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09-04-2015, 03:51 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
“Mauja!”
No, no, NO. The Doctor is OUT.
“I’ll take you up on that practice, now!”
I'm still out. I'm still out. I'M STILL—
In the moist morning air his sigh was just another facet of the fog, white smoke rising towards the first pale haze of the spring sun. It was a slow thing, the water droplets drawn upwards before dissipating—disappearing into thin air. When it wanted, where it wanted.
There was something vaguely hypnotic about it, something.. calming. Because it simply followed its own pace, its own rhythm. Didn't give a fuck about the time of day, wars, heartache, and whatever else plagued the mortals of this cursed realm.
Didn't care how empty your heart was. As long as you kept breathing the white smoke puffed out. Rose. Disappeared.
He had promised. A long time ago, he had promised the behemoth a spar to hone his skills and work the rust off his edges. It was the only thing that tore the white queen from his perch amidst the dew-laden spiderwebs. Honor.
Mauja had realized that he hated violence.
(But he swallowed that, now. He had a duty to do.)
Duty was the thing that ever drove him forward: what made him lock his heart up, and simply perform.
The familiar Edge terrain flashed by in its muted morning glory as he sought the source of the call, knowing him by the timber of his voice, and the weight of the promise laden in those words. Tembovu. Tembovu, calling in his blood oath. Mauja snorted, white legs moving at a rapid trot; pale sunlight caught the dew lingering at the tips of his hairs and making him shimmer (ghost).
Warmth came to tired muscles. Warmth rode with the quiet song in his blood; once, it had been full of war drums and battle hymns, but now it was a dirge.
He just didn't know yet what he was mourning.
"Tembovu," he greeted him; blue eyes full of false light, dark lips curving into a smile that denied how soulless he felt.
Not even the great Glazier seemed untroubled—it was just something in his eyes, the angles of his face, the edges of his movements, the cold muck splattered on his belly and legs (the dreary muck had browned the edges of Mauja's ample feathers, too). Just, something was off in their little clearing, and it certainly wasn't the rising sun, because the light between the sparse trees and the fog was just divine.
Mauja halted some ten paces away, black-rimmed ears flicking forward once before settling into neutrality; head raised, a sense of wariness clinging to him like uncomfortable clothes. Here he was again, at the scene of a peaceful battlefield, and his greatest challenge was not in attempting to defeat his (friend) but in conjuring enough emotion to give him a proper go at all.
"Come at me, then," he said crassly, because it seemed to be the only thing he could say.
[ @Tembovu || 0/3 ]
No, no, NO. The Doctor is OUT.
“I’ll take you up on that practice, now!”
I'm still out. I'm still out. I'M STILL—
In the moist morning air his sigh was just another facet of the fog, white smoke rising towards the first pale haze of the spring sun. It was a slow thing, the water droplets drawn upwards before dissipating—disappearing into thin air. When it wanted, where it wanted.
There was something vaguely hypnotic about it, something.. calming. Because it simply followed its own pace, its own rhythm. Didn't give a fuck about the time of day, wars, heartache, and whatever else plagued the mortals of this cursed realm.
Didn't care how empty your heart was. As long as you kept breathing the white smoke puffed out. Rose. Disappeared.
He had promised. A long time ago, he had promised the behemoth a spar to hone his skills and work the rust off his edges. It was the only thing that tore the white queen from his perch amidst the dew-laden spiderwebs. Honor.
Mauja had realized that he hated violence.
(But he swallowed that, now. He had a duty to do.)
Duty was the thing that ever drove him forward: what made him lock his heart up, and simply perform.
The familiar Edge terrain flashed by in its muted morning glory as he sought the source of the call, knowing him by the timber of his voice, and the weight of the promise laden in those words. Tembovu. Tembovu, calling in his blood oath. Mauja snorted, white legs moving at a rapid trot; pale sunlight caught the dew lingering at the tips of his hairs and making him shimmer (ghost).
Warmth came to tired muscles. Warmth rode with the quiet song in his blood; once, it had been full of war drums and battle hymns, but now it was a dirge.
He just didn't know yet what he was mourning.
"Tembovu," he greeted him; blue eyes full of false light, dark lips curving into a smile that denied how soulless he felt.
Not even the great Glazier seemed untroubled—it was just something in his eyes, the angles of his face, the edges of his movements, the cold muck splattered on his belly and legs (the dreary muck had browned the edges of Mauja's ample feathers, too). Just, something was off in their little clearing, and it certainly wasn't the rising sun, because the light between the sparse trees and the fog was just divine.
Mauja halted some ten paces away, black-rimmed ears flicking forward once before settling into neutrality; head raised, a sense of wariness clinging to him like uncomfortable clothes. Here he was again, at the scene of a peaceful battlefield, and his greatest challenge was not in attempting to defeat his (
"Come at me, then," he said crassly, because it seemed to be the only thing he could say.
[ @Tembovu || 0/3 ]
