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03-23-2017, 07:22 PM
The world seems to turn, spin around him as he lays post-battle, slumped against the cool caress of the earth. There he seeks shelter in the warmth of fond memory, a child again – pure and starry-eyed, cradled constantly by the loving presence of his Ma. Her touch, the familiar soft velvet of her nose, brings hot tingles to his spine and a vague grin slices visibly through his pain; ears wander nearer, begging for the smooth blanket of her voice, her song. Blood-shot eyes bury beneath the kindly embrace of her gaze and the trauma of the moments prior feels less…
In quick succession they arrive on scene though – a team of valiant first responders, stepping across a roiled battlefield beneath blissful blankets of ignorance, through the ashes of devastation; their tread seems rash upon the torn, red-splattered leaves and ploughed-through soil. Glistening black eyes trace each step from above, while grousing, sullen voices curse the intrusion – the interruption, and sharp beaks clack all the while impatiently, coveting the flesh beneath. The voice of each stranger fills the air, one after the other as they in turn, meet the grim scene with a different perspective; those words melt into one, touching the weary, wandering consciousness of the painted warrior, and coaxing him free.
Like a howl to the moon his spirit again raises, curling outwards and away from the warm, safe sanctuary of the dream – the soothing pulse of thinning hormone, shattered by the thunder of courage reignited. From beneath the heavy veil of exhaustion, Noah rises once more to challenge the arrival, their confidence amid turmoil, and he lashes forward with clicking teeth to stand.
Feathers flurry as his sullied, sore wings expand into the narrow glade (clumsy, they strike a low shrub, split seam on broken bramble), and stiff, heavy knees thrust forward, strain achingly, compelled to drag his weight off the ground. Ears tarry beneath the wild toss of flaxen sea, while turquoise eyes roll madly, incoherently between the faces in the gathering crowd – a rampant lunatic, driven mad by fear, agony and exhaustion. Pain rings through his forehand (shoulders, keel, the gore on show), and he stumbles pitifully in answer; he resists stubbornly the urgent tug of gravity and hesitates there momentarily across splayed legs. Jaws swing wide, a certain warning to any who gamble too near, he is vulnerable, weak – yet the small, incomprehensible bleat of the doe goads him on.
Through the haze of pooling, sloshing blood behind his eyes - the horrid blur of this reality, he spies her (the others are barely shades of life between), and without regard for bodies lingering, moving, trying, in the way, he lunges awkwardly around to the right and stagger-sprints forward. The fallen flank of the tiny creature quavers beneath frightened breath, but he dares not reach to touch this time – instead the stallion snarls outwardly with a snaking, writhing neck, aiming to turn at the same time, the massive left wing into an awning across her. Though he had little left to give - he would, for her. His promise did not cease with the death of that demon. Flashing eyes challenge each visitor foolishly – the nearer he observes is a queer version of himself, of his charge, but the reflection brings him no comfort. Not while his battered body boils to the brim.
His thoughts are clearing, his view too, and it becomes quickly apparent that another has joined (none brandish animosity, but he is on edge, understandably), and he pitches a loud snort through flared nostrils. His shock is a curse – could easily be the pairs undoing, yet his anger reels unhinged, and without the chains of experience to bind him back down, to comfort, sooth his frayed resolve, Noah is incontrollable. “Stay back” he tells them menacingly, lifting right feathers, the dock beneath tail, and his crest all the more. Though pain nags him and tiredness taunts him, he calls on all reserves to portray something better, bigger. “Or...” Ferocious glare diverts to the bloodied corpse nearby for a split-second, “…or you’ll end up like him.” Brazen words for a babe barely weaned from the tender care of his Ma.
In quick succession they arrive on scene though – a team of valiant first responders, stepping across a roiled battlefield beneath blissful blankets of ignorance, through the ashes of devastation; their tread seems rash upon the torn, red-splattered leaves and ploughed-through soil. Glistening black eyes trace each step from above, while grousing, sullen voices curse the intrusion – the interruption, and sharp beaks clack all the while impatiently, coveting the flesh beneath. The voice of each stranger fills the air, one after the other as they in turn, meet the grim scene with a different perspective; those words melt into one, touching the weary, wandering consciousness of the painted warrior, and coaxing him free.
Like a howl to the moon his spirit again raises, curling outwards and away from the warm, safe sanctuary of the dream – the soothing pulse of thinning hormone, shattered by the thunder of courage reignited. From beneath the heavy veil of exhaustion, Noah rises once more to challenge the arrival, their confidence amid turmoil, and he lashes forward with clicking teeth to stand.
Feathers flurry as his sullied, sore wings expand into the narrow glade (clumsy, they strike a low shrub, split seam on broken bramble), and stiff, heavy knees thrust forward, strain achingly, compelled to drag his weight off the ground. Ears tarry beneath the wild toss of flaxen sea, while turquoise eyes roll madly, incoherently between the faces in the gathering crowd – a rampant lunatic, driven mad by fear, agony and exhaustion. Pain rings through his forehand (shoulders, keel, the gore on show), and he stumbles pitifully in answer; he resists stubbornly the urgent tug of gravity and hesitates there momentarily across splayed legs. Jaws swing wide, a certain warning to any who gamble too near, he is vulnerable, weak – yet the small, incomprehensible bleat of the doe goads him on.
Through the haze of pooling, sloshing blood behind his eyes - the horrid blur of this reality, he spies her (the others are barely shades of life between), and without regard for bodies lingering, moving, trying, in the way, he lunges awkwardly around to the right and stagger-sprints forward. The fallen flank of the tiny creature quavers beneath frightened breath, but he dares not reach to touch this time – instead the stallion snarls outwardly with a snaking, writhing neck, aiming to turn at the same time, the massive left wing into an awning across her. Though he had little left to give - he would, for her. His promise did not cease with the death of that demon. Flashing eyes challenge each visitor foolishly – the nearer he observes is a queer version of himself, of his charge, but the reflection brings him no comfort. Not while his battered body boils to the brim.
His thoughts are clearing, his view too, and it becomes quickly apparent that another has joined (none brandish animosity, but he is on edge, understandably), and he pitches a loud snort through flared nostrils. His shock is a curse – could easily be the pairs undoing, yet his anger reels unhinged, and without the chains of experience to bind him back down, to comfort, sooth his frayed resolve, Noah is incontrollable. “Stay back” he tells them menacingly, lifting right feathers, the dock beneath tail, and his crest all the more. Though pain nags him and tiredness taunts him, he calls on all reserves to portray something better, bigger. “Or...” Ferocious glare diverts to the bloodied corpse nearby for a split-second, “…or you’ll end up like him.” Brazen words for a babe barely weaned from the tender care of his Ma.
