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Lonely. What was it to be lonely? The Arborun thinks, as he drags himself steadily through the territory that has since become his ‘home’, that it is to be content. To be in solitude is to be free from obligation- obligation for social or political interaction. Perhaps it was his lonely nature that has put him in this place- a veteran of the invasion, not quite a celebrated one, perhaps even a disgrace, failure, and yet still somehow within the ranks of the Grey. He finds himself comforted by the soft flakes of his own magic as they swirl from the soft hum that summons his magic. His concentration is complete and all encompassing; it is the faint hymn of his past that soothes his nerves and eases his temper so that he might better understand the storm. As he plods through the wood, the level of his frustration falls with his snow. The flakes leave a trail in his wake, dotting the foothills earth, and sticking in some places where Orangemoon has turned the earth cold. His coat, thin as ever, has begun to lose its color and fade once more to a dirty white. In contrast, the red about his hocks and the sanguine flecks in his eyes seem deep and rich. There is something sickening about the blood red accents on the stallion- something dangerously powerful about his tired, yet confident stride. He is jaded. As he walks through a typical morning in his new homeland- his homeland which seems no more like home than any other place he’s ever set down a hoof- he feels no sense of pride or loyalty. He supposes that is why he joined the Grey in the end: it is not just their neutrality towards others that appeals to him, but their apathy towards each other. He does not view them as a family; even if they are one, he does not consider himself a part of it. He is a mercenary and nothing more. He is a beast long for the battle and that brief, thrilling moment between life and death. He may wander to the waterfall’s foot and explore the nuances of this land, but it is not his home, just as the water is not his crutch. He lowers his head and parts quickly aging lips to drink, but feels nothing but cold rush through him. This is his nourishment: the water and the sun. But each throbbing of the throat, each inhalation, brings him no comfort. He longs instead for cold, quiet death. He wishes to be alone. But it is so simple to wish. He takes careful steps and submerges his aching cannons in the cold, rushing stream. Slits in the skin are filled with an icy cold and Birch is reminded of his time in the Steppe. Snow falls and hits the surface of the water, melting into its stream and becoming a part of it. He becomes faintly aware of the poetic, cyclical, and natural way of it all. He finds it predictable; he finds it trite. He sees reflections of a stranger in the water and lifts his head, his eyes, to see the image before him outside of the broken ripples of the stream. He is no longer alone; the snow falling gently about him dissipates along with his gentle tune and the comfort he finds in solitude. He is neither lonely nor remorseful; he does not wish that he might have done more in the invasion. It is all very charming, this chance meeting by the riverbank; he wants nothing to do with it. Rather rudely and quite on purpose, he looks the unknown mare directly in the eyes and doesn’t say a word. |
the Rift
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[OPEN] The Art of Introduction
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| Messages In This Thread |
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The Art of Introduction - by Circe - 03-13-2013, 08:23 PM
RE: The Art of Introduction [Apollo/Open] - by Birch - 04-03-2013, 10:37 PM
RE: The Art of Introduction [Apollo/Open] - by Circe - 04-05-2013, 02:18 PM
RE: The Art of Introduction - by Birch - 04-11-2013, 09:02 AM
RE: The Art of Introduction - by Circe - 05-04-2013, 12:29 PM
RE: The Art of Introduction - by Birch - 05-16-2013, 02:53 PM
RE: The Art of Introduction - by Circe - 06-02-2013, 11:25 PM
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