THORVALD
Val is used to the haunting tones of the sea, Ymera's siren song from the deep as the water washed against weathered wood and coarse stone. It is solemn, soulful singing built upon the backs of his forefathers and their ancestors. All to the backdrop of salt water blues, blacks and greens.
Surrounded by the sweet vibrancy of it all, is simply another kick in the gut at how out of place he is here. A smudge of charcoal, a cold smear of ice against stained glass windows.
He'd been amiable enough, surprisingly, to allow fellow Delumines — that is what they called themselves, wasn't it? — to braid flowers in the coarse coal and salt curls of his hair. They had chattered and flittered around him like hummingbirds and bees, so entranced and delighted with the prospect of turning him into a beacon of summer. The pastel hues of blush and snow white roses make up a looping flower crown which sat proudly upon his horned head.
The feeling persisted though, that out of place sensation, as he meandered through the crowds and made small talk to those who had approached. Engaged but not entranced, he's not cold, but he's not warm either. They seem to understand though, he is a stranger from a strange land — in a place that is painfully not close to home at all.
If he had D'art here with him, he could at least console himself by making himself an intolerable pest to his much shorter mate. They could of wandered the festival ground like the oddities that they are, and he would of been content. But, it is just him, in a sea of faces that glance at one another like they're family.
He'd been thankful when he could take the nearest offered mug of ale and retreat as the sun began to set, the sunsets here are at the very least, breathtaking. The ale is strong, but not bitter, smoothe on the way down and he cannot help the sigh which exhaled from his blood flecked nostrils. The nosebleeds had abated for the moment, and he'd done his best to not do anything that might prompt his body to act out anymore than usual. It was supposed to be a happy occasion, he didn't need the caretakers breaking their reverie to fret over the 101 causes of his nosebleeds. He meandered, with surprising grace through the steadily waning crowds until his blue eyes spotted the gilded pegasus stood off to the side of the stage. He's not quite sure what draws him into a conversational mood, but he strode over all the same.
"Hiding from the late night fun?" He mused out, voice rough and hoarse as salt and stone, but there's a melody beneath it like the song in the waves.
TAG; @Somnus
NOTES; here the undead grump is
