the low hanging boughs of pine trees and sent rocks clattering through the underbrush. His limbs ached from a night of travel, and he would have stopped to rest if not for the fact that his throat was dry and parched, stinging from breathing the cool air.
Roland let out a sigh, shaking his forelock from his eyes and coming to a gradual halt in the thick of the trees. It was quiet, without bird song, but comforting in a strange sort of way. The snow muted the sounds around him, the forest seeming to close in on all sides, not in a threatening way, but bringing with it a sense of solace, as if enveloping him in its embrace; the twigs that tangled with his tail and the fronds that brushed against his withers were not clawed hands poised to strike but gentle fingers, welcoming, soothing, with their touch.
He stooped, grabbing a mouthful of snow gingerly, and swallowed it before the cold could bite into his teeth. It was of little help, but with luck it would slake his thirst until he could find a source of open water.
(Soo rusty. Roland is disguised as a black Friesian with two golden horns!)
@Lena
Push your luck if it makes you a promise
that turns con men honest.
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