Fever Dreaming

The stallion-playing-mare jeered at him with eyes narrowed into patronizing slits, as though he were the magnifying glass and Vroskar were the tinder. His words did a fine job at fanning the embers of his aggravation. A familiar heat licked at his innards—a pitiful, imaginary flame, not nearly warm enough to fend off the feverish cold that raked his body nor dry the wetness from his coat. Even more maddening was the invention of a poorly mimed smile spread upon his mug and Vroskar's ears sewed themselves ever tighter to his nape.

After a silence that stretched for a few brave moments, what Vroskar already knew was confirmed. Yeah it's the Rift—welcome to hell. It was all very fitting that Vroskar's own personal hell would be one of rain and no fire (no warmth at all in fact). He could appreciate the irony.

He supposed he deserved this. Still, he always hoped hell would have better company.

"Does it always rain this much in hell?" he scoffed. Sarcasm needled the deadpan rasp of his voice, melancholic syllables rattling from his tongue with the musical pitch of the sky-children. The peaks of Jardis loomed impossibly far away now, and though he had long been doomed never to return, he feared this was the final death.

Heartache bore deep and bittersweet in his chest with the sudden vengeance of an angry wasp and he did his best to dig out the stinger, if only to survive this exchange with a shred of pride intact.

@Valkyrie