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12-30-2016, 03:34 PM
Cera the Golden Prince Winter thaws slowly, with a stray intent that is both admirable and exasperating. The cold that chills his bones and makes his scars ache is not welcome, and he does not venture away from the Throat more than he does when winter descends upon it. It's too cold and empty without Ranjiri or Ryuu. Midas' and Gaucho's ghosts seem to haunt him ever more in the silence of the cold empty sands. Rightfully he could warm himself at the Diviner's fire. It's familiar to him, with how he tended it daily when Maren's title had once been his. But he knew as well that with that fire came introspection that he could not afford. Cera had not fallen apart after Gaucho's death, and he refused to. Gaucho deserved better, would not have wanted Cera's fortitude to crumble as it had so many times in the past. So he did not bother lingering on the thoughts that whispered and cajoled in the back of his mind. Dark, depressing ideals that he refused to entertain. Cera had lived his life in solitude long enough. He would not let it continue to bring him down. The heat of the Heart was all he sought. He could not bear to go any further from home, but his scars and limbs ached with an age he didn't possess. Warmth washed it away, until he relaxed quietly back into his bones and his skin. No longer filled with such discomfort. Even the despair of loss seemed lessened by the emanating heat. Cera wandered the edge of the Heart, unafraid of any stumble. His wings and the updraft of air would sustain him from any fall, and Ilaria was not there to complain about his recklessness. So he struck lightly against the rim of fire, magic probing restlessly at the deposits of metal that lay thick and beautiful within his reach. It felt like a fated day. Late because of holidays but HERE YOU GO PUMPKIN |
@Mathéo
