[SWP] pushing yesterday's streams

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow*   She seems so young, stepping pale as fog, pale as bone, from the falling rain. But there is nothing young about the look in her eyes, the weariness etched in each line of her face. He listens to her report, the way she shapes the word fatality. It echoes down his hollow heart, another drop of sorrow in an ocean full of it. But Asterion only nods at her words; there is no time for grief. “It will be done,” he says softly, and then, after a pause, extends his dark muzzle to touch it once to her rain-slick shoulder. “Thank you,” he adds, and might have said more, but then the Commander arrives. Marisol’s wings flash bright and fold as silently as an owl’s and it is only her greeting that draws his gaze from where it lingers on the dark of her legs, wondering if that is blood or mud or only water – Sir, she says, the same as Theodosia, and at this Asterion manages a mock-grimace, half a moment of levity. He is not sure from where the anger in her gaze is born but he is glad for it all the same – for any look that isn’t despair or sorrow or dread. “You see any gray hairs?” Never mind that his hair is shot through with silver and always has been – that ghost of a smile will see him through another day of rain because it says not alone, not alone. The speed with which it fades can’t change that it was there. He listens to her report with more grim stoicism, follows her gaze into a world that is nothing more than mud and stone and water. “It will hold,” he says, because it must, because if it does not they might as well all be washed out to sea. Asterion is about to ask them both inside, for rest, for food, for a moment to close their eyes (he knows, of course, they will both decline), when the pale cadet speaks. Before anything more can be said, before he strains, too, to hear the shouts, she is gone like a ghost from the castle’s edge, and his gaze follows her out over the walls. Oh, to have wings, to be able to follow, to be able to help -- He turns his gaze, sharp now with something just shy of panic, on Marisol and thinks Cirrus, go look – And as the gull, ever obedient, drops down to see what new disaster unfolds the bay is already wheeling, already scrambling, already running as fast as his legs will carry him through the halls and the courtyard and out out out into the field that has become a lake, a river, a drowning sea. In no world could he arrive in time, save maybe with Flora’s dagger, but hurry, oh hurry Cirrus cries, and he forces himself faster over the uneven, mudslick ground, because he knows the magic is there like saltwater in his veins and that it can help. By some mercy they are still there, still struggling, and his heart stutters-and-pounds against his ribcage as he slides to a stop at the edge of the water and lashes out with the full force of his magic and a wild, wordless cry. Around them all the rain stops slashing, the current slows to a crawl, and Asterion heaves for breath as he watches, wide-eyed, the struggle unfolding before him.     ooc: poo post but wanted to continue with the rescue. happy to move on to anything else if someone wants to start another branch of the thread. Theo gets Gold Star Hero award after this! @Theodosia @Marisol @Virun