The day had already turned, fatigue clinging to his hooves and dragging them down. They dragged as he walked, toe scuffs connecting his steps from one to the other as two parallel lines skating across the sand in unison. It no longer bothered him, the heat of the ground: he had become numb to it, ignoring the warmth pressed against the soft frogs of his feet as though it were a new part of him, a burdensome accompaniment he would have to learn to endure. Still the canyon continued to expand before him, stretching as far as his eyes could see in a seemingly endless labyrinth determined to trap him and keep him as far from his partner as possible. He was truly beginning to regret entering it in the first place—why would Eros, after all? Surely he wouldn’t find his mate down here—but it seemed such a waste to retrace his steps when he had already made it this far. And he had already come so far into the canyon despite this area’s blasting heat, he was determined to not let all this work be for nothing. 

To get through it, his thoughts had turned to the beach, imagining the desert as though it were one singular expanse that would end in cool waves lapping at his fetlocks. Images of Eros racing through the water spurred him on, convincing him his mate would be just around the next corner, hiding in the mirage he had convinced himself was the ocean. But unlike the ocean, it did not return as the waves rolled through their rhythms, it only pulled, pulled, pulled, drawing him farther into the desert, chasing it. He told himself he would make it—but the desert had other plans for him. 

It was only as the stars began to peek through that he stopped, the mirage gone as the heat also began to dissipate, though only slightly. It was still stifling, but he breathed easier now that there was some relief. Short as it lasted, that was, for his comfort reminded him only how thirsty he was, and how little water he had found between the narrow walls of his prison. 

Maybe he would die here, and Eros would never know. Would never find him. The vultures would pick him clean long before his remains would be found and identified in this world of strangers.

He couldn’t help but let these morbid thoughts consume him, despair wracking his body, constricting his throat in a painful embrace. ’Eros would never know.’ Desperation turned his gaze upwards, seeking that familiar bright star which led him north. He had heeded his uncle’s words well, following that star for several days in a bid to find somewhere he might find Eros. When in doubt, it was the stars he followed, north always his direction of choice. And yet it had failed him; leading him only to this wasteland of a desert, the one place he never wanted to be. No sign of another equine in sight--let alone his mate.

The sudden crack of a hoof against stone rang through the canyon, reverberating off of the walls and making it impossible to tell from which direction it came from. Aion’s ears snapped back into his feathers, lip curling menacingly as his eyes flashed all around. "Who goes there?” he demanded, all of his frustration and despair filling his tone. "Show yourself!"

---

wowwww excuse this rambling mess @Torstein ! 
talk.

⚔  in these silences, something may rise  ⚔
He may have been wandering these sands for a couple weeks now, but that didn't mean he was any more used to this hellish heat or these weird lands. 

Regardless, there was a steely resolve in his gaze, even if his hide and fur were soaked through. Somehow, the sweat didn't seem to do much of anything other than annoy him... and be awfully chafing. There had to be some reprieve in this god forsaken land, though... right? There's simply no way that anyone could stand this heat all the time, enough to call this place their home year round. Torstein was convinced that he wasn't that weak.

His legs, after so long, seemed to be moving of their own accord. Nostrils flared and blew hot breaths across his muzzle, his forelock plastered to the side of his face in a disgusting mess. Someone he had encountered swore up and down that there was some - plant, did they say? - that would make the nights and days more bearable. They only gave him a idiotically vague description before disappearing, which didn't quite surprise him anymore. This place seemed to be filled with imprecise, oftentimes stupid, people. The thought, and how viciously he was ripped from his Empire and all the benefits it had for him, made him grit his teeth. He tasted sand.

At one point, he stopped beside one of the vast walls. It was angled just enough to provide some form of shade, and you'd be daft to think that Torstein didn't stick to that wall like glue once he found it. But certainly not close enough to touch his skin to it, because as wonderful as the shade was, the miserable rocks still burned flesh like a hot pan. Was there no reprieve from this madness?

Obviously not, because within minutes the shade disappeared again. The Triennial Eye wasn't even having it with this heat - it stayed firmly, stubbornly shut, as if it had a mind of it's own and simply said 'nope' to everything. Piece of shit, his own eyes narrowing as sweat dripped down his brow. Tensing up, he shook his body in an attempt to splatter some of the sweat from his hide, and consequentially mis-stepped, his foot coming down heavily on the stone and sand of the canyon.

The sound echoed for what seemed like days, which caused an ear to slightly roll forward and a sigh to heave from his chest and lips. What he was not expecting, was a voice to call out at the sound of his step. Both ears perked up almost instantly, large head tilting to the side curiously. The voice sounded impatient, angry... almost frantic.

Pausing, he considered if it was really a wise choice to step out from behind that wall. Part of him said no, while the other part said how many people could really overpower you, anyway?

You can guess which thought won out, because he did indeed step forward, although took the precaution to step far away from the wall, should the anxious voice lash out where they expected the sound came from. Tor peered curiously at the sweat-soaked, maneless? feathered? individual.

"With how much you're sweating, I assume you're like me and not particularly from these lands." A general observation that Aion may misconstrue as Tor saying You look like a pile of shit. Who knows, maybe Tor was thinking that... those who know him wouldn't put it past him, really.

"Did some vague, strange person tell you about a plant with interesting properties, too?" That... sounded far more weird spoken aloud than it did in his head.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Action. Thoughts. "Speech."
@Aion! <3

↤ Reference Image - - chest cavity: CLOSED - - 605 words - - code Ⓒ inkbone ↦

He continued to stare down the wall of rock placed before him, eyes narrowed in what (he assumed) would be a quite intimidating glare, lip curled for additional effect. His body bristled, hairs nearly standing on end like some sort of rabid dog, a guard dog with nothing left to protect.  His head also was snaked in a nearly serpentine manner, held rigidly as if his spine had been locked into place. Seconds passed and turned into heartbeats, loud and pulsating in his chest, his ears, throughout his arteries. The pause seemed to expand so long between them that fatigue had started to creep into his tense pose, and Aion was about to give up and blame the disturbance on some sort of desert creature when—

A behemoth of height and horns stepped around the bend.

Crouched as low to the ground as he was only served to accentuate their height difference—and also gave Aion a clear view of the beast’s chest.

It was closed at the moment, but the gash was still clearly accentuated: muscles that should have formed together were instead torn right down their center. Red lined the edges of it, fading to pink (hairless) scar tissue from which protruded rows of sharpened teeth (spikes?) that had locked tightly together to pull the skin together in a mock array of sutures. The skin even pulsed in rhythm, and it took several beats for Aion to realize it was the heart causing such movement. For the many battle scars he had seen and handled, there was something so very off-putting, so surreal about this encounter that he found it hard to pull his eyes away.

For a suspended moment in time, shock was evident on his face.

That is, until he snapped his jaw closed and jerk his gaze upwards to face the rest of the stallion. He was taken aback by their vast differences in height, and Aion could feel his feathers creep forward in an instinctual manner, serving to add a few measly inches to his own height that only paled in comparison to Torstein’s horns. He could almost—almost—overlook the third eye, for the stallion’s other unique features were stare-worthy enough as is.

And then words were coming out of that mottled mouth, and Aion quite literally bristled as they sank in. Irritation bubbled up from within him, as blind and hot as the endless dunes of desert sand he had already crossed. He paid little mind to the stranger’s reference to himself—”like me”—only the assumption based on appearance that he was a foreign. Of course, the assumption was right, but Aion could overlook that detail in his offense.

A scathing retort was already on the tip of his tongue, filled with indignation and a disbelief that there was any poor soul crazy enough to enjoy living in such a wasteland, but Torstein was speaking again, cutting him off.

“Interesting plant?” he scoffed, tone dry (and not just from the dehydration.) “There’s hardly any plants that can survive here already, let alone an interesting one.” His head was still lowered menacingly, as though he were crouched and ready to spring, but the arch to his neck had lost a bit of its tenseness. As he peered up at the behemoth his eyes gradually replaced the look of intimidation with one of suspiciousness and curiosity, the initial shock factor beginning to wear off.

“What ever made you take advice from such a vague, strange person to begin with?”

---

@Torstein
talk.