| Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 15.2 :: 3 HP: 62 | Buff: NOVICE |
| wanda |
12-04-2013, 09:04 AM
(This post was last modified: 12-04-2013, 09:06 AM by Carnesîr.)
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carnesîr
The journey from the Basin to the Throat is great, lengthy and outstretched, woodland and river's passing by along with grassland's and glades, and the chill of the Basin is left far behind leonine tail and cloven hoof. The bite of autumn burrows itself deep within his thin, lithe bones with each step, grass giving way into grains of cream sand and soft Earth, and with trepidation he paces to and fro at the borders of the endless landscape, the taste of his last visit acrid upon his tongue. Why should the Scholar concern himself with the matters of the Dragon's Throat, the childe growing deep within a obsidian woman's stomach? For it was clear that Shadow wished him away, to wither and rot for his crimes (but wasn't she guilty, too?), and yet the Scholar finds himself dancing along their borders time and time again, playing a dangerous game as to when the Throat's patience with his arrivals would fade and die, for tensions with the sand-dwellers have already been high, no?
He cannot deny the affection that brims within the contours of his mind at the idea of a babe, the lanky, tender frame of a young one to call his, and perhaps that is why he comes back and back again, despite the risks, the price he may pay upon his life at the disrespect of borders and homes, the thrum of pain inside his chest, and he can still remember the dusty print of a hoof upon his cheek, harsh violet depths and yet harsher words. It is no doubt that he has struggled to stay asleep at night, struggled to rest his mind since she has screamed her worries and anger and hatred upon him, since harsh realizations have clotted into innocent blood (but he is far from innocent, isn't he?), turned fresh milk into sour, acidic flavorings, filling his mind with anxieties and retaliation.
He does not try to cross the lands again, wavers at the invisible lines across sand, and begins to turn once more to make the long trek towards the Basin, when another scream meets his auditory compartments, a scream that sounds far too familiar and leaves far too much of a impression upon him. Fearful and terror-filled, pain brimming at it's edges, faint and distant, and panic spreads throughout lanky limbs, scalding him, burning him, even as his neck draws inward, nostrils flared, the alabaster whites of chocolate eyes glinting in the darkness.
The Scholar does not think twice, even as the sand trips him and he stumbles with all the grace of a newborn babe, breaking into that of a canter, then a gallop, obsidian hooves spraying forth dust and sand, gathering within his lungs and causing him to cough and hack, and yet forward he springs, adrenaline coursing within his deer-like frame.
But, oh, he takes so long, he should have went across the border to begin with, he should have searched for her, he should have, he should have.
He thinks he might just see her over a dune, along with a ivory and onyx, wings tipped golden Pegasus, a stallion, if his sensitive, sand-assaulted nostrils do not lie to him.
And is that a damp, silvery frame beneath one of the stallion's wings? His breath is caught in his lungs, joy and delight flooding his bones with relief.
It is then that sensitive, wide eyes catch unto sanguine sand, far more bloodied than it should have been, the cardinal bloom spreading far further than Carnesîr thought was supposed to be there, for shouldn't it have stopped by now? As if to further his doubts, he sees her move, and the shriek that fills the air is worse then the scream before.
"Shadow!" The cry is caught on the back of his throat as he races down the sandy dunes, almost slipping in his fear-filled rushing as he does so, and the sound comes out strangled, yet more fear inducing within his blood system.
Sand is sprayed up into the air as he skids to a stop next to her, giving little attention to the golden-eyed Sultan, for the only thought that fills his brain is Shadow, Shadow, Shadow, Shadow and her harsh words and rugid, strong frame, she should not be laying here in the sand, blood spilling out of her in torrents, she should be shouting at him, blaming him, screaming at him for his idiocy, not this, not this. A whimper escapes from his maw, soft and keening like a whine, weak.
"Shadow.."
And oh, now he can see her, see the odd way her wing lay limp across the sand, the morbid twist to how it has sprawled, the way bruises are dotted across her bodice, the way her knee has swollen so horribly, and she struggles and kicks, and perhaps it is a good thing he has come when he has, for pain blooms within his front pillar and shields the babe he has still not gotten a chance to see so clearly.
Despite all of this, as his front legs crumple beneath him and he drops down along side her, despite the one-shade that covers her frame, he still thinks she is one of the most gorgeous women he has ever come in contact with, ever had the pleasure of speaking with.
He wants to speak with her after this, too, even if it results in a kick to the face again. Bitterness washes through his mind once more, though this time it is not with the obsidian mare next to him, but himself, for wasn't she so angry with him? So quick to shout at him, and didn't he curse her? Didn't he hate her? But look, look at what has happened, what has occurred, and oh, Divines, it is all his fault. It's all his fault, his fault, his fault.
Salty liquids drip down from umber lashes, thin frame trembling, and he cries her name, again and again and again. His native tongue flows from his lungs now, far too overwhelmed by emotions to speak in such a cumbersome language as this.
"Ánin apsenë.. Nai! Ánin apsenë.."
A sooty dome meets bloodied flesh, and he burries his maw in her neck, the foreign phrases repeated, over, and over, and over.
Forgive me, the tongue whispers, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me..
He does not quite deserve forgiveness.
And the guilt of it burns through him, acidic in feeling, and grief and sorrow threaten to consume him, bury him beneath the sands themselves.
The Scholar has always craved knowledge, craved it with a passion akin to nothing else, desired it above all else, wished to know it, even if that wisdom brought a bad taste to his mouth and a bittersweet realization.
Carnesîr finds, that here, alongside a dying woman and a young babe, a Sultan has yet to know of, that this is the one knowledge he does not crave, does not want.
What a pitiful thing to think.
— Ánin apsenë : Forgive me
Nai! : Interjection expressing sadness, pain, and grief
Posting before Onni with Chan's permission.
Credits
The sun is going down
You'll be alright, No one can hurt you now
Come morning light, you and I'll be
Safe & Sound
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[O] Water's sweet but blood is Thicker [Birth]
