The Pinnacle
12-28-2017, 06:34 PM
It's really starting to be a theme in this place.
You're flying along, all innocent and sweat-soaked and caught up pondering your life, when suddenly, wham!—someone's voice lances through your skull, strong enough to startle you and nearly make you drop. It definitely makes your heart skip a beat, though. You're not sure you'll ever be prepared for someone to just.. put their own voice inside of your head like that. Can anyone ever be, honestly?
Still, you're not dropping out of the air and onto elephants, so. Small mercies, right? And besides, something about it makes you feel.. not exactly like you belong, or like you're remembered, because the calls aren't for you, precisely, but it's something along those lines. Perhaps it's just as simple as this: they make you feel real. You choose to laugh at this bizarre habit of the Rift's. Three times, three voices, each so radically different; the first, hopeful and nervous. The second, gentle and regal. The third...enthusiastic, you suppose, is a way to describe it as.
You bank to the left and begin to descend, groaning inwardly as you go. You doubt this will be an airborne meeting between pegasus, so you'll have to land, sooner or later, and stand in the miserable heat. The air thickens with both warmth and, well, whatever makes low air not-thin, and after a while you spot the gathering.
You don't know anyone, and you're disappointed to see that Taivas isn't there.
You bury that deep, and take a look at those gathered instead. You recognize the young, enormous mare, and the gold stallion who likes to hang back. You think the two of them were present both at the hope-giving and the tree of light, but the third participant, a golden mare, had only been at the latter. You wonder why. Maybe she's a newcomer, like you, recently torn from her world and her purpose. Your eyes linger on her a while longer, and then you touch down, a mess of blacks and blues (and a very glowy mane) and an unruly forelock giving you a perpetually boyish look—never mind the fact that you are a boy.
You flip your forelock out of your eyes. "What are we talking about?" you inquire innocently, your ears alert, eyes sharp; you're not exactly comfortable in gatherings, but you've learned how to feign ease around strangers, to the point that you're almost not feigning. One of the many accidental skills when it comes to healing, you suppose, studying the others with unveiled interest.
You're flying along, all innocent and sweat-soaked and caught up pondering your life, when suddenly, wham!—someone's voice lances through your skull, strong enough to startle you and nearly make you drop. It definitely makes your heart skip a beat, though. You're not sure you'll ever be prepared for someone to just.. put their own voice inside of your head like that. Can anyone ever be, honestly?
Still, you're not dropping out of the air and onto elephants, so. Small mercies, right? And besides, something about it makes you feel.. not exactly like you belong, or like you're remembered, because the calls aren't for you, precisely, but it's something along those lines. Perhaps it's just as simple as this: they make you feel real. You choose to laugh at this bizarre habit of the Rift's. Three times, three voices, each so radically different; the first, hopeful and nervous. The second, gentle and regal. The third...enthusiastic, you suppose, is a way to describe it as.
You bank to the left and begin to descend, groaning inwardly as you go. You doubt this will be an airborne meeting between pegasus, so you'll have to land, sooner or later, and stand in the miserable heat. The air thickens with both warmth and, well, whatever makes low air not-thin, and after a while you spot the gathering.
You don't know anyone, and you're disappointed to see that Taivas isn't there.
You bury that deep, and take a look at those gathered instead. You recognize the young, enormous mare, and the gold stallion who likes to hang back. You think the two of them were present both at the hope-giving and the tree of light, but the third participant, a golden mare, had only been at the latter. You wonder why. Maybe she's a newcomer, like you, recently torn from her world and her purpose. Your eyes linger on her a while longer, and then you touch down, a mess of blacks and blues (and a very glowy mane) and an unruly forelock giving you a perpetually boyish look—never mind the fact that you are a boy.
You flip your forelock out of your eyes. "What are we talking about?" you inquire innocently, your ears alert, eyes sharp; you're not exactly comfortable in gatherings, but you've learned how to feign ease around strangers, to the point that you're almost not feigning. One of the many accidental skills when it comes to healing, you suppose, studying the others with unveiled interest.
