Halyven
04-07-2018, 11:19 AM
After your quick foray into the North, you've returned to the southern reaches. It's not discomfort or a longing for the familiar that drives you—on the contrary, you've been filled with a heedless need for plunging yourself into the icy wastes, as if the sharp slap of the cold and the unfamiliar vistas might save you—but two other things: curiosity, and duty. When Otem called the straying and the lost together on top of the Pinnacle, you pledged yourself to those gathered. To stand with them, to fight with them should you find them in need, and to return for a second meeting. On top of that, Hope asked you all to gather, so.. here you are, in the pouring rain, a wet shadow with an aching heart.
Rain is no stranger to you: it rained a lot on the plains, everything between warm summer rain (your favorite) to the cold sleet of your brief and pitiful winters. This is something in between, devoid of warmth and thunder, but not icy cold either. It slicks your fur to your skin, turns your long mane and forelock to ropy tendrils, plastering them against your contours. The constant motion of flying in the downpour keeps you warm.
Knowing how your body will shiver once you stop is good incentive to not stop.
If you could, you'd never get back down on the ground; you'd spend the rest of your life in the sky, in the rain, until your heart gives up and you fall like some over-sized, lost bird.
It's a morbid thought, and uncharacteristic for you, so you bury it somewhere for later examination; the row of graves of thoughts unfinished has grown long lately. Guiltily, you think that you need to start thinking them, to pull them into the light so you can understand them and heal from them, but for now, it's still easier to just turn away.
Kiada's vulture suddenly looms in the false dusk of the rainy day, and her voice echoes among the broken spires. It is muted, swallowed by the downpour, but you get the gist of the direction. You tip down, not quite plummeting, slowing as you near the ground; it looks gray and slick and not at all as pristine as it does in sunlight. Your ears flick back, and then you land, drawn by the fire she's started under a ledge—and the one burning down her spine. You've seen it before, at the Blood Falls, but it still makes you a little unsettled.
Three things surprise you: that you are the fourth on the scene, that the sleek, dark stranger is here, and that Otem isn't. You haven't seen her since last you were in this place, and you hope that nothing ill has befallen her.
"Hi," you say as you step in under the cover of the ledge. Your soaked body steams, the warmth of exertion meeting the cool, moist air around you; water drips from your fetlocks, your chin, your tail, your wings, so you remain by the edge, where the wind and gravity has already let the water darken the floor.
Rain is no stranger to you: it rained a lot on the plains, everything between warm summer rain (your favorite) to the cold sleet of your brief and pitiful winters. This is something in between, devoid of warmth and thunder, but not icy cold either. It slicks your fur to your skin, turns your long mane and forelock to ropy tendrils, plastering them against your contours. The constant motion of flying in the downpour keeps you warm.
Knowing how your body will shiver once you stop is good incentive to not stop.
If you could, you'd never get back down on the ground; you'd spend the rest of your life in the sky, in the rain, until your heart gives up and you fall like some over-sized, lost bird.
It's a morbid thought, and uncharacteristic for you, so you bury it somewhere for later examination; the row of graves of thoughts unfinished has grown long lately. Guiltily, you think that you need to start thinking them, to pull them into the light so you can understand them and heal from them, but for now, it's still easier to just turn away.
Kiada's vulture suddenly looms in the false dusk of the rainy day, and her voice echoes among the broken spires. It is muted, swallowed by the downpour, but you get the gist of the direction. You tip down, not quite plummeting, slowing as you near the ground; it looks gray and slick and not at all as pristine as it does in sunlight. Your ears flick back, and then you land, drawn by the fire she's started under a ledge—and the one burning down her spine. You've seen it before, at the Blood Falls, but it still makes you a little unsettled.
Three things surprise you: that you are the fourth on the scene, that the sleek, dark stranger is here, and that Otem isn't. You haven't seen her since last you were in this place, and you hope that nothing ill has befallen her.
"Hi," you say as you step in under the cover of the ledge. Your soaked body steams, the warmth of exertion meeting the cool, moist air around you; water drips from your fetlocks, your chin, your tail, your wings, so you remain by the edge, where the wind and gravity has already let the water darken the floor.
