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But when his heart was lifted up, and his mind hardened in pride...
Quilyan
...he was deposed from his kingly throne, and they took his glory from him.
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She stares at him with what he imagines is the same interest that he shows her, and some pompous, arrogant part of his mind that has yet to be laid to rest settles, purring contently in a corner of his memory. How many times did he preen himself as lovestruck maidens looked on, envious of any whom he showed favor and starstruck when he chose to bless them with his presence? It hadn't mattered then that they had been in love with his crown; no, he had reveled in their worshipful gazes and gushing dialogues, enjoyed the flirtatious games of the court. It had been so easy then to become lost in surreptitious glances, thrilled with the risk of escaping chaperones, all in the name of rebellion. It is not so easy now, as the quiet beauty of his princess crowds in the back of his mind, watching reproachfully as he flirts boldly with some unknown mare. She bows, though it is more feminine as she adds a lift of her leonine tail. Again, he is convinced that she comes from a line of royalty with which he is not familiar. Her name rolls heavily through the air and he soaks it in, enjoying the foreign syllables. "Cealestis," he repeats, pronouncing it carefully in an attempt to mimic the strange accent. He is quite pleased with the result. He offers a smile - kindly, but not particularly flirtatious, and it seems that he has dropped his initial game. The pretty mare returns her own lines that turn his attention to the room in which they stand; violet eyes scan their surroundings and are impressed by the strange glowing mushrooms, the gently bubbling creek winding from the quiet waterfall. There is a certain serenity to it that offers a release from the tension he has been feeling. He is surprised that he did not notice it before. She looks at him sidelong, and he is pleased to note that he is still able to play the game. It is at this point that Zarina scolds him, loudly, not bothering to keep to mind-speech. He winces, not having noticed her small form creep to his poll, where she proceeded to box his ears with tiny paws. Irritated chittering explodes from above, and he pins his auds, shaking his head; she tumbles down, grasping his mane to keep from falling to the floor, and growls softly. Her anger is amusing, if somewhat of a turn-off, and he assures her that his pretty words have no meaning. It is a silent plea, and she turns, flips her tail at his head, and wraps herself in the base of his mane once more. The steed hopes that his bonded's antics have gone unnoticed, though the little marmoset continues to glare at the fae. He sighs inwardly, and makes a face at his companion. "I must apologize for my bonded. I am afraid that she, too, is restless here." He pauses, looks to the sky, only to be met with stone. He grew up in a castle, though he does not imagine that the pair of them have this in common. He never found the stone to be so suffocating back then. "It would seem that one does not appreciate that which in taken for granted until it is no longer available," he offers, a soft murmur, an insight into a deeper soul than that which he commonly shows. One might call him a prankster, what with the mask he wears, but it is not on display now. "However, claustrophobia is a fitting look for you, m'lady." Ah, but it's back, the joking flirtation, the twinkle in the eye. An angry squeak sounds from his shoulder, and the marmoset reminds him that this is not a game. He is not at home, and he cannot act this way. Again, he shakes her off. She puffs her chest out, fuming, and waits for his next idiotic words. She is determined to be heard, and he is determined to ignore her. What a wonderful game they play. |
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Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
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Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
Want to plot with Quilyan? Visit his plot page here!
