[SWP] pushing yesterday's streams

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow*   Something in him changed when the rains swept in – something in him stirred awake, and as the rains kept coming and the clouds kept darkening the skies blacker than any bruise, it built and built –   And then the whole world broke open, and Asterion’s magic with it.   Everything was chaos. With Florentine still in the hospital (and thank the stars that it was in the tree-tops) the Regent was in charge, but oh, there was so little to do against the wrath or sorrow of the skies. They gave shelter to what animals they could within the courtyard walls; they chased out what predators they must. They opened the doors to any citizen who could reach them, bedraggled and fearful. Cirrus, no stranger to torrential downpours at sea, rode above the clouds and dipped below to scout, reporting back to Asterion all the while. And Marisol and her Halycons were kept busier than the unit had surely been in centuries.   But the bay stallion wondered, as dark days gave way to darker nights, if any of it would be enough. If it was, as some whispered, the end of everything.   Well. If it was, if it would be the death of all of them at the whim of the gods, they would face it together.   -   He stands now on a rain-black parapet, the skies’ weeping for once quieted to a drizzle. Asterion has been made a wild thing by the last few days; his eyes are dark and hungry, holes to fall into more than anything that sees. He cannot remember the last time he was fully dry. All the starshine of his coat has been washed away and he is muted brown and black, the color of mud, the color of everything in their world.   (And yet within him, surging, hungry, seems an answer to the waves. Sometimes it seems to him he can repel water; sometimes it seems to him he can change the direction or the shape of the currents that come up, threatening to swallow them all. But he has not yet left the castle to truly see - not when it is folly, without wings, and not when there is so much to be done here.)   There is a parting in the misty rain; a slim shape with wide wings, beating hard against the wind. The bay steps back to give it room, and though he tries for a smile it is grim. “There is grain inside,” he says, “and fires in the hearths – but what news?”   For always there is more to report, and always it is nothing good.     ooc: oooohkay so I'm not sure how this will all work. thought I'd throw something up for any who wanted to reply but obv feel free to ignore? we can launch a rescue here if we want or...something. tagging a few from the discord chat: @Theodosia @Marisol @Virun @Fiona and everyone/anyone!