| Aurora Basin Phantom atk: 7.5 | def: 10 | dam: 2.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16 hh :: 8 yrs HP: 60.0 | Buff: NOVICE |
| Glo |
09-22-2013, 05:47 PM
(This post was last modified: 09-22-2013, 05:47 PM by Roland.)
There was no originality to his life now. Roland lives much like he had as a child, growing up amongst other orphans and starting off every day with the same, lackluster fanfare, ending it with aching muscles and an exhausted mind as his foster family prepared him for a life of service under the Gods. Five years later he rises to darkness, spends his day under the light of the moon, and falls asleep to the sound of the wind, silver light shining against his eyelids. Nothing changes. Every day he gazes at the moon with bitter resentment, wishing that it could be replaced by the sun. He has spent the last few months as useless and immobile as a rock, sitting on the valley’s floor and gathering snow, battered and broken down by the heavy breeze.
And he has long since lost sense of the time; with no sunrise or sunset for reference, he sleeps when he is tired and wakes when he is no longer. It is a bleak existence, but one he feels he has etched himself into as water wears into stone, with little excitement to colour his existence. Besides the few times he had slipped from the valley’s boundaries for a breath of air that was not tainted with the vexatious scent of winter, and he had not gone far on either account, Roland remained and kept to himself for the most part. He could hardly remember the last time he had spoken to Arah, or checked in on Sia to see how she was growing accustomed to life in the snowy north. The lack of sunlight was taking its toll on him, slowly but surely, and more often than not he found himself wishing he was back on the beaches of the Endless Blue with sand sinking in between the clefts of his hooves and his mane damp with sea spray. He ends this night as he has every other, watching moon flowers dance around the mouth of his cave until the wind sings him off to sleep, and he expects to find nothing out of place the next morning.
Instead, he rises to a golden light pressing against his eyelids, persistent and urgent as if attempting to shake him awake with its brilliance. He is upon his feet and out of the shadows before he has a chance to register what is actually happening, squinting up at the dark sky until his blue gaze falls upon the mountains, haloed in a soft white light. He barely dares to hope as he watches, breath caught in his throat and heart hammering against his chest as the shadows bleed away from the valley and the darkness in the sky is chased away by the first dawn in what seems an age. Stars fade into the wash of pink light and the moon sinks upon the horizon, disappearing behind the sharp shoulders of mountains until the sunrise has chased the night from its throne. It is blinding, and he can hardly bare to look as soft rays of light split across the distant cliffs, slicing through the last vestiges of twilight and casting a warm glow across Roland’s skin.
Finally, the sun rises. It crests the hills in the distance and ever so slowly rises above the valley. Birdsong erupts in the trees and a long forgotten heat chases the chill from the air, beating down warm upon the stallion’s face. He stands stock still, legs trembling, and watches as the fiery light fades from the sky and is replaced with brilliant blue, reflecting against the lake as soft clouds begin to gather. Every breath is full of the scents of spring and life, and Roland drinks it all in, starved of daylight for over a season, though it feels like a lifetime.
When he can finally tear his eyes away from the brightening sky, he is gripped by a sudden urge to leave the valley and see the world as it had once been, green and fresh and crowding with life. The barren valley will not do, and he leaves it behind as the sun beats down against his bronze skin, setting the golden strands of his mane on fire. He cannot help the smile that spreads across his face as he walks, allowing his feet to decide his path as he leaves the mountain pass and sinks into a forest swept with long blades of grass. Moss grows across the faces of the trees and leaves are already beginning to bud on the barren branches, some already full with greenery.
Eventually he finds himself walking alongside the river that leads to the Thistle Meadow, though he skirts the open field and slips into a sunlit glade, circled by thick, aged trees and swimming with vibrant wildflowers. It seems surreal, as he stands at its edge and watches the grass dance with the fragrant breeze, a myriad of colours waving in the sunlight, rejoicing as light beats down upon their thin stems and fragile petals. Roland finally sinks into their midst and, unable to help himself, lies down and succumbs to a strange fatigue. Under cover of the endless night he had always been ill rested, afraid to sleep too deeply lest something happen while he was off his guard, chased by violent dreams and the worry that he would live out the rest of his days in complete darkness. His chin sinks to the soft ground as his eyelids lower, lilting birdsong providing a comforting lullaby in place of the haunting wind. The last thought that sweeps through his mind is that he never wants to return to the Basin again.
@[Murdock]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise
that turns con men honest.
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