| Aurora Basin Phantom atk: 7.5 | def: 10 | dam: 2.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16 hh :: 8 yrs HP: 60.0 | Buff: NOVICE |
| Glo |
Roland sleeps peacefully. Even if predators could be lurking about on the edges of the small meadow, he is lulled into a deep slumber with the feeling of the bright sun beating down upon his back, and the scent of wildflowers floating through the air. Now that daylight has returned, he has every intention of soaking up what heat he can find and bathing in the familiar cadence of spring; birdsong and tropical breezes, blades of grass whispering as they brush against each other, and the blissful absence of the winter and its jagged elements.
He is roused, finally, not by the sound of footfalls approaching, nor the tickling feather-weight of flowers tumbling across his back, but by a soft voice in his ear. He opened his eyes to the sun, still there to his relief, and stalks of waving green grass, but there was no one to be seen. Perhaps it had been a dream, and he was prepared to dismiss it as such until he caught the sound of movement behind him. Frowning, he turned his head to the side with a growing sense of concern, gaze sweeping across a pair of charcoal forelimbs and the curve of a pale wing. Whoever it was appeared to be waiting, presumably for him to wake. Startled, he tilted his chin up, ignoring the protests of his stiff neck, and blinked against the blinding light of the sun, which would take some getting used to after so long swaddled in darkness.
Confusion jolted through his mind as he focused on the face of the figure standing above him, looking down with a familiar, childish smile. The light was playing tricks upon his mind, surely, or perhaps he was dreaming. But the Gods were cruel to throw such a memory before his eyes, to embody the spirit of his old friend standing before him. The shock of the morning’s events, which were beginning to add to a considerable amount of distress, came crashing back to him like a massive wave as he blinked against the light of the sun. He stirred restlessly upon the ground, unfolding his bent forelegs across the mossy earth as he looked up dubiously and cursed his own merciless imagination.
His stare bored disbelievingly into a pair of pale green eyes, keen and youthful as ever, and he blinked vigorously. Roland didn’t appreciate old memories to be drawn up and waved before his eyes with little ceremony, for he had been revisiting better times often enough of his own accord. He still regretted having parted ways with his closest comrade, for now his existence seemed colourless and strange when the psychedelic stallion had managed to make things simpler for him, drew the Impersonator’s perspective down to a single point so that he didn’t look out at all the world spread before him and bow his head in defeat.
“Murdock,” he breathed at long last, knowing he hadn’t spoken the name in many a year. It was with the dark, winged stallion that Roland had spent endless days with during the Civil War, whom he had shared secrets and practiced his talents like one might hone the blade of a knife. The Impersonator had never known a brother in arms so dependable, and he doubted he ever would. Murdock led the expedition that rescued him from behind enemy lines when the noose had grown too tight around his neck, and he had been unwaveringly loyal, despite Roland’s tendencies to lead others astray in false friendships. Surely he couldn’t be standing before him now. Luck had rarely been on his side before.
Still doubting the image before him, Roland shook away the shroud of fatigue from his sluggish mind and dropped his gaze, curling his neck to brush his muzzle against an itching shoulder. Belatedly, he realized that he was covered in a blanket of flowers, spread across his pale, sun dappled pelt like a cloak woven out of pastel colours. Their fragrance was thick in his nostrils as he stared in unbridled shock and then turned back to look at the Pegasus standing over him. “It really is you.” For no one else, nor any conjuring of the mind could create a facsimile so true to the character of his old comrade and his childish ways.
He was almost reluctant to move, for that would shake off the blanket of pale pink petals strewn across his golden coat, but he wouldn’t stand for being gazed down upon in such a manner and was beginning to feel foolish in all his nostalgic awe. Still reeling in shock, he folded his limbs beneath his body and pushed himself off the soft ground, petals tangling in his hair as they tumbled from his back, some sinking into the deep grass. “I don’t believe it.” He looked the black stallion up and down as a smile spread across his features, watching the sun reflect against the white of his comrade’s feathers. Questions bubbled up in his mind, but he held them back with a disbelieving laugh.
Both the sun and an old friend had been returned to him today, and he could only receive it with the belief that it was a gift from the Gods who had returned, an apology of sorts that he would accept all too enthusiastically, for he had been given the chance to forget his sadness in favour a euphoria so powerful, so overwhelming, that he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. But what could he say? It has been so long, too long- and though that bond of friendship seems to have held fast between them, they are as strange to each other now as they had been on the day they first met, and both surely have stories to tell.
Looking back on his fighting years, Roland still had many vivid memories of both the impoverished lifestyle he indulged in, and the foolish antics of his brother in arms. Murdock’s opinions had been drawn out in colourful crayon, insightful in an endearingly juvenile way, brimming with humour and optimism. Even in the dark days of war he was able to bring a smile to Roland’s lips, or make him laugh until he couldn’t breathe despite the aching muscles that had burned with every movement. They had both been full of life and zeal on the battlefield, eyes bright with vitality and hope an inextinguishable flame burning in their hearts. Roland had still been drunk on the feeling of rebellion that had come with leaving his family and had jumped headfirst into the danger without a second thought. He breathed lies like air and spun intricate stories with threads of gold, sinking behind enemy lines without a glance back because he thought he was invincible.
Only once his legitimacy was at risk did he allow himself to be drawn out of the danger by Murdock and his legion and set to coaxing the truth from traitors like it was more than second nature. He was a natural born shark, making his enemies bleed words instead of blood, and to this day Roland liked to think of himself as one of the best conmen they had. These days he had little opportunities to put his talents to use, and instead sat stagnantly in the Basin while ice froze him in his place. But the real question had nothing to do with his own monotonous history. “What are you doing here?” He asked, shaking a flower from his forelock. “Where have you been?”
Push your luck if it makes you a promise
that turns con men honest.
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Image Credit
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