Uwaritace
06-25-2018, 12:17 AM
(This post was last modified: 06-25-2018, 12:22 AM by Rift Presence.)
the Rift
A dreary, gloomy afternoon casts grey blue light upon the Riftan king as he shoulders through the skeletal, entwined cover of blackened alder. Sovereign, noble -- his heritage is the mortal embodiment of brawn and competency -- in short, kingsblood. He (like his sire) is the head, the pilot of a modest harem; four wives, three daughters and one young (vulnerable) babe who still had to cling and suckle into a bodice. As their pod slips quietly into a misty, fog riddled grove of deadened, slumbering timber, they wordlessly fan outward from single file into one of lazy, triangular formation.
His stride upon that barren, indifferent frost is brimming with confidence -- a long-standing marriage of vigor and pride. The heavy, encumberous crown upon his brow is proud to tag along -- and his thick neck doesn't slump beneath it. Hard, predatory eyes are turned upward...they pivot constantly, while his vibrant blue nostrils swell open to sample the crisp, mirthless air.
This Riftan king is thick-set, muscular. But his plated bulk is riddled with ashen scars from previous victories and near death encounters; one fiend in particular carved out a chunk from his right forearm. Despite the painful maim, he doesn't favor that leg, mainly because ego (like the throne) demands high toll. Just behind his rump -- a small crowd of females murmur back and forth. Their voices rise and fall with soft grunts. He ignores their chatter...and shifts those sharp, yellow eyes to the rear. A king is charged to soldier every angle for danger, trespassers and...food. His harem isn't on guard, they've no urge to play at wary sentinels, a king of their breed doesn't need help. The crown is his shield, bodygaurd and companion.
Five years... he's given to them, led them, held the title of king. But youth is rapidly twiddling from his muscles; it shouldn't be long before a son (whom was run from home just before maturity) would arise to claim the throne. Or perhaps (and more likely) the king would encounter a foreign upstart...the pair would fight and his reign, his legacy would dissolve.
At least for now...fate is kind to this aging warrior...
There was a feather light change in the marbled shadows, the alteration was so subtle it could be mistaken for heedless whitenoise, but the veteran is on guard...he takes notice...testosterone floods the alarms which blare off in his frontal cortex. A deep throated, warning chuff emerges -- billowing above his head in a collective, decaying plume. He rigidly halts, stamping his left foot and effectively/simultaneously quieting and freezing the chattering women. They peer around, widening orbs homing upon the point their mate/father was fixed.
His stride upon that barren, indifferent frost is brimming with confidence -- a long-standing marriage of vigor and pride. The heavy, encumberous crown upon his brow is proud to tag along -- and his thick neck doesn't slump beneath it. Hard, predatory eyes are turned upward...they pivot constantly, while his vibrant blue nostrils swell open to sample the crisp, mirthless air.
This Riftan king is thick-set, muscular. But his plated bulk is riddled with ashen scars from previous victories and near death encounters; one fiend in particular carved out a chunk from his right forearm. Despite the painful maim, he doesn't favor that leg, mainly because ego (like the throne) demands high toll. Just behind his rump -- a small crowd of females murmur back and forth. Their voices rise and fall with soft grunts. He ignores their chatter...and shifts those sharp, yellow eyes to the rear. A king is charged to soldier every angle for danger, trespassers and...food. His harem isn't on guard, they've no urge to play at wary sentinels, a king of their breed doesn't need help. The crown is his shield, bodygaurd and companion.
Five years... he's given to them, led them, held the title of king. But youth is rapidly twiddling from his muscles; it shouldn't be long before a son (whom was run from home just before maturity) would arise to claim the throne. Or perhaps (and more likely) the king would encounter a foreign upstart...the pair would fight and his reign, his legacy would dissolve.
At least for now...fate is kind to this aging warrior...
There was a feather light change in the marbled shadows, the alteration was so subtle it could be mistaken for heedless whitenoise, but the veteran is on guard...he takes notice...testosterone floods the alarms which blare off in his frontal cortex. A deep throated, warning chuff emerges -- billowing above his head in a collective, decaying plume. He rigidly halts, stamping his left foot and effectively/simultaneously quieting and freezing the chattering women. They peer around, widening orbs homing upon the point their mate/father was fixed.
