Golden

the Rift

Golden

Ascended Helovian

Midas the Gallant Posts: 1,164

Deceased

Stallion :: Pegasus :: 14.3 hh :: Immortal :: Soul is 7 (FF) Buff: HUNTER

Fina :: Common Zephyr :: Phoenix & Wakiya & Neve :: Common Zephyr :: Arctic Angel

01-12-2014, 06:20 PM (This post was last modified: 01-12-2014, 06:21 PM by Midas.)

Prayers were sent, and no response came—no washing of calm. I felt a solid emptiness that writhed my heart and squeezed the cavity around my chest. The sound of hooves clicking against stone and a following snort captured attention and made head jerk round to see who approached. Eyes flashed wide, gleaming like hard diamonds of a rare color. They softened nearly instantly when they fell on the soft alabaster mare named Rasta, her body aglow with harmless flames. Dancing in the gloomy light of an overcast evening sky, the tight lines on my face relaxed ever so slightly when she drew close.

The beginnings of a smile started to turn one corner up, though the other fell back until both remained lined again. Sometimes, I couldn’t fake emotions. Her face comes toward my shoulder, I relax both wings and sigh when she her brush of breath leaves a warm trail that sends a shiver down my back. Neck twists and carries my unadorned crown to gently brush a soft touch across her lowered forehead should she allow it.

Rasta didn’t run from me this time, her eyes trail up-–alive and questioning; a smile that would better suit as a grimace forms in place of a uneasy frown, “Apologizes dear sister for frightening ye earlier, it wasn’t my intent,” tone is revered and humble. I gaze into those lifelite eyes, curious for their origin. What deal had she made to earn this, and at what price? She had ran off shortly before we could even share words before, “Ye can see…” I mused quietly, mostly to myself because there was little need for voicing the obvious very loud, “What has cured your blindness?”

Another mare appeared from the darkness, this one a stranger and emerging from the volcanic heart as a wanderer. The stranger notices me and comes forward, her bright wings and patched frame catch the firelight, she comes with a question upon her lips and eyes shining with fear and genuine concern; likely for the coming tide that has seemed to overcome most of Helovia. Her question snaps my state of grief free, I slide a professional mask into place, “I am well enough, and say thankee for your concern.” I pause then add with a half-smile that feels like a bitter jest considering the circumstance, “Welcome to the sanctuary sister, I am Midas—this is Rasta.” I motion toward the pale golden girl who stood by. “Ye would do well to call this place home, there is and illness rampaging the country—our herd has taken refuge here.”