Willoughby has never seen the sea before.
He has heard stories, of course, growing up at the Roost—from soldiers or ambassadors who had served on distant shores, or elders who’d been born in far-off colonies before coming to settle in the valley. His own father had claimed to have spied the ocean once, out on a scouting mission, though his view had been only that of a faint silver gleam on the horizon. There had always been something mythological about it, to Willoughby’s mind. It was hard for him to imagine a thing so deep and wide and changeable, so practically alive.
Now he hears it before he sees it, winding his way along the jagged cliffs, his wings pinned cautiously to his sides. It is a sound unlike any other—a sound that no stories could have prepared him for, half crashing and half murmuring, both a roaring and a song. The breeze is wet, clinging in his mane and weighing down the feathers of his wings, and he can’t help but shake himself every dozen paces, unaccustomed to the feeling.
There is a taste of salt in the air, and Willoughby licks at it, surprise flickering in his heart. And then the view opens up before him: the skinny strip of sand; the green stretch of water, heaving and frothed with palest foam; the iron grey of the sky, rippling and black in the distance. Despite himself, Willoughby breathes a little oh! of astonishment, staring out over the seemingly endless sea.
He wants to touch it, that surging green water—but storms like this he has seen, boiling up over the mountains that flank the Roost, and he knows better than to throw himself to the mercy of one. So he simply watches, the gale whipping at his forelock as the storm races toward shore. A flash of movement on the beach draws his eye, and he realizes with a start that it is another equine, maneuvering toward him. He studies the young mare as she scales the cliffs, his brown eyes narrowing at the object clutched delicately in her mouth.
She hasn’t noticed him—the wind, blowing in off the sea, has brought him her scent, but swept away his own—and he doesn’t want to startle her at her climb, so Willoughby waits until she’s crested the cliffs before giving a nicker of greeting. “What’s that you have there?” he asks, tilting his pale face to the side as he eyes the object at her hooves. The rain is falling now, and he places his own steps carefully on the slick rock as he edges toward her, his wings half-flaring for balance. “I’m Willoughby,” he offers.
The mare is still gazing out at the ocean, her expression solemn. Willoughby follows the line of her focus. “Is there something that you’re looking for?”
He has heard stories, of course, growing up at the Roost—from soldiers or ambassadors who had served on distant shores, or elders who’d been born in far-off colonies before coming to settle in the valley. His own father had claimed to have spied the ocean once, out on a scouting mission, though his view had been only that of a faint silver gleam on the horizon. There had always been something mythological about it, to Willoughby’s mind. It was hard for him to imagine a thing so deep and wide and changeable, so practically alive.
Now he hears it before he sees it, winding his way along the jagged cliffs, his wings pinned cautiously to his sides. It is a sound unlike any other—a sound that no stories could have prepared him for, half crashing and half murmuring, both a roaring and a song. The breeze is wet, clinging in his mane and weighing down the feathers of his wings, and he can’t help but shake himself every dozen paces, unaccustomed to the feeling.
There is a taste of salt in the air, and Willoughby licks at it, surprise flickering in his heart. And then the view opens up before him: the skinny strip of sand; the green stretch of water, heaving and frothed with palest foam; the iron grey of the sky, rippling and black in the distance. Despite himself, Willoughby breathes a little oh! of astonishment, staring out over the seemingly endless sea.
He wants to touch it, that surging green water—but storms like this he has seen, boiling up over the mountains that flank the Roost, and he knows better than to throw himself to the mercy of one. So he simply watches, the gale whipping at his forelock as the storm races toward shore. A flash of movement on the beach draws his eye, and he realizes with a start that it is another equine, maneuvering toward him. He studies the young mare as she scales the cliffs, his brown eyes narrowing at the object clutched delicately in her mouth.
She hasn’t noticed him—the wind, blowing in off the sea, has brought him her scent, but swept away his own—and he doesn’t want to startle her at her climb, so Willoughby waits until she’s crested the cliffs before giving a nicker of greeting. “What’s that you have there?” he asks, tilting his pale face to the side as he eyes the object at her hooves. The rain is falling now, and he places his own steps carefully on the slick rock as he edges toward her, his wings half-flaring for balance. “I’m Willoughby,” he offers.
The mare is still gazing out at the ocean, her expression solemn. Willoughby follows the line of her focus. “Is there something that you’re looking for?”
stock from DA
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