![[Image: lothaire_pixel2_by_outofthefurnace-dbhn4ra.png]](https://orig00.deviantart.net/e7c1/f/2017/206/0/5/lothaire_pixel2_by_outofthefurnace-dbhn4ra.png){kind=tracking}
The slow rhythm of the world never ceased to beguile Lothaire - infinite, inexhaustible, roiling beneath and above. The skies haunted him, whispering their ancient promises through a veil of wind and cloud; a smile upon the eastern horizon. But neither could he ignore the resonating thrum of gravity beneath his hooves, currents racing beneath the earth's crust, listening with keens ears to his footsteps, his venerable solitude. Time danced around the serpent in wide circles, looping back - always. It seemed, the ticking of existence would never cease; his essence in this world was entirely inconsequential; emissary, stranger, ghost - none of this mattered.
Under the weight of his Denoctian title, the suffocating hands of something nameless had clawed at Lothaire jugular until he had been left with no choice but to sink into aphotic shadow. For hours, weeks, years, he had laid dormant - moving only to court the stars at twilight. Summer had swung steadily into autumn, and he had watched through a blackened gaze as the world began to die a transitory death. There was no true fear to be found in winter, only the bite and labyrinthic chaos of the cold; this Lo could withstand. Slowly he had risen from the darkness in which he had entombed himself within, seeping like black ice out into the light. At last, he could breathe once more.
The moon sang loudly tonight, suspended upon a canvas of swirling dove-grey cloud, Lothaire could not suppress a blink as he watched her - the instinctive pull and push of the lunar tide poured into his chest. Denocte lay many miles from here, and yet why was it that he could detect the familiar balm of mountain air and penumbra? Lightless eyes studied the open land, watching, waiting, until at last she came into sight. A woman he recognised as Freya - perhaps the title of crow was more accurate - moved silently in his direction, most likely unaware of his presence. The emissary's towering enormity did not seem to inhibit his unnatural gift of melting into the background, nothing more than a shade in the absoluteness of night. Only his thin grave voice broke the silence.
"Salutations, Freya."
@freya super rusty, my first post with him in like a month+!!
