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02-23-2013, 01:13 AM
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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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Every wingbeat brings him closer to her. He has cursed himself endlessly since he last allowed her to leave his presence, his mind overwhelmed with worry. She is so easily afraid, so easily injured, so easily killed... no, he will not allow himself to think such thoughts. If you ask him why he holds such fears, he will be unable to tell you a reason behind the uneasy feeling settling in his chest, but he will be able to tell you that it is there. It had haunted him morning, noon, and night, until finally his bonded had pulled a piece of his mane, chirruped in was sounded like a vaguely irritable tone, and sent forth a flow of intense, complicated emotions that he knew were his own reflected back at him. And her image. It was a much different view than the one he saw, for as he towered over Resplendence, Zarina was considerably smaller, but it was her nonetheless. After allowing a bit of guilt and the slightest of apologies trickle through the bond, he had set off to the Foothills, where he hoped to find her. Now he soars high above the land, eyeing the gathering clouds with dismay. He has only recently begun to take to the skies again, now that he trusts Zarina to know to hold on tight. Every time she feels his worry for her safety, she makes a sound that sounds remarkably like a snort and he feels her scoff through the bond. She will not fall, he knows that now, not wound in his banner as she is. She has taken to brushing her tiny paws through the strands, separating, untangling. It is usually a relaxing process, but as thunder booms through the air around them, he feels her quivering mass bundled in a pile of mane. She is afraid, and he is uncomfortable; he drops, not the powerful fall of a fighter, but the soft glide of a stallion searching for his mare. Though he knows of the invasion, he also knew not to worry for Resplendence. She is no fighter, not when she barely knows any of the faces of those with whom she lives. She will not stay to face their demise - will she? He feels that he knows her better than that, but what if they are surprised? What if the attack comes before she can escape? Should something happen to her, he will never forgive himself. He knows it, and even his young marmoset knows it. His hooves touch the ground as the first of the rain begins to fall, the ground still hard beneath his hooves. It will turn to mud quickly enough, of course, but for now, his ivory pelt, accented with gold, will remain unmarred. He is late to the gathering, and no doubt unwelcome, as he holds no alliance with any of the herds. He doesn't care. His violet orbs scan the crowd, and he knows that he could simply leap into flight and run if he is unwanted. Not that he'll leave her behind. Finally, the lacing across her back draws his eye to her small form, and he realizes as he approaches quietly that she is speaking. He raises an eyebrow and says nothing as she argues for peace. She may seek a way out of a fight, but such is the way of women. The deposed prince knows better. He knows that it is better to fight and die than to live with the hooves of oppression on your neck. The thought makes him think of home, thoughts that he abruptly pushes away. She finishes speaking, and he nickers softly, drawing his wings tightly against his bodice. He doesn't think she's used to them quite yet, and though he longs to drape one protectively around her, he resist. Still, he does reach out to brush her shoulder gently, a peculiar, almost adoring light in his orbs. His eyes roam over her quickly, and he is satisfied when he sees no injuries. With a nod of his head, he turns to address the apparent leader. "Good sir," he begins, "I know that you do not know me, nor I you, and perhaps many would say that I have no place in the fight to come. But I will protect those I care about," he glances at Resplendence, "and those that she would call family. My skills are yours, should you wish it." He finishes with a respectful bow of his head, though it pains him to do so. He is not used to being a follower. He would have been king, once. But for her, he will toss aside his crown. |
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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!
