| Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 15.2 :: 3 HP: 62 | Buff: NOVICE |
| wanda |
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carnesîr
Through repetitive murmurs and the disarray and disorder of his mind, the Scholar's ears prick upward, for a frozen voice has interjected amidst his grief (and he thinks that the Basin's chill is sweeter to the taste). Ire and wrath flood from within masculine vocal chords, and he lifts his dome from where it has buried itself in the obsidian frame. Vision proves hazy and blurred, and yet as he blinks away the droplets of salty rain, dribbling sluggishly as they do down his cheeks, he notices it is the onyx and ivory stallion that he has offended with his presence. Animosity bites piquant into a still reeling conscious (this is not happening, this cannot be happening), and yet despite the death that the man threatens, the only thing the Scholar sees is a savior, he has to help her, he has to mend the raven's wing and the injuries and the blood has to stop now, it has to stop now.
He tries to stand, slow and wobbly, and yet knees threaten to give way into frigid sands, as graceful as a newborn babe (and there is a newborn babe right there, isn't there?) and as oblivious to the protests his legs screech as they sink further into the minuscule grains.
So he stares at the savior, blazing aureate to clash with dark Earth, and now a strained plea extends out to the savior (why does he not see that this man means but harm, why can he not pay attention to the sand-formed daggers that threaten to spear him, for most certainly he would crave the understanding of how the stallion managed to create these things, and yet he cannot focus), a tremor of words, and he has to do something..
"Aiya! An ngell nîn.." There is a stench of blood in his nostrils. It's too strong. Too strong, and he feels sick, and his stomach is trying to wallow itself around unto it's back, and the clouded expression in the young man's eyes says I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do.
The stallion must be a Angel, no? A guard upon her life, and he is not even sure if he believes in such things, but if it will cease the sanguine fluids from staining more sand he will, he will believe for her sake.
He remembers when the flower-maiden is born, eternal and blessed, and he does not remember so, much, damned blood.
"Can't die. Boe de nestad - I beg of you, restore her." How was the elvish lad meant to know that the Sultan had called upon his firebird to find Onni, that the Sultan could not save her with abilities gifted from the God's? How was he supposed to even know the Sultan had a firebird?
Quivering as that of a leaf in the force of a wind, he begins to plead yet more with the Angel - that is, until the still damp, slender and gangling babe pushes forth from under his alabaster and golden tipped wing.
For the second time that day, his heart palpitates, his breath stutters and he stares because there are stumpy wings, adorably awkward in the most wonderful way, and little stumps upon a ashen dome where horns shall sprout forth, there is a leonine tail that droops behind him and he stands.
Cerulean depths that seem to drag and pull, disparaging almost at the acts of the mature, and yet he can find nothing wrong with this babe.
"Oh."
Because he's his, he's everything he could have wished for and craved and wanted, and the parental struggle of protection and love and jubilance clashes with grief and agony and sorrow and it feels as if his insides may be being viciously ripped and torn apart at the force of the elements that clash inside his soul.
He's enraptured by this young boy.
"Perfection. Gi melin.. Yonya."
Tenderness expands from his lungs in lyrics and words, the gentlest of puffs of warm, hot air escapes his lungs as he lowers his head further down to the sands, gazing at the childe.
And he thinks, that maybe, this may be one of the most terrible and best days he has ever had, and he has a son, he has a son.
He knows that he has lost himself to the little one as soon as he saw those bright blue depths.
Because Carnesîr has one-hundred percent, fallen in love with those ugly and gorgeous wings, those stumpy little spots where horns shall grow forth, the whip-like, curling tail.
And somehow, he knows that he always will be.
— Aiya : A call for help or attention.
An ngell nîn : Please
Boe de nestad : Him or her needs healing
Literal: It is necessary to heal him or her
Gi melin : I love you
Yonya : My son/boy
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]
