Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
I do not wish to remember you.
If he was in the mood for sense, Raymond would have given Isra a wide berth, but the part that had seethed at the recounting of the horror she had endured, the part that had insisted upon guiding an orphaned filly to safety even after she had threatened his life, wasn't satisfied to leave the bay mare to her mournful work. Not when she poured so much of herself into what little she could do to make amends with the tortured earth.
Perhaps a generation from now, when they had gone the way of their forebears and their children (would he even have such a legacy?) stood where they stood now, the scars of this unholy blight would at last be scrubbed away by the march of time. Perhaps with the proper spirit and dedication Denocteans could see that day come sooner. But for the moment, shrouded in moon-darkness and the heavy miasma of ash and death, their only gift to the good earth was the slowly-growing procession of graves to mark the fallen. And that was her doing. Beyond her weeping and the subtle sound of his own breath, the blighted scar of the mountains remained eerily, stubbornly silent.
He approached from her front, all traces of the fury that had borne him hastily to the steppes gone. Now the curves and angles of his body seemed only graceful and fluid.
Would that they had met on better terms and in better times. Would that they had crossed paths before a time of dragonfire and tyranny. But that chapter in Denocte's history was closed now - hopefully forever - and he wondered if perhaps, like the land, Isra could move on.
"Can I help?" Raymond asked, and it seemed even the devil could be soft.
If he was in the mood for sense, Raymond would have given Isra a wide berth, but the part that had seethed at the recounting of the horror she had endured, the part that had insisted upon guiding an orphaned filly to safety even after she had threatened his life, wasn't satisfied to leave the bay mare to her mournful work. Not when she poured so much of herself into what little she could do to make amends with the tortured earth.
Perhaps a generation from now, when they had gone the way of their forebears and their children (would he even have such a legacy?) stood where they stood now, the scars of this unholy blight would at last be scrubbed away by the march of time. Perhaps with the proper spirit and dedication Denocteans could see that day come sooner. But for the moment, shrouded in moon-darkness and the heavy miasma of ash and death, their only gift to the good earth was the slowly-growing procession of graves to mark the fallen. And that was her doing. Beyond her weeping and the subtle sound of his own breath, the blighted scar of the mountains remained eerily, stubbornly silent.
He approached from her front, all traces of the fury that had borne him hastily to the steppes gone. Now the curves and angles of his body seemed only graceful and fluid.
Would that they had met on better terms and in better times. Would that they had crossed paths before a time of dragonfire and tyranny. But that chapter in Denocte's history was closed now - hopefully forever - and he wondered if perhaps, like the land, Isra could move on.
"Can I help?" Raymond asked, and it seemed even the devil could be soft.
@Isra @Random Events
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
