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Island life.
In the tropics, sunlight drenches every long, lazy, day, and vibrant, vocal storms cool the muggy eves to follow; a million or more dazzling diamonds glisten across a clear, endless midnight sky. The reef tracing the slow curl of a soft, powdery white shoreline, nestles into shallow, warm seawater - the brightest, brilliant blue, and countless varieties of rainbow fish thrive amid the city of delicate coral castles.
Dugongs graze peacefully across lush meadows of waving seagrass, while hundred year old Loggerheads glide majestically overhead; sharks prowl by with jagged jaws agape, and dolphins skim through breaking surf, as it tumbles and turns gently about. The land is equally fertile: beyond the pure beach, palms reach with rippling green streamers to the sun, and coconuts ripen between them in the rich, golden light; a field of thick emerald spreads inland to the foot of a luscious rainforest, and beneath sheltering foliage scurry curious pouched critters (that sleep throughout the day).
Idyllic, bliss.
The Yirrganydji are a peaceable, bohemian people, who live in solitude, sprawled across the pristine sands of the island - they are at one with the natural world. Spiritual and artistic, they paint meaningful stories in picture upon their bi-coloured skin (stain, derived from their environment), about their beloved ocean sister, and her intrinsic relationship with the moon; to whom they raise their prayers. Seasonal celebrations (parties too, for birth, death, and love), take place beneath a picturesque, moonlit sky - when her reflection shines upon them and their watery kin most beautifully. Song and dance lead a full, vibrant night of festivity, after which decorated displays of class talent (mock battles and healing thereafter), take place.
Wild and cultural, beautiful and resilient.
But everything he knows and loves, feels a lifetime away…
He stands now, beneath a rising flurry of sleet and penetrating ‘cold’ like he has never before felt, while biting, cruel wind tempts a downhill spiral into the oblivion below; he is trembling, filled too with apprehension beyond the realm of his understanding and experience.
Sharp, doting eyes skip from the brazen, sloppy man they had followed impulsively through the wilds (the nag of regret stings), to the ethereal, dainty doe he promises (still) to guard; expressive ears skim backwards the second the other male trespasses too near, and should he not have been so attached to the welfare of the frail fairy perched between, the young stallion might have launched into the second bout of defensive toil in just as many weeks. As it stands however, he is all to aware that the brandishing of voices and ego alike, sit uncomfortably with her; the weight of distress upon that exquisitely dished, feminine face (any fear in her enchanting pink, blue eyes), is not something he strives for.
The temper simmers, but fails to bubble over.
It had been with only the very best of intentions, that he’d deviated from the tail of their line, and still it had been not particularly far (he would never have slipped beyond reach should she need him). The clattering of indignant hooves upon ice and a section of needless froth vocalising the ornery, horned prince’s disbelief braves the exploding elements to touch his waiting ears; they stir in his mind such frustration, that it takes every inch of willpower to ignore. Certainly he, a stranger (one who days before had wavered on the brink), deserves a little less condemnation for this unrelenting care he gives.
While the northern wind buffets his burly frame, testing both the strength and the resilience recovered during their detour south through the springs, fresh voices are born upon it; mud in mouth, the winged-one slips from her bubble (umbrella skewed sideways), skull lifting high and nostrils panting sharply beneath the stiff prick of both ears. Another body has appeared above them at the pinnacle, if indeed it existed - standing before his seething, dramatic backdrop. A tall, tapering horn juts meanly from the the face, and the new stranger powers forward, down to meet them with a fraction of the audaciousness (Noah thinks) of his chum. The young warrior is scarcely impressed: expressive ears fasten instantly backwards in answer and the smooth velvet end of his nose pinches warily.
Never before has he felt so ill-tempered…
Perhaps he is a fool - but it is not the first time that death has licked hungrily at the heals of the feathered pair. Although he looks worse for wear, the long scabs sealing his shoulder were firm, and the strains and twisted tendons suffered through the ordeal in the forest have long been pacified by calm magical waters. Noah is a flame to be reckoned with, a mounting wildfire - and fall to the brazen commands of a flustering, blustering prince, he will not (no matter the aid given, up until now). Beneath a flurry of long, water-logged flaxen, his neck snakes just short of the pushy male when he nears to bolster; teeth flash definitively, assertively, and sea-green eyes glare, illuminated by the thrill of savage lightening above. “Don’t you dare…” he growls (such irritation looks ugly upon him), bristling, growing, ballooning to the bellowing taste of testosterone.
His young, manful mentality is stressed, frayed, thinning through the middle - the fact decorates his demeanour like silvery stars in a midnight sky.
Yet another comes: how many linger still, concealed out passed the rise? Smarting eyes squint through unruly rain to behold him - them, when they’ve all at last arrived, and to his dismay they gather close like a plastic blanket of unfamiliarity; a fence, a prison! Apparently the rain, sheets lashing down against them, freezing, violent wind and the monstrous storm resonating, isn’t quite enough to deter the unlikely (although all three do have horns in one fashion or another), allies’ queer reunion, and before this never-ending journey can resume, the lattermost speaks - suggests that they are strays. In the seconds to follow, the dove slips her shackles and begins a lone ascent; she is fearful, confused, the soggy taste of it floods each nostril as she slides swiftly by.
The rain, now bucketing, makes the slope all the slipperier, and he (though filled to the brim with gallant intention), can feel his grip slipping, sliding; it forces him to slow as he attempts to press bulk between she and them. “Careful,” he calls to the doe, worried for her, tracing the scrabbling line of matchstick legs on their pilgrim journey to the (seemingly) top of the world. Dimpled, dripping chin wavers at height and broadening, bold eyes strain through the obscure veil before her should any glimpse of this ‘home’ be there for the taking.
Noah’s lungs project a harried sigh - the stranger presents the need to talk, and his tone bares the pitch of very unexpected casualness (so too grandness that the others, he thinks, lack), given the setting - he can make it out, just above the thunder. “You needn’t…” comes the low, tangible rumble of his thinning patience (that which had never been tested so critically before); he begins before any of the other men present have a chance… “It’s sorted,” he adds through gritted teeth, passing a monitoring glance by the dove; craning after her when he’s confident she is on her way. With prickling skin and narrowing eyes (not only for the sake of the weather), he climbs with them, behind.
“We are grateful for aid,” he responds for the both of them while shifting to view the prince, uncertain truly, whether their (collective) sudden existence in her life, is for the better or worse; would that demon have found her had he not been standing there so glaringly visible? With a light, decent dip of his skull (the concept of royalty is unknown), he settles into productive silence. Perhaps predictably, although the painted hadn’t picked Lord Ricky’s request for healing help, another appears through the thickening storm; though she is immediately unlike her male counterparts, and meets their gaggle with fresh warmth and compassion.
Despite the raucous, he can hear her voice, the feminine grace, the calm, the gentleness, and responds with something of a smile - he is tired, wants to arrive and find his dove safety. She tells them her name, Lena, and adds that she can help; without so much as a second glance, those weather blurred eyes seal and glorious tune fills his ears. It descends from their surface, passing through he funnel of his mind and lifting his thoughts, mood and heart for the better - so too does the scar upon him hum, it heats with all the radiance of the old summer sun. In the same fashion, worn ligaments seemed to untwist, and the cramps burning each calf doused altogether; so queer was it, that stunned eyes set upon her charming face. Soon her gaze returned, part hidden beneath strings of wetted mane, and he answered disbelievingly where he’d paused, “I feel… new…”
In the tropics, sunlight drenches every long, lazy, day, and vibrant, vocal storms cool the muggy eves to follow; a million or more dazzling diamonds glisten across a clear, endless midnight sky. The reef tracing the slow curl of a soft, powdery white shoreline, nestles into shallow, warm seawater - the brightest, brilliant blue, and countless varieties of rainbow fish thrive amid the city of delicate coral castles.
Dugongs graze peacefully across lush meadows of waving seagrass, while hundred year old Loggerheads glide majestically overhead; sharks prowl by with jagged jaws agape, and dolphins skim through breaking surf, as it tumbles and turns gently about. The land is equally fertile: beyond the pure beach, palms reach with rippling green streamers to the sun, and coconuts ripen between them in the rich, golden light; a field of thick emerald spreads inland to the foot of a luscious rainforest, and beneath sheltering foliage scurry curious pouched critters (that sleep throughout the day).
Idyllic, bliss.
The Yirrganydji are a peaceable, bohemian people, who live in solitude, sprawled across the pristine sands of the island - they are at one with the natural world. Spiritual and artistic, they paint meaningful stories in picture upon their bi-coloured skin (stain, derived from their environment), about their beloved ocean sister, and her intrinsic relationship with the moon; to whom they raise their prayers. Seasonal celebrations (parties too, for birth, death, and love), take place beneath a picturesque, moonlit sky - when her reflection shines upon them and their watery kin most beautifully. Song and dance lead a full, vibrant night of festivity, after which decorated displays of class talent (mock battles and healing thereafter), take place.
Wild and cultural, beautiful and resilient.
But everything he knows and loves, feels a lifetime away…
He stands now, beneath a rising flurry of sleet and penetrating ‘cold’ like he has never before felt, while biting, cruel wind tempts a downhill spiral into the oblivion below; he is trembling, filled too with apprehension beyond the realm of his understanding and experience.
Sharp, doting eyes skip from the brazen, sloppy man they had followed impulsively through the wilds (the nag of regret stings), to the ethereal, dainty doe he promises (still) to guard; expressive ears skim backwards the second the other male trespasses too near, and should he not have been so attached to the welfare of the frail fairy perched between, the young stallion might have launched into the second bout of defensive toil in just as many weeks. As it stands however, he is all to aware that the brandishing of voices and ego alike, sit uncomfortably with her; the weight of distress upon that exquisitely dished, feminine face (any fear in her enchanting pink, blue eyes), is not something he strives for.
The temper simmers, but fails to bubble over.
It had been with only the very best of intentions, that he’d deviated from the tail of their line, and still it had been not particularly far (he would never have slipped beyond reach should she need him). The clattering of indignant hooves upon ice and a section of needless froth vocalising the ornery, horned prince’s disbelief braves the exploding elements to touch his waiting ears; they stir in his mind such frustration, that it takes every inch of willpower to ignore. Certainly he, a stranger (one who days before had wavered on the brink), deserves a little less condemnation for this unrelenting care he gives.
While the northern wind buffets his burly frame, testing both the strength and the resilience recovered during their detour south through the springs, fresh voices are born upon it; mud in mouth, the winged-one slips from her bubble (umbrella skewed sideways), skull lifting high and nostrils panting sharply beneath the stiff prick of both ears. Another body has appeared above them at the pinnacle, if indeed it existed - standing before his seething, dramatic backdrop. A tall, tapering horn juts meanly from the the face, and the new stranger powers forward, down to meet them with a fraction of the audaciousness (Noah thinks) of his chum. The young warrior is scarcely impressed: expressive ears fasten instantly backwards in answer and the smooth velvet end of his nose pinches warily.
Never before has he felt so ill-tempered…
Perhaps he is a fool - but it is not the first time that death has licked hungrily at the heals of the feathered pair. Although he looks worse for wear, the long scabs sealing his shoulder were firm, and the strains and twisted tendons suffered through the ordeal in the forest have long been pacified by calm magical waters. Noah is a flame to be reckoned with, a mounting wildfire - and fall to the brazen commands of a flustering, blustering prince, he will not (no matter the aid given, up until now). Beneath a flurry of long, water-logged flaxen, his neck snakes just short of the pushy male when he nears to bolster; teeth flash definitively, assertively, and sea-green eyes glare, illuminated by the thrill of savage lightening above. “Don’t you dare…” he growls (such irritation looks ugly upon him), bristling, growing, ballooning to the bellowing taste of testosterone.
His young, manful mentality is stressed, frayed, thinning through the middle - the fact decorates his demeanour like silvery stars in a midnight sky.
Yet another comes: how many linger still, concealed out passed the rise? Smarting eyes squint through unruly rain to behold him - them, when they’ve all at last arrived, and to his dismay they gather close like a plastic blanket of unfamiliarity; a fence, a prison! Apparently the rain, sheets lashing down against them, freezing, violent wind and the monstrous storm resonating, isn’t quite enough to deter the unlikely (although all three do have horns in one fashion or another), allies’ queer reunion, and before this never-ending journey can resume, the lattermost speaks - suggests that they are strays. In the seconds to follow, the dove slips her shackles and begins a lone ascent; she is fearful, confused, the soggy taste of it floods each nostril as she slides swiftly by.
The rain, now bucketing, makes the slope all the slipperier, and he (though filled to the brim with gallant intention), can feel his grip slipping, sliding; it forces him to slow as he attempts to press bulk between she and them. “Careful,” he calls to the doe, worried for her, tracing the scrabbling line of matchstick legs on their pilgrim journey to the (seemingly) top of the world. Dimpled, dripping chin wavers at height and broadening, bold eyes strain through the obscure veil before her should any glimpse of this ‘home’ be there for the taking.
Noah’s lungs project a harried sigh - the stranger presents the need to talk, and his tone bares the pitch of very unexpected casualness (so too grandness that the others, he thinks, lack), given the setting - he can make it out, just above the thunder. “You needn’t…” comes the low, tangible rumble of his thinning patience (that which had never been tested so critically before); he begins before any of the other men present have a chance… “It’s sorted,” he adds through gritted teeth, passing a monitoring glance by the dove; craning after her when he’s confident she is on her way. With prickling skin and narrowing eyes (not only for the sake of the weather), he climbs with them, behind.
“We are grateful for aid,” he responds for the both of them while shifting to view the prince, uncertain truly, whether their (collective) sudden existence in her life, is for the better or worse; would that demon have found her had he not been standing there so glaringly visible? With a light, decent dip of his skull (the concept of royalty is unknown), he settles into productive silence. Perhaps predictably, although the painted hadn’t picked Lord Ricky’s request for healing help, another appears through the thickening storm; though she is immediately unlike her male counterparts, and meets their gaggle with fresh warmth and compassion.
Despite the raucous, he can hear her voice, the feminine grace, the calm, the gentleness, and responds with something of a smile - he is tired, wants to arrive and find his dove safety. She tells them her name, Lena, and adds that she can help; without so much as a second glance, those weather blurred eyes seal and glorious tune fills his ears. It descends from their surface, passing through he funnel of his mind and lifting his thoughts, mood and heart for the better - so too does the scar upon him hum, it heats with all the radiance of the old summer sun. In the same fashion, worn ligaments seemed to untwist, and the cramps burning each calf doused altogether; so queer was it, that stunned eyes set upon her charming face. Soon her gaze returned, part hidden beneath strings of wetted mane, and he answered disbelievingly where he’d paused, “I feel… new…”
@Roland
