It looks like something out of a painting.
The black clouds. The scarlet sky. The ember horizon that pulses like a glowing heart, where scarlet meets with sea to collide in sparks of orange and white, orange and white.
Ash flecks Caine’s midnight coat like snow. He blinks it from his lashes, snorts it from his nostrils. He watches, impassive, as the crowds stream past, stricken eyes turned out to the sea. The corners of their mouths tug up and down like gull’s wings as they struggle to find the appropriate degree of horror to wear like a death shroud.
The volcanic air smells like Vectaeryn. It had not been called the Smoking Coast for —
He starts. A wailing child brushes past Caine's wings, and he stills when something wet presses against his feathers. "What —"
Then, he realizes. That it is not blood, as his first instinct had thought it to be, but something far more concerning. A girl.
A sniffling child who, for what reason he has yet to fathom, has turned her tearstained face into his wing like it was a tissue.
Gritting his teeth, he retracts his wings mechanically. What does she expect for him to do?
She stares at him menacingly, and answers with a louder wail.
"Alright." Gingerly, Caine extends his muzzle towards her. Alright. There is nothing else he knows how to do, except for what he has always done. His magic taps against the inside of his skull like a branch against a window.
He cranes his neck down towards her, and his thin smile warns for the child to keep still as flames begin to leap from his silver eyes. His magic snakes along her cheek like a lullaby. She keeps as still as a porcelain doll.
He shudders when the dreams begin to flow like cold water into him. A stack of half-formed, hazy paintings. He grabs at the clearest one, and hopes that his hunch is correct.
A flash of warm, golden eyes. A curl of chestnut hair. Deep skin, like chocolate. He cuts the flow of his magic like the twisting of a faucet, and scans the crowd for the mother.
"There. Do you see her?" He nods towards a head of chestnut curls. "She's waiting." Go, his lips curl, but the girl is already off before he has the chance.
He shakes his head, quietly unsettled. He forgets that the air smells like smoke, and that his mouth tastes like ash, for the rest of the night-black afternoon.
The black clouds. The scarlet sky. The ember horizon that pulses like a glowing heart, where scarlet meets with sea to collide in sparks of orange and white, orange and white.
Ash flecks Caine’s midnight coat like snow. He blinks it from his lashes, snorts it from his nostrils. He watches, impassive, as the crowds stream past, stricken eyes turned out to the sea. The corners of their mouths tug up and down like gull’s wings as they struggle to find the appropriate degree of horror to wear like a death shroud.
The volcanic air smells like Vectaeryn. It had not been called the Smoking Coast for —
He starts. A wailing child brushes past Caine's wings, and he stills when something wet presses against his feathers. "What —"
Then, he realizes. That it is not blood, as his first instinct had thought it to be, but something far more concerning. A girl.
A sniffling child who, for what reason he has yet to fathom, has turned her tearstained face into his wing like it was a tissue.
Gritting his teeth, he retracts his wings mechanically. What does she expect for him to do?
She stares at him menacingly, and answers with a louder wail.
"Alright." Gingerly, Caine extends his muzzle towards her. Alright. There is nothing else he knows how to do, except for what he has always done. His magic taps against the inside of his skull like a branch against a window.
He cranes his neck down towards her, and his thin smile warns for the child to keep still as flames begin to leap from his silver eyes. His magic snakes along her cheek like a lullaby. She keeps as still as a porcelain doll.
He shudders when the dreams begin to flow like cold water into him. A stack of half-formed, hazy paintings. He grabs at the clearest one, and hopes that his hunch is correct.
A flash of warm, golden eyes. A curl of chestnut hair. Deep skin, like chocolate. He cuts the flow of his magic like the twisting of a faucet, and scans the crowd for the mother.
"There. Do you see her?" He nods towards a head of chestnut curls. "She's waiting." Go, his lips curl, but the girl is already off before he has the chance.
He shakes his head, quietly unsettled. He forgets that the air smells like smoke, and that his mouth tastes like ash, for the rest of the night-black afternoon.
@Random Events | "speaks" | notes: even I don't know what happened but it's 3 am and I'm beat
***STAFF EDIT
@caine has rolled a 5! He has been awarded +100 signos
