the Rift

[PRIVATE] Houston —

Virga Posts: 42
Absent Abyss
Colt :: Tribrid :: Growing :: yearling
this town is only gonna get worse

We have a problem.

Well, you have a problem. You are, after all, the one with the wings. Also the one rolling downhill in a tangle of limbs, regretting the very moment you decided to sneak off and teach yourself to fly (how hard could it be?). Dirt fills your mouth when at last your body's momentum slows. Like the most graceless and mundane of fallen angels, you slump into a nearly-upright position and stick out your tongue. It's covered in dirt and bits of dry grass because every other part of you is, as well.


With a groan, you straighten out your spindly legs and heave yourself upright. Bits of grass and the very last of summer's blossoms drip from your coat — but not enough of them — so you give yourself a good shake, too. The cloud of debris raining from your unusually black hide is only testament to your embarrassing inability to do this single absolutely natural thing, and the feathers sticking out at odd angles from your truncated wings are yet another. Smacking your lips, regretting forever that you know more about how the ground tastes than you ever wanted to, you turn one dark eye to the nearest appendage and stare. It does look... different from Vesper's, doesn't it? Shorter somehow, less impressive. But you, Virga — you are also less impressive than your sister in almost every way. You can't be certain, given this, if your failure at flight is a personal one or something else.

What the hell, who are you kidding? It's definitely a personal fault.

Spitting dirt, you give yourself another brief shake and begin climbing the hill once more. You're already thinking maybe you need a greater height, a more sheer drop, and you wonder about returning home to the World's Edge and throwing yourself off the cliffs, but then someone you know might see, and the very idea sends cold, sick shivers right into the pit of your stomach. Especially because.... well. You have visions of Vesper doing the same thing, the same exact thing, and gliding off like a star into the depths of the sky, and your stomach absolutely curls into a knot and freezes solid.

Goddamn you.

Maybe you could ask Mesec for help, if your sister wasn't always doing the same exact thing, only in a better and more personable way. Nope — you're on your own, here. The only thing driving you back up the sloped hill, back to the whims of gravity, is the frail hope of returning home to show off this new skill. Oh, to be impressive, to be first at anything in the world —

You climb with your head down, your thoughts swirling dangerously dark and low. You've forgotten already the meadow is a public place, and you probably ought to keep your wits about you just in case.

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Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
It’s the seemingly parent-less hybrid boy again.

We never learned his name, but Duir bounds across the rolling grasses towards him as if the child is our nephew or something. The metallic glint in his antlers and struck across his chocolate coat twinkles, my own golden bedazzled figure trotting along after him with much less eager steps.

The child has crested a hill, the uselessness of his wings much more evident now that he’s older, and their more than the delicate tufts of youth. Though I don’t know a lot about flying, I’ve seen enough wings to know that this boy barely has them. Aithniel’s wings at this age were graceful and large, though it was hard to know; she’d kept them tucked fast to her sides most of the time, and especially after the Haruspex had offered to remove them.

I eye his dark, feathery stumps as I approach, a frown drawing deep lines in my face, mostly because I know he could hurl himself from this hillock all day, without accomplishing much more than wearing an obvious trail into the grass.

"You’d think you were half goat," I say with a smile, testing the emotional temperature of the colt, somewhat expecting him to remain mute, as he had before, "always climbing up on top of things."

Duir offers a loud, bleating hello to the foal, prancing up to the crest of the hillock, where as I stand at low ground, looking up at the boy’s piteous struggle against physical reality. Having not quite figured out that leaping off the hill was not the game, the young deer peers off the edge of the incline for a soft place to land, himself.


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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).

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