The wind carries a message.

Dawn is attracted by the scent that bleeds from its source. For which purpose he cannot quite place. It is not the primal urge to hunt what pokes and prods the herdland; rather, the restless need to define what connects him to the Edge. Too many days have blended all together, filling themselves with the whimsy of a repressed imagination. The mild flame that has guarded his heart grows and flares too brightly, consuming his nights with faces and voices he should remember. Extracting misplaced hopes and assigning them to fears.

This message is a distraction that forces him to weave in and out from the mists. The cool air tightening his flesh like taught leather, where the moisture has since clung and gathered. It makes his blood churn as his limbs cut through the air, fueling the heat that blooms underneath his flesh. It makes him feel mortal, alive as he nears the commotion. Met with a cacophony of voices that twirl before him, revealing the sources of the prevailing stench that seeps and twists among the trees.

Unicorns.

Just as the glow hits his body, opposite of where the equine stands, he can see their horns as clearly as ever. The mare reminds him of the nobles, who holds herself in regal debauchery, greeting the equine with her cool and shielded gaze. But to the equine’s opposite side there lies the smoldering prisoner, his gaze beaming into an endless night. Like the rough, sculpted statues that lined the monasteries he sits coiled. It is the demand that lingers in the air, for which Dawn has caught wind and now stands at a distance from the fire. He has made all of these observations before settling on the moonlit mare and the creature poised upon her shoulder. The message that had sent him here does not bleed from her; it is his growing assumption that she is one of the Edge. A stranger, but a friend among enemies.

He cannot be certain if his presence is required, or if it should trouble the mare further. But from where he stands he cannot see any others that have dissolved from the mists. It is a quiet communication then that lends itself into his gaze. It is steady, and it is calm. Given any command, he would follow her.

The connection breaks away to focus on the unicorn mare. Dawn’s senses have already heightened, but they anticipate the sounds of hooves from the stallion regardless. The statues never moved in the monasteries, they disappointed him when all they could do was grimace and snarl for eternity; but this one, this one would move with a force revered by the statues.

DAWN
stallion of world's edge
I Could Live On Hope quote