home is behind the world ahead
there are many paths to tread
there are many paths to tread
The beacon called to him in the way adventure always did, beckoning him out of the hole he had hidden himself in and back into the light of day.
Or rather, whatever little light there was. Clouds still darkened the sky, threatening to begin their downpour anew - but for the time being, they held their water in. And it was a good thing they did, because Toulouse hated the rain. He followed the ray of light to the capitol, the Dusk Court unfurling like a scroll through the fog. He sticks to what few trees there are along the way, sodden leaves and mud creating a wet squelching sound underhoof, but eventually he finds himself crossing the ruined fields surrounding the Dusk Court.
It appeared he wasn’t the only one who was curious, nor the first to arrive. The mare before him was strange, seeming more a creature of prehistoric times than anything civilized. Her hide was dull and spotted, smeared with paint and mud that had all but washed off in the recent storms. A bleached skull boasting predatory teeth and antlers adorned her head and hid the upper half of her face from view. With how big and bulky it was, he found it nothing short of amazing that she didn’t bow beneath its weight. A curious artifact. A curiouser person.
Toulouse is enraptured, unable to turn away, unable to make a decision.He finds himself holding his breath, watching as the mare steps forward. Her humming reaches his ears until that they twist and flatten against his poll in a failing attempt to block out the noise. Something cold grips at his heart.
In the following days, he won't be able to say why it was that he rushes forward, for his legs seem to move of their own accord. They carry him swiftly closer, but every second seems an eternity and a day to him. He isn’t fast enough.
When he finally does arrive, all the fun has already passed. The light that shines around the gopher is already beginning to fade, and the creature lies unharmed in his cradle of grass. Toulouse's breath comes hard and fast, and he hastens to muffle it, to force himself to breathe regularly.
As crying fills the air, he turns his attention to the witchy woman.
“Don’t you think,” he says slowly, his tone almost sounding bored - although the glint in his eye would attest otherwise. “That maybe it was left beneath a pillar of light for a reason? Just maybe?”
It was just a rodent, and he was just a spy.
So why did he care whether it lived or died?
walk. "talk."
@batty @everyone else
what a poopy post, i need to write more
rhiaan art
